Rough Road (10 page)

“Told you he’d pee on you,” I whisper.

“Hi, honey.” Mama greets me with a hug.

“Mama, this is Aloysius Carver. Wish, this is my mother, Maria Russell.”

She stands back and gives him a dramatic up-down once-over, and he takes a step backward and does the same. Mama barks out a laugh and pulls him into a hug as well.

“Edward, I like this one,” she says. “He’s funny.”

“Yeah he is.” I grin at him. “I like him too.”

He reaches out and squeezes my hand.

“I hope you like lasagna!” Mama calls over her shoulder as we follow her to the kitchen. She has a big formal dining room, but prefers the eat-in kitchen with its floor-to-ceiling-windowed breakfast nook. The smell of her Bolognese sauce permeates the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation. Lord ha’mercy, I love my mama’s lasagna.

“Honey, open a bottle of that Sangiovese in the wine rack,” she orders, opening the oven.

I do as I’m told, and pour three glasses, which I place on the already-set table. I catch Wish staring at me with a bemused expression on his face.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He holds up his hands. “No comment.”

“Bread, Edward.” Mama points to the loaf sitting on a cutting board, and I start slicing it. This time, Wish doesn’t stifle a laugh. Mama pauses in her fussing over the lasagna to give him a look.

“I’ve never seen him take orders from anyone without picking a fight,” he explains.

“Well, in this house, Mama is boss. Watch out, she’ll have you making a salad next.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” She pulls out another cutting board and hands it to him. “The veggies are in the fridge.”

He laughs and gets to work, and once everything is ready, we all move over to the table.

No sooner have we begun to eat than she launches into me about the roads project.

“Karen says Jeremy thinks the council is pretty divided on the project. Some think it’s a good thing for the city, but others think the sin taxes are an unfair burden on the lowest-income residents.”

Unfair burden. I hadn’t thought about that angle. “That’s an interesting thought. How can we use that? Anytime you increase sales taxes, the burden is highest on working-class people. I wonder how we can convince them it’s in their own best interest to vote against Romeo’s proposal?”

Wish stifles a noise. I glance over at him, and his face is all red with sharp frown lines on his forehead. What’s his problem? I raise an eyebrow at him, but he shakes his head and takes another bite of lasagna.

“Well, honey, you should call the guys over at the radio station and see if they’ll do a drive time interview with you. You know how persuasive you can be.”

“That’s a fantastic idea, Mama.”

“Your daddy would be so proud of how you really care about the town’s character. That was always so important to him.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. My father and I had a complicated relationship right up until his death a few years ago. His approval was hard won, and his work ethic was second to none. If Mama says he’d be proud, he probably would be. I flush a little, and I try not to let the praise go to my head, but I can’t help it—some little boys might outgrow wanting their daddy’s approval, but I never did.

As though she can sense that I need a moment, Mama turns to Wish. “And what do you do for a living, Aloysius?”

“Please, call me Wish.” He smiles at her, then turns a glare on me. “I work in road construction.”

Oh, shit.

How on Earth did I forget that bit of information?

Embarrassment colors my face, and I take a deep drink of water. I cannot believe how badly I’ve fucked this up. I didn’t even consider Wish’s work—or his working-class income—when the conversation began. No wonder he was so uncomfortable. I’m such an asshole.

The three of us stare at the table, the silence growing awkward. Finally, Mama speaks. “How long have you been doing that?”

“I’ve worked road crews since I graduated high school, so six years now. I also work part-time at my brother’s body shop when he needs a hand, but road work is my main gig.”

“Well, that’s very . . .” She turns to me for help, but I’m still speechless with my own horror. “That’s nice.”

Wish glances at me, clears his throat, and looks back at my mother.

“It was really nice to meet you, Mrs. Russell. Eddie, I’m not feeling so great; do you think you could take me home?”

He doesn’t speak again as I say good-bye to my mother. He simply walks out of her house, and I find him a few moments later, standing by the passenger door of my car. I tap the door release button on my keys, and he pulls the door open and sits down, slamming it behind him. I wince. Yes, just a few weeks ago, I wasn’t interested in a relationship. But now? Now that I have one and it’s been threatened by my own stupidity, it seems desperately important to protect it. And yeah, he might be acting a little petulant, but I really can’t blame him.

“Wish, I’m sor—” I start to apologize as I slide into the seat.

“Don’t.” He makes a short gesture with his hand. “I realized you were rich and privileged and that you lived a completely different life than I do. I didn’t realize you were a snob.”

“I’m not . . .”

He silences me with a glare.

“Okay, that’s probably fair,” I continue. “But I didn’t think about what you do for a living when the topic of conversation came up. I didn’t think—”

“My boss has the countywide contract for roadwork. That project is job security for me. That project means I can stay in Lake Lovelace with my family. And you’re opposed to it because you don’t want to pay an extra two percent tax on your fifty-dollar bottles of wine?”

