Page 100 of Hired Help

She didn’t push Dad out of my life because she thought he was a terrible man or a bad influence. She did it because of the stigma, the shame.

His line of workembarrassedher and that was all the excuse she needed to cut the man from her life and, by extension, mine.

“If you’re ashamed of me, that’s your problem. I’m happy. Dad’s happy. Brooke’s happy. Until you can be happy for us, please don’t call again.”

I cut her off mid-word, staring at the screen for a long moment before I put the phone on silent and tuck it away.

There’s far more important work to be done. I haven’t dressed for the occasion, but that’s not about to stop me.

The lake is calm enough to catch the perfect reflection of the sunrise, the reds and pinks of inclement weather painting a beautiful picture on the fragile canvas. I walk to the end of the public jetty, taking off my shoes and socks, then fold each item of clothing on top of it until I’m stripped to my briefs.

It’s not the best temperature for a swim, but I don’t want to wait a second longer. My eyes pick out the spot where I last saw the ring box sinking beneath the waves, and I dive.

By the time my head surfaces, I regret all my life choices.

The water is fuckingfreezing.

It takes a good five minutes for me to acclimate enough to draw in a full breath. Instead of freestyle, I swim to the right spot using a strange type of doggy paddle that mainly comprises me keeping my limbs tucked as close to my body as possible, trying to retain some heat.

When I plunge underwater, all I see is murk. The weak winter morning sunlight isn’t enough to illuminate the depths. I break the surface, hauling in as large a breath as I can manage, then dive again, fighting to get low enough to search among the mud and plant strewn seabed.

The next time I surface, I stay up long enough to stop panting. Instead of inhaling, I carefully expel a breath, the absence of air in my lungs helping to sink me to the lake floor.

This time, I use my feet to poke and prod along the slimy base, stopping to examine anything likely. A crumpled can. An old stress ball. A knitted hat so tiny it must have belonged to a child.

I rise to the surface again, shivering, knowing that I need to get out and warm myself before hypothermia sets in.

A couple more tries, then I’ll swim back to the dock and hope a jog back to school will be enough to warm me until I throw myself in a hot shower.

* * *

DAEGAN

I leave Brooke snoozing in bed, walking through to the kitchen to set a pot of coffee going, surprised to find the room empty. When I heard Harrison get up, I assumed he’d moved in here to think. Apparently, he needed more space than that.

With the filter coffee set, I lean against the bench, checking on the tracking app we installed to see if he’s gone far.

At first, I think he’s at Kingswood, then see the dot is slightly northeast of there. I take a minute to see it’s moving; that the difference isn’t just because of limitations in the app.

A walk. That’s all it’ll be. Yesterday, before we refocused all our attention on Brooke, we’d been at loggerheads. After such a long period of estrangement, that’s to be expected, especially added to the other unique arrangements. At least there’s one thing we’re united on, the one safely dozing in the bedroom.

We should take a few days off. Start the first of a long series of conversations to see if we can fight our way through all the bullshit Gwyn’s dumped in our laps. Get to a new point, a new way to relate to each other.

I nearly have a heart attack when the phone rings in my hand. Like I conjured her by thinking her name, Gwyn’s number appears on the screen.

“What the hell are you playing at?” she yells the moment the call connects. “As though you hadn’t brought enough shame to the family, now you’ve gone and got your hooks into our son as well?”

I push away from the wall, slipping outside so my voice doesn’t disturb Brooke. On the front step, I take a seat, my arse complaining loudly about the cold concrete. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Your son just hung up on me,” she ploughs ahead, ignoring my tone. “If you think you can afford to keep him in that fancy school without our support—”

“Stop.” I rub a hand over my eyes, trying to focus on the message behind her onslaught of words. “Could you start from the beginning? What’s going on with school?”

“How could you get him mixed up with your lifestyle? He’s a good boy. If he just paid a bit more attention in class, he could really get someplace. Instead, you’re distracting him with all your nonsense and now Martin won’t foot the bill.”

There are about three different conversations going on within that one stream. I tangle out the most obvious one. “Harrison wanted to leave school, anyway. I’m sure he’ll be relieved.”

“Sure. Why don’t you throw that back in my face?”

---