Page 41 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
Nate frowns. “I’m nine—I go to school.”
Ryder grins. “I know. I was messing with you. I don’t like asking people what they do, because I’ve always felt like a person is a lot more than what they do for work. I mean, you’re more than just a kid who goes to school, right?”
Nate nods. “Right.”
“Well, I’m more than just a guy who does electrical work.”
“I guess I get that. So, what else are you, then?”
“I restore classic cars. I help my friends build houses.” He hums in thought. “But all that is still just things I do. I guess I would say I’m a person who likes to build things with my hands.” He eyes Nate in the rearview mirror again. “What about you?”
“Dude, I’m nine. How am I supposed to know?”
Ryder laughs. “Good answer! You don’t have to know. What kinds of things do you like doing?”
I’m watching the exchange with intense interest; Nate rarely gets this involved in conversations with adults, and wouldn’t even give Derek the time of day. Which, I realize now, was a reaction to how Derek treated him—I feel guilty about that, and hope desperately that I’m not making a similar mistake with Ryder. But then, Ryder is a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree difference from Derek, in every way. Where Derek worked hard to be cool and smooth, Ryder is goofy, effortlessly cool, and rarely smooth. Ryder is who he is, take it or leave it, and he makes no apologies for the rough edges and quirks in his personality.
“I dunno. I like sports. I like video games—not as much as my friend Brian, though. He’s, like, literally addicted to Fortnite, and I think it’s stupid. He called me a loser and now I’m not sure we’re friends anymore.”
Ryder pulls into my subdivision. “If he’s gonna treat you that way about a video game, he wasn’t really your friend to begin with. True friends don’t give a shi—a crap about that stuff. You can like different things and still be friends.”
Nate doesn’t answer right away. “I thought that liking the same stuff was what made you friends.”
Ryder shakes his head. “No way, man. Liking the same stuff is what brings you together, what starts the friendship, but if you don’t like all the same stuff, that’s fine. Like, my three best friends: Jesse, Franco, and James—we all like building stuff. But Jesse hates working on cars and I love it. James hates dealing with fiddly, precise stuff like electrical currents and voltages and stuff, and I love it. Franco loves working with wood and carving things and all that, and I just end up with splinters. But we all like building things in our own way, and that’s what bonds us. We’re friends because we like who the other person is, and we have fun together, no matter what we do.”
“Huh. Brian and I both like sports and watching YouTube. I just think Fortnite is dumb.”
“And if he’s really your friend, he won’t care. You just don’t have to do that particular thing when you hang out.”
We pull into my driveway, and I glance at Ryder. “We just have to go get him changed into basketball stuff. You want to come in or wait?”
“I’ll come in.” He hesitates. “If it’s cool.”
I climb out and let Nate out. “It’s cool.”
“You’re sure?”
I nod. “It’s cool.”
Nate lets out an annoyed groan. “God, you guys are weird. Let’s go, already. I’m a team captain. I have to be on time.”
He hustles ahead of me, his overnight backpack bouncing on his back. I reach the door just after him, unlock it, and Nate tears off through the house, dropping his bag and shedding clothes as he goes.
“Nate—god,” I huff. “You could at least put your clothes in the hamper!”
“No time, Mom!” he calls from his bedroom.
I sigh. “It takes literally the same amount of time to take all your clothes off in your room and throw them in the hamper as it does to strip on the way to your room, leaving clothes all over my living room.” Ryder is snickering, and I shoot him a glare. “What are you laughing at?”
“Just that I tend to take my clothes off the same way—especially if I’m in a hurry.”
I roll my eyes. “Boys are so messy. I don’t get it. You’re not saving any time, and actually just making more work for yourself later.” I frown at him. “Unless you never bother to pick up after yourself.”
Ryder pulls a face. “I do.” He snickers again. “Just not…you know. A lot.”
“So you’re saying your house is a pigsty.”
“Um, somewhere between a little messy and a pigsty? I do clean up. Every once in a while.”
I shake my head. “Gross.”
Ryder is looking around at our house—mismatched furniture, a dozen photos of Nate by himself and Nate and me together, a 40-gallon tote bin full of LEGOs on the floor, with a handful of pieces scattered around it. Stacks of DVDs on the entertainment center, next to the TV, mostly Ninjago and Ninja Turtles, as well as my collection of vintage 80s cartoon DVDs—She-Ra, He-Man, ThunderCats, GI Joe, Voltron, Transformers.
