Page 31 of Rich and Bossy

“Are you even seeing anyone?” Poppy asks.

I blink a few times, trying to get my mind back in the present. For once, I’m grateful the two monsters are climbing all over me, helping to distract me.

I glance over at her. “You, too? It’s bad enough coming from her.” I gesture to Mom.

“It’s just a question.” She sticks her tongue out at me, and we might as well be teenagers all over again. “Why you so defensive? It’s what you do when you’re hiding something.”

If we were still teenagers, I’d give her that same stiff arm maneuver her two boys just got a taste of. I can’t exactly get away with that now, especially with these two watching. I’m a heroto them. “I'm not hiding anything. I just don’t see why wemustdiscuss my personal life, or lack thereof, constantly.”

Mom exchanges a look with my sister. “He’s hiding something.”

“Know what?” I stand up, both boys clinging to me for dear life, but holding on like some champions. I raise an arm out, with one of them still clinging to it, trying not to fall to the floor. It hurts like hell, but I don’t show an ounce of pain as I point to Mom, then to Poppy. “I’m going to check on Dad.”

“Nooo!” Both boys yell at the same time.

“Oh yessss!” I grin and start shaking wildly until I throw both of them off of me.

“Pax! You’re gonna hurt them!” Mom yells.

I don’t stop and both of them finally roll off onto the floor with a thud, laughing harder than they’ve laughed all day.

“See ya!” I smile at all of them, then take off running through the living room, careful not to stomp on any fingers or toes.

Once I’m a safe distance away, with them shaking their heads at me, I slow to a speedy walk and get the hell out of there. I know they’re talking about me, but I don’t care. That was getting intense.

Plus the fact you are hiding something.

Oh, fuck off.

I walk through to the garage, where Dad’s working on his pet project. I helped him get an old ’61 Corvette Stingray. I could’ve gotten him one fully restored, like new, but he loves working with his hands. It’s his passion, fixing up old cars. So I found him an old beat-up shell that still had potential for restoration.

He’s been fooling around with it for a few months now. Mom loves it because it keeps him out of her hair. I don’t know that they were ever ready for his retirement. I know he’d be miserable sitting around all day and doing nothing. I think a lot of oldercouples still need hobbies, time away to keep to themselves. I don’t know, maybe not. But it works for them.

Mom has her piano, Dad has his garage. It works.

Like me, he doesn’t do well with an empty schedule. He needs to be busy. His mind needs to keep moving.

“Lasted longer than I thought you would.” He ducks back beneath the hood, laughing to himself. “Those boys. I’d say they keep me young, but they remind me how old I am.”

“You’re telling me.” I swing my arms back and forth, stretching my shoulders. “Not sure I need to work out anymore. Once a week with them is about all I can handle. Especially as big as they’re getting.”

He looks my way before turning his attention back to the engine. Honestly, I have no idea what he’s doing. He’s the one with a longstanding love of cars. I love them, too, but it has more to do with their looks and how they drive than the inner workings. Still, some of my best memories are sitting in the garage when I was a kid, listening to him while he worked on our old station wagon. Keeping it going for the family, making sure we had safe, reliable transportation. Doing oil changes and tune-ups himself rather than taking it to a garage. He can fix anything on a car.

“How are you, son?” He has this ability to convey everything in his tone, and never has to look at you while he does it.

“I’m doing fine.”

“Sure about that?” He starts tinkering with a wrench on something. “Seemed a little spaced out at dinner.”

“Just busy. Lot going on all the time.” I try to laugh off his concern.

He doesn’t fall for it, as usual. “Lots of responsibility when you’re the boss.” He shakes his head, snickering like I’m full of shit.

I go along with it, as if he’s still buying what I’m selling him. “Yep. That’s how it goes.”

“Something else going on though? Up in that brain of yours?”

This feels ridiculous. I know I can talk to him about stuff, but still, we never do it. It’s not like I resent that. I know I can come to him with problems, for guidance, I just don’t.