Page 3 of One More Chapter

anthony

I wipemy brow as the blistering Massachusetts sun starts to peek over the horizon. I secure my tattered Sox hat—the one that has certainly seen better days—back onto my head with the bill facing backwards. Before I can get the next drill bit into place, clodding footsteps and the scent of fresh coffee perks up my senses.

“Gonna get started before the sun’s fully awake?”

My lips turn up and I push up from my catcher’s squat, leaving the drill on the grass as I stand and face my dad.

He’s ready to retire from the construction business within the next year, and it shows. His hair is more white than gray lately, his belly a little softer, the lines in his forehead a little deeper.

“Figured I’d beat the heat.” I take the cup he’s offered and grin at both the warmth, and the fact that he hasn’t forgotten my eclectic order: caramel creamer, vanilla syrup, whipped cream on top.

“It’s gonna be a hot one today, that’s for sure. Maybe we get some work done in the shop instead?”

I gesture to the bare bones of my dream house. My next chapter. My fresh start.

“The walls ain’t gonna build themselves,” I answer. “And besides, we’ll have all winter to work inside. I want the framework finished before school, if it’s possible.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

We stare at the foundation on the plot of land. There isn’t much yet but the massive basement I decided to include after late nights of no sleep left me deep-diving on entertainment dungeons. If I have to dig for the frost line, I might as well go deep enough for my man cave. Once the build is finished, I’ll have two stories, enough yard for a few dogs and a playground set, enough room for a few kids.

The kids my ex didn’t want. The main contention point of our relationship. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

I sigh, scratching the back of my neck. The thought of Avery always makes my skin crawl with an uneasiness that still unsettles me. Once upon a time, this was the house we were supposed to build together. Now, the walls will echo with emptiness.

“Well,” Dad exhales. “The house ain’t gonna frame itself.”

My palms itch, ready to have a drill in hand, to let out some of this uneasiness on manual labor. I nod. My dad claps me on the back, and heads toward the bench where our tools are laid out in a mismatched order that only he and I understand.

It’s just us today. Later in the week, a few of my friends, as well as some of Dad’s crew, will be here to help us finish the framework. If we stay on track, the framework and roofing will be done by the end of the month; electrical, plumbing, and HVAC by the time school starts; leaving me the fall months to tackle insulation, drywall, and jazzing up the inside with custom builds of cabinetry and furniture by the time winter break rolls around.

IfI can stick to my schedule. Which is both a real possibility and a pipe dream. My ADHD brain will either hyper-fixate onthis project until it is done to my standard of perfection in a record breaking amount of time, or I will find something else to distract me and live for the next four years in my parents’ basement, where all of my shit currently resides, since Avery got our place in the split.

It’s a fifty-fifty shot.

But for today, my dad and I work our asses off in the brutal Mass sun, and by the time my sweat soaked shirt has hit the grass, and Mama’s calling my cell from five miles down the road that dinner will be ready soon, we have finished half a wall. Good progress for a carpenter and his apprentice.

“You’d better take off those shoes before you step foot in my house, Anthony James!” she says with a stern wave of her finger from the front porch after I pull my truck into the driveway of their lavish home.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a two finger salute, lofting myself out of the cab.

“And wash your hands before you come to the table.”

I chuckle, bending to kiss her on the forehead. “Always, Mama.”

I do as I’m told, taking a quick shower before heading upstairs. In a fresh Red Sox T-shirt and my backwards hat, I slide easily into the kitchen, scooting around my mom to gather the necessary cutlery to set the table. After we say grace, I dig into her roast beef sandwiches ravenously. My mom’s home cooking is one of the main reasons I’m glad I decided to stick it out in my childhood home while building mine.

After the dishes are done, we head to the living room to settle into our evening routine: The Sox game on the television, Dad and I splitting a six pack, Mom with her knitting in her lap. Lounging on the leather couch in their massive living room, one hand on a beer, the other laying comfortably between my spread thighs, I feel at home.

“What time do you think you’ll be out there tomorrow?” Mom asks.

“Crack of dawn,” I say, adjusting the bill of my hat when it digs into the couch so that it’s forward facing.

“Afterthe sun is up,” my dad counters with a chuckle.

“I’ll meet the crew to go over things, and we’ll probably have that second wall finished before you get there.”

“Watch that cockiness,” he chuckles, pointing the index finger of his beer holding hand at me. “I taught you everything I know.”

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