Page 8 of Lose You to Find Me

I owe Richard Anders a lot and want nothing more than to make him proud by taking over Anders Hardware. Football might have been a pastime I loved to share with my buddies from the day I joined the youth team to the day I signed on as Lindon U’s running back, but the family business was always going to be the endgame. Which means anything I can learn now to be successful will be helpful before…

Throat tightening at the inevitable news we’re bound to get about Dad, I clear it before walking up to the older man wearing his usual tweed attire. “Professor?”

Neilson looks up. “I’m looking forward to your proposal, Caleb. I assume you’ll write one based on the hardware store.”

I hold back the slight flinch. “Yeah, I was thinking about it. But I was wondering if—”

“Trust me, you don’t want to reinvent the wheel. If there’s something in place at Anders, tweak it to fit your vision for the business. It’ll make your life a lot easier.”

The knowing look he gives me has me backing down from asking for an extra day or two. I’m supposed to go in to the store after my last class, then head over to the hospital before visiting hours end. It doesn’t provide a ton of time for me to focus on homework, but I’m not about to say that to Neilson.

Dad’s declining health isn’t a secret, especially not in a small area like Lindon. I’ve rarely used it as a reason to get out of anything, and when I have, it’s because I couldn’t physically do whatever I was supposed to. I’ve gotten a few bad marks on class projects that I’d normally ace. My professors would comment on the obvious decline of my classwork and offer certain extensions or extra credit work for me to up my overall GPA once I opened up about the reason, but I never liked it. I was better than using my Dad’s circumstances to get a helping hand. Even if I needed it.

People like Professor Neilson don’t seem like the type to offer sympathy. Mostly because he isn’t keen on giving athletes an extra helping hand like some of the faculty tend to. He said during my very first class with him that he wasn’t going to set a bad example by giving anyone a free pass just because they can catch a ball and score a touchdown. I received the message loud and clear then, and it hasn’t changed now, even if the circumstances have.

Shoulders dropping a fraction at the late night ahead of me, I murmur, “Good idea, sir. I’ll see you on Monday.”

He gathers his things without so much as giving me a second look. “Have a good weekend. Tell your father I said hi. I’ve been hoping for the best.”

I’m glad he doesn’t look at me, or else he would have seen what I hate anybody witnessing on my face.

Weakness.

Scrubbing my face with my hand as I walk through the quad, I try to mentally prioritize everything going on today. Mom is with Dad right now, which means he’ll have company until I can close down the store. Maybe if it’s slow enough, I’ll be able to start on my assignment and see if Dad can help later since he always likes getting involved in my business courses. It brings back some normalcy.

As though he’s not dying.

I think we both like playing pretend.

I head toward my beat-up Ford that Dad gave me when I first got my license. If I were smart, I’d pool together some of the money I’ve been saving and find a new one that doesn’t nickel-and-dime me at every corner. But this truck, though coated with rust and whining from old age, holds a lot of valuable memories with the people I love that I’m not ready to give up.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Cranking up the AC that only works half the time, I head toward Main Street to grab the largest cup of coffee that Bea’s Bakery has before going to my shift. Once Raine quit at the hardware store after my botched proposal, we had a spot open that we couldn’t afford not to fill. Business always boomed at the beginning of summer, right when Dad got too sick to help run it and life got too messy to handle an entire store on my own. Even if it feels like I’m doing ninety percent of the work anyway, it’s nice having Ronny, my part-timer, there when I go to class.

“There’s my boy.” Bea, the owner of Bea’s Bakery, greets me when I walk up to the counter. The older woman gives me a once-over with atsk. “It looks like you could use some caffeine. Have you not been sleeping?”

“You have no idea,” I reply tiredly, knowing there are dark bags under my eyes that age me a few years beyond my twenty-two. “Can I get a large of my regular? And maybe one of those blueberry scones if you have any left. I could use a pick-me-up.”

“Working today?”

“Yes, ma’am.”When am I not?

“And how is school going?”

“Busy.”

“You know,” she remarks, starting to prepare my order, “you don’t need to get a master’s degree to run a business. Your father has taught you plenty already. Hands-on experience will teach you the rest.”

Pressing my lips together, I remain quiet. I’ve heard that before—from Dad. But there’s a lot I still don’t know and things Dad won’t have time to teach me. The last thing I want to do is fuck this up and ruin everything he worked so hard to build.

When Bea places a to-go cup and pastry bag in front of me, she adds, “All I’m saying is that it won’t do you any good to run yourself ragged, boy. Neither of your parents wants to see that happen to you, least of all now.”

Swallowing, I give her a solemn nod and try passing her some money.

She swats my hand away. “On the house. I think you need it. Now go before you’re late. And think about what I said. Food for thought.”

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