Page 20 of When We Were Us
I step out onto the porch and Hank straightens up to his full height when he turns to look at me. He doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the bag he’s tying off.
I wait for a beat.
“Hey,” I say in greeting. The sight of him all sweaty and having already put in probably an hour's plus worth of work at my house before eight a.m. takes some of the wind out of my sails.
“Hey,” he says, but he doesn’t turn back around. He just re-attaches the lawn mower catcher back onto the mower and starts to push it down the walkway.
“You don’t have to do that for me, you know. I can do it myself.”
He stops and his body goes rigid, the muscles in his back standing out before he turns to face me. That damned scowl is already locked and loaded into place.
“Most people would say thank you, but in any case, I didn’t do it for you.” He shrugs as if he doesn’t care one way or the other what I think or what I can do.
I huff out a breath and roll my eyes, poking at my cheek with my tongue.
“Right. Well, thanks, but no thanks, Hank. I’ll take care of it from here on out.” I turn back toward the door but don't make it two steps before he speaks again.
“This lawnmower is old as shit and it's hard to start. I’ll take care of it.”
Through gritted teeth, I grind out, “I said, I don’t need your help.”
“Well, if you’re going to do it, then do it.” He drops the bag of grass at his feet. “It needs to be done once a week, not whenever you feellike it. It took me twice as long as it usually does because it was so long.”
I bark out an unbelieving laugh. “God, you’re a jerk.”
“Whatever, Wrenley,” he bites out and turns back to the lawn mower. With a shake of his head, he begins pushing it away from me again.
I hate that word: ‘Whatever.’ It’s so dismissive, and I am tired of being treated like I don’t matter.
Between Derek's texts and Hank’s attitude this early in the morning, I’m pissed off. I’m probably unnecessarily taking things out on him, but I am so damned sick of men treating me like I am incapable of simply existing without their money, time, or help.
“You know what, Hank, if you hate me so much, why are you here?”
He turns back around, a muscle popping in his jaw. His voice is quiet, but unyielding.“I never said I hated you. “
“Well, you’ve got a damn funny way of showing it.”
He drops his head forward and then looks up at me, hands on his hips. “God, you are so fucking self-righteous.”
“I’m self-righteous?” I press a hand to my chest. “You come around here, all smug and grouchy, accusing me of being back here for some sort of payout—which is ridiculous, I might add, considering he wasmygranddad—barking orders at me about too-long grass and broken shutters, throwing your weight around, scowling at literallyeveryone.And when I have theaudacityto call you on it, you get all bitchy and take your toys and go home. Maybe if you acted like an adult, we could have an actual conversation like two human beings.”
He takes two long steps toward me, fists clenching at his sides. His face is a mask of fury.
“Oh, you mean, like we did seventeen years ago? Huh? Like that conversation, Wren? The one where you just decided you knew what was best for me without even consulting me?”
“Don’t you dare bring that up. You know exactly why I had to leave. I had school and you had the ranch and…and you—” I stutter out, rubbing my forehead. This is getting us nowhere, and I will not let myself cry again.
“I, what, Wrenley? Tell meagainwhat I had to do.” His tone is biting and his eyes flash with anger. “You didn’t even give me a fucking choice.”
“That’s not fair and you know it.”
“Jesus, not this again.” He pulls a hand down his face and takes his hat off, scraping his hair back, then replaces it.
“You want to talk fair, Wren? Fine.Fair,”he puts emphasis on the word with raised eyebrows, “would have been you lettingmedecide what the hell was best for me.” He jabs a finger in my direction then into his chest. “Fair would have beenyoutalking tomelike an adult back fuckingthen.” He flings his hand wide, finger out, and putting a finer point on his anger.
“I knew you wouldn’t be happy in California! This place, Timber Forge, it was your?—”
“My home, yeah. I know. So, you said.” He pauses and some of his anger dissipates. But only just. “I’ve spent the last seventeenyears in this place, and you haven’t. So, excuse me if I don’t really give ashitabout what you thought you knew.”
