Page 51 of Drive

Jaxon

Itake Simon upstairs and put him tobed, kicking my way through a minefield of Legos and dirty clothes. He is so cleaning his room tomorrow.

I press my lips to his forehead. “Night, buddy.” He’ll be eleven in three months and if awake wouldn’t let me tuck him in if his life depended on it.

I try to tell myself it’s the age and not the fact that things got complicated between us. When I enlisted, I was his big brother. When I came home, I was his father. Trust me, I know how fucked up it sounds. We’re in counseling, and we’re working on it.

I’m trying.

That’s all I can do.

“Jax?”

Jax.

He hasn’t called me that in a long time. Lately, it’s been Jaxon or nothing at all. It’s not dad—I don’t know if we’ll ever get to a place where he’ll feel comfortable calling me dad—but it’s a start.

“Yeah?”

“I heard you and Mom talking earlier. About Claire.”

Shit.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. Sit back down. “She ended up being the client I drove for tonight.”

“Oh.” That’s all he says but there’s more. I can hear it in his tone, he just doesn’t want to ask. Finally, he gives it up. “Did she ask about me?”

“She did.” I tell him the truth, or at least a version of it that doesn’t make me feel like a total asshole. “She said she misses you.”

“Maybe we can go see her.” It’s not a question. Not really.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

There’s a 50/50 chance she’s getting married.

I fucked up.

I left her again.

“Fine.” He gives me a long, measured look. “I’ll talk to Mom. She’ll take me.” He turns onto his side and faces the wall.

“Simon—”

“Night.”

Shit.

“Goodnight.”

I head to my room, pulling my tie all the way loose as I go. Tossing it and my jacket onto a nearby chair, I strip the rest of the suit off, before pulling on a pair of track pants.

In the kitchen, I mix a quick protein shake—what passes for food when I’m too wiped to cook—adding a couple of frozen bananas and a generous dollop of peanut butter before running it through the blender.

Taking the lid off, I stand at the kitchen sink and drink my dinner. Staring through the window, across the yard, at the small detached garage behind the house, I try to move on.

I’ve got a couple of loads to wash—Simon’s clothes and mine. A load of towels to fold. I’ll finish the laundry and wear myself out between loads by working out so hard I won’t be able to move tomorrow.

What I won’t do is think about Claire.

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