Page 11 of When It's Us
My stomach growls again as I chuck my phone on the passenger seat. I reverse out of the parking space, then make a right out of the parking lot. There’s a diner down the road that makes killer pancakes, but I need a shower first. Spending the night in a van full of pot-smoking hippies who’ve been on the road for God only knows how long is an experience in and of itself, and after all day in the sun yesterday, I feel grimy as fuck.
I head back toward the beach I surfed yesterday, knowing there’s a public shower there. Afterward, I’ll grab something to eat and finish some work before heading to my next stop.
Hutch
Thediner’salreadybusywhen I pull into the lot. I found this place four years ago during a week-long surf competition—the only time I’d stuck around that long. Usually, I’d drop in for a day or two and move on. But that year, I’d met a group of people I clicked with fast, and we spent the week drinking, goofing off on the beach, and inhaling pancakes at this diner after long nights of bonfires and tequila. Kind of like last night.
That same trip, I’d crossed paths with Fred and Liza, a couple in their sixties from Wyoming, while hiking the Highline Trail. I ended up getting ordained to officiate their wedding a few months later. We still keep in touch, and I visited them last year on a drive through the state. That’s what I love most about these road trips—the unexpected people who sometimes become permanent fixtures in your life.
It’s been six weeks since I left home. I started off hiking trails through Idaho, Utah, and Wyoming, detoured through Vegas, where I lost my ass at the roulette tables, and then pushed down into Baja before winding my way up the coast. Normally, I hit the beaches earlier in the spring for better surf, but smaller waves and fewer people work fine this time around.
I’d wanted to bring Oakley, my golden retriever, but dragging him across that many miles felt unfair. He’s back home at the family ranch with my sister, Norah, living his best life chasing cows and sleeping in the sun.
Heading inside, the booths and tables are packed, and the aroma of bacon, maple, and coffee makes my already starving stomach rumble again.
“Hey, handsome,” Margo, one of the regular morning waitresses, greets me with a smile she seems to reserve only for me. “You’re looking rough this morning.”
I chuckle. “And you’re looking as beautiful as ever, Margo.”
She’s been here as long as I’ve been coming and it’s always fun to flirt with her a little. She’s dressed in a white button-front shirt and a light blue skirt, and she’s busy tying a black apron around her middle.
“Wait’s about twenty minutes unless you’d like to sit at the counter?”
“Counter’s fine,” I say and head in that direction.
“You got it, hon. Be with you shortly.” She hands me a menu and disappears with a wink.
I take a seat at the counter, and a few minutes later, the mid-fifties waitress floats back over.
“You want coffee, sugar?” She snaps her gum with a grin.
“Sure, thanks.”
“Need a minute with the menu?” she asks, watching me over the top of her bright pink readers. She reminds me of Mom. She turns over the clean coffee mug and fills it with rich, dark coffee.
“Nope.” I grin at her and rattle off my order. It’s been the same every summer I’ve come in and every day this weekend. Today is my last day here, so I might as well get in one last stack of pancakes.
“Coming right up,” she says with another wink.
I’m coming into my busiest time of year with both of my businesses, and this one stands to be my biggest year yet, both inprojects and profit. My crew and I will be working our asses off from now until September.
Margo’s back in minutes with a set of napkin-wrapped silverware. She slides a bowl of creamer and a container of sugar my way. I open and dump two creams and one sugar into the steaming brew.
I have a few emails to return and a couple of subs to check in with before I hit the road to my next stop. We’re breaking ground this week on two different home sites: a custom pre-sale and a spec home. I’ve set up a four-way inspection for another customer, and the electrical is being installed on Monday at my brother Hudson’s house.
I’ll be back in my hometown of Timber Forge, Montana, in a couple of days with a shit ton of admin work to do. Granted, a lot of my days consisted of exactly that lately—well, that and designing.
I started as a one-man show, but as demand grew, I couldn’t keep up on my own. With every house sold, I added more crew, and now the company’s grown enough that I contract out most of the manual labor.
That said, I still step in when needed. Over the years, I’ve learned almost every trade—framing, roofing, flooring, tile, and finish carpentry. I leave the electrical, plumbing, and HVAC to the pros—not because I can’t do it, but because it’s usually more headache than it’s worth.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about buying some land outside Timber Forge to develop smaller, more affordable homes—geared toward first-time buyers instead of the massive custom builds I usually take on.
I also run Twisted Timber Designs, my custom woodworking business. It’s more exclusive now—everything made to order for a small but loyal client list. It still brings in good money, and honestly, it’s one of the few parts of the job that feels more like art than work.
I’m about ninety percent done with the plans for two custom builds. All that’s left are redline approvals, and once they’re wrapped, I can send them off for engineering and move on to the next project.
My brother, Hudson, and his wife, Finnley, bought an old investment property duplex months ago, and I’ve spent the better part of the last three months renovating one side. Our baby sister, Hales, just moved in and as soon as I’m back, I’ll start work on the other side so Hudson can rent that out as well.
