Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Dax: Do you want help?
Me: No.
I tear open a brand-new bag of butterscotch hard candies. They’ve been my favorites for as long as I can remember. Once I’m armed with a candy on the inside of each cheek, I turn on the dust-covered Magnavox CD player boombox and toss in one of The Rolling Stones albums I own. Classic rock isn’t my favorite, but it’s Pops’s and he’s the one I inherited this thing from.
Dax: You need an intervention.
Me: I just need to finish this piece.
Dax: Dude, this is why you don’t have a girlfriend.
Now it’s my turn to blast him with middle finger emojis.
Me: Remind me again, what’s your girlfriend’s name?
I chuckle before tossing my phone back down on my shop table. Dax dates girls here and there, but he hasn’t ever kept one long enough to call her his girlfriend. And he wants to give me shit.
Pushing away all thoughts of Dax, I lose myself once more to the intricacies of my small-scale replica of Cedarwood Mansion. It’s created completely with salvaged materials from one of the historical sites Pops recently did a job at. The real Cedarwood Mansion sits on the outskirts of town, neglected and forgotten. Pops and Dad complain weekly about what a waste the historical site is. They’ve approached the owners many times about a restoration or even purchasing the property from them, but are always met with a simple, “no.”
At least my replica will look like the original. I spent months researching photos on the internet and in the Park Mountain Library to get a sense of what it should look like in its pristine condition. My replica is a twelve-by-twelve-inch version that opens the mansion up like a book so you can view all the intricacies of each room. I’m about seventy percent done, which means Dax will have to stop bugging me because I won’t stop when I’m this close to completion.
I quickly become engrossed in my project, ignoring time and all thoughts that don’t pertain to Cedarwood. My neck starts to ache and my stomach growls violently, but I’m not ready to quit for the evening.
“Two, kiddo, time to eat.”
Groaning, I sit up and blink several times to clear my daze. Swiveling around in my ancient, rusty barstool, I find Dad standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
Great.
He’s giving me the “you’re in trouble, buddy,” look that I always hated as a kid. But, to my dads, despite being in my third year of college, I’m still that strange child they brought home with them one day and decided to let stay.
“What?”
He purses his lips and slowly walks into my workshop, gaze scanning the chaos that is my happy place. Once, a couple of years ago, he and Pops cleaned it out and organized it to surprise me. I freaked the fuck out because all the things that had a place were now gone and in some other place. It took forever to find everything again.
“You’re awfully hyper focused on this project lately,” Dad says, coming to stand near me. His neatly manicured eyebrows pinch together. “Everything okay with you?”
I cringe at the thought of him worrying about me. Last time he and Pops worried about me, I ended up with a prescription for Prozac and a higher dosage of anxiety meds.
“I’m fine,” I assure him with a huff. “You sound like Dax now.”
“Dax, God bless his birdbrained soul, knows you better than anyone. If he’s worried, then there’s a need to be worried.”
Dad takes one of my hands that’s crusted in plaster and warms it between his hot ones. “Did you even realize your space heater isn’t on? It’s well below freezing out there.”
My head jerks to the left, and sure enough, the thing isn’t on. Probably explains why I have the sniffles and my fingers are numb.
“I got hot,” I lie, meeting my dad’s stare with a defiant one of my own.
Worry softens his expression and he nods. “Well, I’m pulling rank now. Time to get your crazy butt back inside. Pops made ribs in the crockpot.”
My stomach grumbles again and Dad laughs. I’m not laughing, though. Sometimes I still feel like a small child with massively big emotions that no one else understands. At least when I’m focused on my projects, I can just be for a little while without overanalyzing everything and everyone.
I slide off my stool onto weak legs. A quick look at my watch—a vintage Timex piece from Pops’ dad, my gramps—to learn I’ve spent the better part of eight hours in my shop at the back of our property without food or even a restroom break.
Okay, so sometimes, my dads and Dax have a point.
I obsess a little.
Dad leads the way out of my shop, waiting for me to close it up and lock it. I’m closer to Pops’s height at six-foot-two. Dad, despite being closer to five-foot-six, is definitely the boss in our family. What he lacks in height, he makes up for it in attitude.