Page 130 of When It's Us
I sit in the truck a minute longer than I need to. The milk’s sweating on the passenger seat. The beer too.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Mom: Where’s my milk? *Smiley face emoji *Heart emoji
I stare at it, thumb hovering, chest tight.
And suddenly I feel it—that familiar weight pressing down. The past on my back. The fear in my gut. That I’ll never be cut out for this kind of life.
Sarah’s dad’s voice echoes in my head.
Building something real. With someone who doesn’t hold her back.
Is that what I’m doing? Holding her back?
Not Sarah, but Ginger.
The woman who actually wants something solid fromme. The bachelor with no real stability to offer a woman like her, much less one with two kids. I’ve been playing house like I have any idea how to be the man she deserves.
With my decision made, I put the truck in gear and drive the opposite direction.
I should’ve at least dropped the milk off. Should’ve gone in, smiled like I meant it, pulled Ginger away to kiss her stupid, asked how her day was. That’s what agoodman would do. That’s what I meant to do.
By the time I pull up to the shop, Oakley’s barking from the yard like I’ve been gone a week, not an hour. I let him out of the run, then toss the milk on the hood of my truck without looking at it. I grab a beer, twisting off the cap to take a long pull.
It might as well be water. I leave it sweating on the porch rail and head to the shed to grab an axe and gloves.
The woodpile’s already full, but I split log after log anyway. Each swing cracks louder than it should. It feels like something inside me is trying to break open with every strike. Sweat rolls down my back. My shirt clings to my torso. My hands start to sting. They’ll probably blister.
It’s what I did when Sarah left. When I thought I was the reason she broke. When I thought maybe if I worked hard enough, I could splinter the ache into something useful.
It didn’t help then either.
By the time I stop, my arms are burning, and I’ve added three rows to a pile that doesn’t need more. It’s fucking July. Who uses this much firewood in July?
I walk back inside. Pop the cap on another beer. Take a sip.
I scroll through my phone. One missed text from Mom. Another from Ginger.
Ginger:Hey, foods ready. You on your way?
My thumb hovers. I start to type.
Hutch:Yeah, fine. Just forgot. On my way now.
Delete.
Ginger:Everything ok?
Hutch:Sorry. Got caught up.
Delete.
I lock the screen and set the phone face down, leaning against the sink. My pulse thuds in my ears. Not from the exertion. Not really.
From the look in Sarah’s eyes. From the one question I didn’t ask: Why was I not enough?
I scrub a hand down my face, toss my phone back on the counter, and go back outside.
