Page 32 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
As the miles pass and the lump in my throat grows bigger, I double down on my resolve to ignore it. It’s silly. Irrational at best.
But even as my mind says one thing, my brain thinks the opposite. This is the road I was driving when everything went to hell in my life and it feels almost poetic that I chose today of all days to drive on it again. Today of all days, days after I kissed the woman who uprooted my life by the balls and shook me to my foundation.
My knuckles whiten as I clutch the wheel tighter, the leather cool against my clammy palms. My eyes flicker to the trees lining the highway, their branches swaying slightly in the wind as if whispering secrets of the past. The county road stretches ahead, much like it did back then, dark asphalt cutting through the forest, flanked by towering firs. Memories flash through my mind uninvited, a kaleidoscope of moments that I fought so hard to bury.
I see them as clearly as I see the pavement in front of me. My mother’s smiling face in the rearview mirror, proud to see me drive next to my dad. My father, trying to act relaxed as I took the curve just a little too fast. All so happy. All so carefree.
All that happiness, so easily broken.
Then the car in front of me, swerving madly across the road, as unpredictable as it was sudden. My mother’s cry and my father’s shout. The metal screaming as I lost control of the truck.
The lump in my throat grows and grows until I can barely breathe.
Fuck. I shouldn’t have come here. There’s lumber in other towns.
But here I am. Driving on the same road where happiness was ripped from my life along with my parents’ last breaths. As emotions choke me, threatening to drag me back to the darkness where they thrive, another image imposes itself to me.
Cassidy. Cassidy and her smiling, eager face. Cassidy’s laughter and her smart mouth, all that sass wrapped into a delicious, intoxicating package.
I hold on to the thought of Cassidy as the lump loosens by the tiniest of fractions in my throat. Then I hold on to her some more and the lump loosens until I can finally wiggle my fingers around the wheel.
It’s not gone. Not by a long shot. But for the first time since I was a seventeen-year-old boy, I see more ahead of me than just an endless dark void. I see the smiling face of the woman who haunts my dreams and makes my blood boil.
By the time I pull into the lot outside Weyland’s Lumber, the place is already humming with early-morning activity. The crisp scent of freshly cut wood mingles with the lingering bite of the night’s chill, sharp and familiar. Forklifts beep as they weave through the yard, their engines grumbling under the weight of thick timber planks. Sawdust drifts lazily in the sunlight, catching in the folds of my jacket as I slam the truck door shut.
I roll my shoulders, shaking off the stiffness that settled in during the long drive, but the real tension, the kind coiled deep in my chest, is back with a vengeance.
The place is still the same as it was all those years ago, in that other lifetime I’ve buried deep and far. The layout hasn’t changed much; the same stacks of lumber stand like sentinels, the same towering shelves stuffed with planks and beams. It even smells the same, that rich, earthy scent of oak and pine, of varnish and sweat and honest labor.
A voice drags me back into the present.
“Banesman?”
I turn, squinting against the morning glare. A thick-set man stands near the entrance of the main warehouse with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his pale-green skin and garnet eyes a testament to his half-orc heritage. His thick black beard contrasts with a head full of salt-and-pepper hair, and his dark eyes narrow slightly beneath thick bushy brows.
Emory Fenn. The owner. Still the same, if slightly altered by time.
His gaze lingers on me, surveying, assessing, measuring the years that have carved lines into my face, tightened my posture, left their marks in me in the ways only time can do. Time and tragedy.
“It’s been a long time,” he says, his voice gravelly but not unkind. “Last time I saw you, you were all skin and bones and worried about who your prom date was going to be.”
I nod, flexing my grip at my sides. “It’s been a while.”
Emory grunts, the kind of noncommittal sound that carries more weight than words. His gaze tracks over my face, and then his expression shifts.
“I never got a chance to tell you, but I was awfully sorry to hear about what happened to your parents,” he says, his gaze steady on me. “They were good people.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I answer and I’m surprised to find that it doesn’t make me want to turn around and stomp to my truck and drive away.
Emory nods, then his lips curve up about halfway. Not exactly into a grin, but close enough. Something knowing and quiet settles behind his eyes. He shakes his head, rubbing a calloused palm over his short-trimmed beard.
“You look just like your old man.”
The words hit harder than they should. I’ve heard them before, countless times from Bernice, from old neighbors and just about everyone in town who still remembers, but hearing it here, now, in this place?
It lands like a hammer to the ribs. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of pain. The kind that promises a healing afterward.
My father used to stand right where I’m standing now, hands on his hips, arguing good-naturedly with Emory about the price of lumber and the worth of honest craftsmanship. He used to bring me here when I was just a kid, barely tall enough to see over the stacks of planks.
