Page 2 of Lovingly Restored

Old coffee sours in my stomach, and the blood rushing in my ears drowns out whatever speech my father is giving.

I tear my eyes away from the offending document. “You’re firing me?”

He simply gestures to the papers at the centre of the table.

“But that’s–”

“It’s what?” he snaps.

It’s not fair.I’d been ready to say that it wasn’t fair. And thank god he cut me off because that’s something a child would say. It’s his company. He holds the power to do with it as he chooses.

“On what grounds?” If he thinks I’ll walk out with no questions asked, then he’s stupider than I thought.

“You’re in violation of our non-compete clause,” he says, like I’m a rival and not his own damn son.

“In what fucking way?”

“All your side jobs.”

The side jobs are the restorations I do on my own time. I work a minimum of forty hours for Forward each week, but I always make time to do the stuff that scratches the unrelenting restoration itch. I’m qualified in both carpentry and fine woodworking and love the work I do on the side. An afternoon with a banged-up antique dresser? That’s what I’m talking about. Most Saturdays you can find me in Forward’s shop. I replace everything I use, billing my clients accordingly. Inquiries for small projects are steady, coming mostly from word of mouth. Some of them are from people who used my grandfather for similar work.

I push my hair out of my eyes. “That doesn’t affect my position here.”

“I’m giving the project manager position to Ken. He’s a team player.”

My dad gathers his belongings, indicating our talk is over.

A team player? Also known as someone who keeps their head down and their mouth shut. It’s a gut punch to know the position I’ve been waiting for is no longer available. I snatch the termination documents, preparing to rip the neatly stapled papers clean in half. But the stack is thicker than I thought, at least ten pages, and all I manage to do is lamely rumple one edge. My cheeks burn hot with anger and embarrassment.

When I flip him off with both hands his face turns crimson. He’s still formulating a response when I storm out of the room, heart pounding from the confrontation. The behaviour is stupid and undignified, but he’s not my boss anymore and, to be honest, he’s barely been a father. Fuck him, and fuck Forward Construction. Ten years of my life? Down the drain. Chris is leaning against the wall outside the meeting room, pushing off and rushing to catch up with me when I pass him.

“Did you get it?” He asks.

I storm through the halls to the staff room, tossing a stainless steel travel mug with the company logo on it into the trash with a hollow thud.

“I got the exact opposite of a promotion. He fired me.” I fish my keys out of my pocket.

They jingle in my shaking hand.

Chris stares at me, mouth agape.

I drop my work keys with a clatter on the break room table and retrieve my brown Carhartt coat from the hook, heading for the exit of Forward Construction for the last time. When I push the metal door open, I halt at the sight of another West Coast storm that blew in during the meeting. A hallmark of winter on Vancouver Island. Chris joins me in the doorway, our shoulders filling the frame, his just below mine. My truck sits next to Chris’s Jeep, two of the last cars in the lot. The sheeting rain is obvious in the glowing circles of tall security lights.

“Your work is beautiful, man. Ten times better than anything Forward will ever do.”

I throw up my hands. “I don’t expect every construction project to be some high-end, antique restoration. But could we do it once?”

For years now I’ve hoped my father would create a division of Forward that would allow me to sink my teeth into the restoration world. It’s crystal clear that will never be part of his business plan. Even though I understand, it doesn’t make it any easier to acknowledge that I wasted a decade at a business that doesn’t value me or my skills.

“You don’t need him,” Chris says.

“I need his equipment.”

The facility here has everything I need to do my side jobs. I won’t lie, it’s state-of-the-art. If I try to start out on my own…I’ve got nothing. The thought makes my chest tight.

“You’ve got to start somewhere. Don’t worry, you can sleep on my couch if push comes to shove.”

I try to relax my jaw, but my top teeth are hell-bent on grinding against my bottom ones.

---