Page 21 of King of the Weld
He retrieves a second mask from a cabinet and hands it to me. It's heavier than I expected, designed to protect the entire face.
"What are you making?" I ask as he sets up his materials.
"Railing sections for the rodeo," he replies. "Thought I'd get a head start, test a design concept."
He positions a piece of metal on the workbench, then reaches for his welding torch.
"Mask down when I start," he instructs, and I obediently lower the protective shield over my face.
The workshop fills with the bright, crackling light of the weld, blue-white and intense even through the protective mask. Ethan's posture changes as he works: total concentration, hislarge hands surprisingly delicate as they guide the torch along the seam of metal. There's something almost meditative about watching him, the steady movement, the shower of sparks falling like stars.
When he pauses to adjust his position, I ask, "How did you learn to do this?"
"Army," he answers, not looking up from his work. "Had an aptitude for it in training. After that, I sought out opportunities to learn more, specialized courses, mentors when I could find them."
"You enjoy it."
He glances up briefly. "Metal doesn't lie or pretend. It responds exactly how physics dictates it will. Heat it enough, it changes state. Apply the right techniques, it becomes stronger at the joining point than it was before."
"Were your parents supportive? Of your interest in this?"
Ethan's hands pause momentarily before resuming their work. "My father taught me the basics when I was a kid. He was a mechanic. Good with engines, cars, anything mechanical. Didn't live to see me develop it further."
"I'm sorry," I say softly.
"Long time ago," he replies. "Our mother raised us after. Four boys, on her own. Worked two jobs sometimes."
The picture forms in my mind: four Morrison boys, growing up without a father, with a mother stretching herself thin to provide. So different from my own childhood of privilege and constraints.
"She must be very proud of all of you," I observe. "A cowboy, a global businessman, a professional athlete, and you, an ex-military"
Ethan sets down his torch, lifting his mask to check his work. "She was. Passed five years ago."
The past tense hits me harder than expected. "I'm sorry, Ethan. I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," he says, though his tone suggests otherwise. "She got to see all of us settled in our paths, more or less. That mattered to her."
He adjusts the metal, preparing for another weld. "What about your mother? What's she like?"
The question catches me off guard. No one has ever really asked about my mother as a person, separate from her role as Edward Valentine's wife.
"Beautiful," I say, the first word that comes to mind. "Perfectly composed at all times. She was a model before she married my father, did you know that?"
Ethan shakes his head, lowering his mask again.
"Italian fashion houses, mostly. That's how they met. At some fashion event in Milan. My father was there on business." I pause, sifting through memories. "She gave up her career when they married. I don't think she's ever regretted it, or if she has, she'd never show it."
"Sounds lonely," Ethan comments, the welding torch flaring to life again.
"I think it is," I admit. "But she has her charitable work, her social circles. She's built a life that looks perfect from the outside."
"And from the inside?"
I consider the question seriously. "I don't know if anyone sees the inside, really. Not even my father. Maybe especially not my father."
Ethan works in silence for a few minutes, the sound of the welding torch filling the workshop. I watch, mesmerized by the process—metal yielding to heat, joining together under his experienced guidance.
"What was it like?" I ask when he pauses again. "Being in the military?" He stiffens slightly, and I immediately regret the question. "I'm sorry—you don't have to answer that."
