Page 4 of Into the Mountains
If only I could deny that.
“I was,” I admit, even if it all began with my college friends being stupid. “You never gave me a chance to explain.”
“I didn’t think you deserved one.”
“Probably not.”
“We don’t need to dig up the past. Let’s just agree to keep it where it should remain. Buried six feet deep and covered in cement to keep it sealed shut. And agree to stay away from each other, okay?”
“Alright.” As much as I want to push back against her words, I know when to back off. There was a time I would have begged on my knees for a chance to make amends with her, but that was also a time where she never would have allowed me to. At least that much still hasn’t changed.
“Maybe one day?” I ask, raising my mug in hopes she might want to consider making amends eventually now that we live in the same town.
“In your dreams.” She refills it with a shot of whiskey, clinks her mug to mine, and downs it quickly. “Now, get out.”
CHAPTER THREE
ELIAS
The sink is completely full. Again. I could have sworn I emptied the dirty dishes into the dishwasher recently enough that it shouldn’t be towering over once again. I turn on the water and let the sink fill a bit before I start rinsing the dishes even though I know I just did them the other day. Then again, recently could have actually been last week. I can’t keep my days straight anymore. Not that I ever could. When my wife, Sarah, was here, she was the planner. The organizer.
The dry erase board calendar on the fridge was always full of color coded activities and magnets with celebration categories that told us when a holiday was coming up or when we had a scheduled date night. I tried to keep up with it after she passed, but with my job as an architect and my very sad attempt at keeping our house clean as a single dad, the calendar fell to the furthest back burner that nobody uses.
Currently, there’s faded pink and green marker, smeared with brushed shoulders and swinging backpacks. A partialJandeare still there from the last month I wrote out Ethan’s summer activities and the days he’d stay with his grandparents, which often turned into nights when a project would need some kind ofadjustment and the client would need it as soon as I had decided I was done for the day. I’ve been an architect for almost a decade and it never gets any easier. In fact, it’s gotten more difficult as the years have passed.
After the time off I requested to take care of my wife when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, it feels as if they’re forcing me to make up for the time I was away. And through no choice of my own, I’ve stayed with the company because I’m a single dad now and the bills have to be paid one way or another. I love what I do, genuinely, but I wish I could do it either on my own or with a company that actually cares about the people working for them. I want more freedom to do what I want to do on projects rather than sticking with the same modernized bullshit that’s in every building in every other city no matter where you go. Stale office buildings and white walls. Generic floor plans and space that makes no sense for the business.
“Ah, shit.” I forgot I had the water running and there must be something at the bottom of the sink, because it’s clogged enough that it’s completely filled and overflowing now…right onto my pants. And I have to leave in ten minutes. So much for thinking this was a task I could knock out before heading out the door. How can two people possibly have this many dirty dishes anyway? I grab rags from a nearby drawer and start cleaning up the water on the floor as quickly as I can. The dishes are just going to have to wait until this afternoon. Jacob and Sky are going to kill me if I’m late.
“Dad, you owe five dollars to the jar.”
“Shit, Ethan.” I jump and my ass hits the sink, soaking the back half of me. “You really need to wear a bell or something.”
“That’s ten dollars now.”
I roll my eyes at him, but dig into my pockets anyway and fish out a now damp ten dollar bill. There’s a sly smirk on his face and I know he’s waiting to catch me again. But he’s not goingto. His mom always hated cuss words and it’s something Ethan noticed when he was younger. Kids are more observant than we give them credit for and while Sarah would often laugh it off and joke about Ethan’s first word being a cuss word, as he grew up, he would notice which words his mom would chastise me for.
And now, we have a swear jar wrapped in one of her favorite scarves she wore during her chemo treatments. This one is a deep shade of purple that always reminds me of the first time I saw Sarah in college. She was wearing a white dress that reached just above her knees and it had tiny, purple flowers on the bodice of it that matched her nails at the time, her dark hair covering most of them. I remember wondering if she matched her dress to her nails or if it was the other way around. I wondered if she’d even give me the time of day if I tried to get her attention. To my astonishment, she did. And thanks to her, I now get to put money into a swear jar every time our son catches me—which is often given that the jar is only an inch away from overflowing. I think the jar is up to over one hundred dollars now, but it’s worth it when Sarah’s smirk appears on his face every time he forces me to fork over a bill.
At the end of every month, we count up what’s in the jar and we use it to go do something fun we don’t usually do. Something that’s a bit more expensive. Last month we were able to pay for a week of horseback riding lessons. It helps that every person that comes through here talks like there isn’t an eight year old present, one that charges them for it, so our jar gets a lot of attention.
Ethan looks at my pants and immediately starts giggling. “So, are you ready to go?”
My lips press together, trapping the laugh I want to let out, but not just yet. “Clearly not. I need to change my pants.”
He’s descended into full on laughter now. “It looks like you peed yourself.”
“You’re almost nine, shouldn’t potty humor be beneath you?”
“Are you kidding, Dad? I’m in my prime potty humor stage, okay?” God, the way he talks makes him sound so much older. “That stuff is a gold mine. And it’s always funny. Just ask Aunt Sky.”
I grunt. “I’d rather not.” I think she’s the one who’s responsible for the fifty dollar bill in the jar right now. I have no idea what she said, but it wasn’t there when I left her in charge the other night. When I got back a few hours later, I noticed the bill was added and she never told me what it was for. Either she donated to the jar willingly or she stubbed her toe and let out a string of cuss words.
“If you change, we’re so going to be late.” Ethan takes a mostly cold waffle from the plate on the counter and gestures to the clock near the door.
I round the counter and make a run for my room even though it’s the last thing my body wants to do right now. I’d much rather collapse back onto my bed and curl back up in my sheets to sleep for two weeks straight. But single parents don’t get that luxury. Hell, many parents don’t get that luxury.
With new pants—from the bottom of the hamper, because on top of being behind on dishes, I’m behind on laundry too—I meet Ethan at the side door adjacent from the kitchen island, half-eaten waffle in hand, old book in the other, waiting on his dear old dad to get his shit together.
