Page 28 of Gross Misconduct

“Isabella H. AND Isabella J. had their parties there,” Annabelle informs me. “Isabella H.’s was better, but don’t tell Isabella J.”

I pretend to zip my mouth shut.

A tug of regret pulls at me for only learning about their party plans now. I won’t deny that Carmen’s been more hands on with their day-to-day lives. She’s up on what’s going on at school. She keeps track of their doctor’s appointments. She probably can tell the difference between Isabella H. and Isabella J. I’m by no means an absentee dad, but I should be doing more.

“What if I built you an ice castle for your birthday?” I blurt out.

“What? Are you serious?” June asks. The pure excitement comes off her body in waves.

“Yep. Not real ice, of course. But I want to build you girls your own ice castle in the backyard. It could be a treehouse.” We have a huge oak tree in the yard with thick drooping branches.

“Are you serious?” June yells, clutching her heart. She and Annabelle trade a look and scream some more.

“Anything for my girls.”

Carmen raises a concerned eyebrow at me, wondering if I’m serious. I have to be. It’s already out there. I’ve never built a treehouse, but I’ve put together airplane machinery.

How hard could it be?

* * *

The next day,Hank comes with me to start getting supplies for the ice castle treehouse. He helps me devise some rough blueprints and a list of what I’ll need. He worked in construction before becoming a plumber, which he prefers because it’s mostly indoors.

Hank has us go a little out of the way to a home improvement store that he says has the best selection of wood and better pricing.

“That’s a lot of purple,” I comment as we pull into the Ferguson’s parking lot. I pass this store on the highway all the time. Its big, purple logo is a visual marker that my exit is coming up.

Hank gets out of the car and pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “We’ll start in lumber, then we can move onto brackets and whatever tools you’re missing.”

“Thanks for helping me with this. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing.” The sun is especially bright to match the extra windiness of this March afternoon. “I’ve built things before, but never a treehouse.”

“Happy to help. I built one for my son when he was little. It had a slide and a zipline, but he only used it as another place to read books,” Hank says with a touch of confusion. “And not comic books. Actual books. I found him readingA Brief History of Timewhen he was eleven.For fun.” Hanks laughs to himself and smiles warmly at the memory. “I don’t know how I wound up with a brainiac son. Genetics are weird.”

“It sounds like you got a good one there, Hank.”

“Don’t I know it.” He grabs a shopping cart.

The automatic doors part as we approach. The cavernous, warehouse feel of home improvement stores can be overwhelming. Sometimes, I feel like I walk a mile just to find a screwdriver.

“Land ho!” Hank yells out, pointing to the opposite end of the store. I try to shush him but have quickly learned that Hank Rush can’t be shushed.

Hank steers the cart past mowers and power tools and appliances, and it seems like we’ve barely traversed the store.

“Now, are you thinking plywood, or do you want something more durable like some kind of cedar? Hear me out: western cedar. Shit!” Hank stops his cart short, barely avoiding a collision with a Ferguson’s employee.Ask Me Anything: Ted, reads his name tag. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” the man says through gritted teeth. I can tell he wants to say something else but doesn’t want to get fired.

He looks up, and time seems to stop. Stop and rewind. Something about his face strikes a familiar chord, and as my brain scurries to put the pieces together, the employee seems to be doing the same.

That scowl. I remember it on the ice. It’s wrinkled and weathered, but eyes don’t age.

“It’s you,” the employee says, gritting his teeth even more. “Griffin fucking Harper. Nice eye patch.”

“Thanks to you,” I mutter back, my hands instinctively curling into fists. “You know, you never apologized for blinding me in one eye.”

“You slammed into me. You fucked up my shoulder. Fucked up everything.”

“Likewise.” Even after all these years, I still want nothing more than to put my fist through his face. It’s been years, but nothing’s changed at all. This asshole didn’t apologize, didn’t even acknowledge what he did when he jammed his stick into my eye in a wildly illegal move. The epitome of gross misconduct.

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