Page 65 of Demo
Nodding, she answered, “Yes.”
Chapter 19
KNOX
Drivingoutofthecity always brightens my mood. While I love all the bustling city has to offer—the live music, the cuisine, the excitement, I also get sick of the congestion, the hustle.
I always wanted Lizzie and I to have a house with a yard. It doesn’t have to be anything huge. That’s why I bought the one-and-a-quarter-acre lot about twenty minutes outside the city. It’s pretty flat in this part of the state, but the property is slightly raised so you can see out a few miles. The lot backs up to a creek, and it’s nice in the fall when the leaves are changing colors. It’s a residential neighborhood, and I got the permit a few years ago to build a two-story, 1,200-square-foot house.
I bought the property without telling Lizzie, and luckily she didn’t kill me for it. Ever since, we envisioned ourselves in the yet-to-be-constructed home on it.
It’s taking forever for me to get the house built because the guys from work are helping me with it in their spare time. Then, I stepped away from it after the accident and our separation, but I’ve decided I’m going to finish it. I can’t stand the thought of it unfinished. I also can’t stand the thought of selling it if Lizzie doesn’t take me back, but God knows I can’t live there without her.
What a beautiful mess we’re in.
I pull onto the residential street, where a middle-aged guy who is playing catch with what I assume is his son stops to wave at me, and I wave back. A few houses down, an older woman is shuffling out to her mailbox in her bathrobe, coffee mug in hand, and also waves. Again, I wave back.
People are freakin’ friendly in the suburbs, including me. You almost wouldn’t be able to tell how resentful I am these days.
I pull into the lot, thinking I need to get the structure into better shape before winter sets in. It has the foundation laid, and some of the walls and supports are partially up. I park next to Bram’s truck in the worn grass from the vehicles always parking there. The driveway isn’t yet paved.
“Morning, brother!” he shouts to me as I exit the truck. He’s coming around from what will be the back of the house, a Tim Horton’s coffee cup in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. He’s dressed in a pair of old jeans and work boots, and a gray hoodie. “Aren’t you going to be cold?” he asks, pointing out that I’m only wearing a flannel over my thermal shirt. Like him, I’m wearing jeans and work boots.
“Nah, I’ll be sweating in no time.”
When Bram gets to his truck, he opens the passenger side door and reaches in and grabs another cup of coffee and a small Tim Horton’s bag. “Got you a donut,” he says as he hands me the goods.
“I hate donuts,” I say before I reach in, grab the Bavarian cream delicacy and consume half of it in one bite.
“Clearly,” he says, popping the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth, then continues to speak around a mouthful of food. “I thought you said you hadn’t made much progress. This place looks like it’s in good shape, though.” He wipes his hands on his pants, passing his coffee from one hand to the other as he does.
I lick the cream oozing out from the donut before taking another giant bite, and then toss the last piece into my mouth before saying, “I had hoped to be further along. I want to have all the walls up before snow comes again, but I don’t know if that’s going to happen.”
“We’ll get you there,” Bram says as we lean against his truck and sip our coffees.
After a moment of silence, he asks, “How’s Dad been?”
“Good. Good,” I answer. “I think it would be nice if maybe you and Emily brought Samuel over for dinner sometime soon.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to stop by, just been busy with the Hamlin job, and Emily just entered her third trimester so she’s exhausted …”
I stop listening to his excuses as he drones on. Truth is, Bram hates going to the house ever since Mom died. And I get it. It’s not the same. It feels cold and dead without her there. But for Dad, that house holds all the memories he and mom created with us.
“Anyway …” Bram’s voice trails off. He places his coffee back in the truck before walking around to lower the tailgate and start pulling two-by-fours out of the truck bed. I follow suit. With three stacked on my right shoulder, I head over to the back of the house to pile them up.
As we walk back to the truck for another load, Bram lowers his voice and mumbles, “How’s things with the missus?” It’s as if he’s afraid or even embarrassed to ask.
I let out a hard breath, and he immediately backpedals. “You don’t have to answer that, man,” he says as he grabs three boards and hoists them on his shoulder. “Was just wondering if you wanted to talk about it.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s that I just don’t know what to say.” I grab the last of the boards in the truck and follow Bram around the side of the house. After gently depositing them, I stand up, hands on my hips. “She fucking hates me,” I say, squinting into the sun. “Can’t say I blame her.”
Bram’s posture mimics mine, except he’s not squinting since he’s looking in the opposite direction, at me. “So, it’s true, then? You, uh, you know …” He looks at his feet as he kicks some loose dirt.
“Yeah, Bram,” I answer, staring at the top of his head as he looks down. “I fucked up. Big time.”
“Shit,” is all he says.
“Yeah. Shit is right.”