“It’s not about money. It’s about—”

“The ‘character of the town.’” He makes air quotes as he says it. “Bullshit.”

Okay, so maybe it is a little bit. The rhetoric of politics. But that doesn’t mean the expansion is good for the town, or that I won’t be affected.

“My boat dealership is located at the site of the proposed bridge expansion,” I admit. “So I do have a personal stake. But it’s also true that the tax increase will be hardest on working-class consumers. Like the people who go to Keith’s club. Like you.”

“Oh no, this isn’t for my own good, don’t even. Keeping both of my jobs so I can afford to live in a crappy apartment near my family is more important than avoiding a tiny tax increase. As for your dealership: you can’t afford to move it?”

That so isn’t the point, and he knows it.

“I shouldn’t have to move it! There’s been a dealership on that site since we built this lake.”

“We?
You
weren’t even alive then, let alone me.”

“I meant the founders. My grandfather was one of them.” I flush. Using the royal we after being called a snob wasn’t going to get me out of the hot seat.

“But you
could
move it. Do you know how hard it is to find a road job near my family? My mom is only six months cancer-free, and I don’t want to move halfway across the state. Her medical bills are insane, and the only way Max can afford to help her with them is because I don’t let him pay me a fair wage for the work I do in his shop. You’ve obviously never had to worry about money in your life, but Jesus, Eddie, how about a little empathy?”

“It’s not only me, you know. I have employees. People like Ben. They count on that dealership for work too.”

“Oh, how could I forget Ben?” he snaps. “Of course, Ben needs you. Ben counts on you. Ben walks into your bedroom on a Saturday morning as if he belongs there.”

I flinch, but it’s not like I can deny ever having slept with Ben. “Jealousy is not a good look for you, lovely. And Ben is only one of my employees. Jerry has three kids in college for God’s sake.”

“And I don’t doubt for a moment that you could find a way to take care of them.”

“Hell, lovely, if it’s about job security, I can give
you
a job.”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, then shakes his head. “You were concerned about awkward power dynamics because of our age difference. You don’t think it would be worse if you were my
boss
?”

“If the choice is between leaving town and working for me, I’d hope you would consider me the lesser of two fucking evils, all right?”

“Just take me home.” He twists away.

He’s absolutely silent for the rest of the drive. I try to draw him into conversation, to apologize again, but each foray is met with another death-glare, and finally I give up. When I pull up in front of his building, he’s already got the seatbelt unbuckled.

“Wish. Please.” I put my hand on his arm.

“What?” he snarls.

“I truly am sorry. I know we don’t see eye to eye on this, but please, don’t . . .”
don’t leave me like this.

He pauses a long moment, glaring at me, then shakes his head. “Give my apologies to your mother. Good night, Eddie.”

How does one woo back the boyfriend he wasn’t sure he wanted in the first place?

And why is it so goddamned important all of a sudden? I didn’t even want a relationship with him. I only wanted hot, kinky sex. But he makes me laugh, and he’s the best kind of eye candy, and he gets me, really fucking gets me the way few people ever have. It’s not just that he gets my kinks. He gets the risk-taking. The wakeboarding, the picking fights. He sasses me back. He came to see me in the hospital because I was bored. Those things that seemed like reasons not to push him away have become reasons to hold him close.

I don’t think a dick pic is gonna cut it.

I start with a text the next morning, because I’m not very good at judging exactly how badly I blew it. When you aren’t used to boyfriends, you’re not used to fucking shit up either.

I’m sorry. Can we talk about it?

There. Straight, to the point, sincere. Mostly. I’m not entirely sure which part of the whole fiasco I’m sorry for. Sorry he left, sorry we don’t agree, sorry we didn’t have sex last night . . .
shit.
None of it is really an apology.

How did I get to be forty-four years old without learning how to apologize properly?

It all turns out to be moot because he doesn’t reply. I’m pissed now, because here I am, agonizing over how to make it up to him, and he doesn’t even text back. After checking my messages for the eight millionth time in an hour, I toss my phone down on the desk and head out for a walk.

The second I step outside in the sweltering heat, I start to regret my choice. Russell Marina is, by necessity, right on the water, and the humidity here is enough to choke a man. Even in a polo shirt and khakis, I start sweating immediately.

“Caleb,” I call to the kid running the boats from storage to the docks, “put my MasterCraft in.”

He nods and runs off to fetch my boat. A few minutes later, he’s got it in the water, and I’m off. Much better than a walk for clearing the head. I cruise along aimlessly until I find myself pulling up behind the dealership. Dave’s Range Rover is parked out front, which means he’s probably there with Ben. A funny twinge in my chest makes me turn the boat around. As much as I would appreciate their advice, the sappy togetherness is too much for me to handle today. And it’s not even like they’re ridiculous about it, but sometimes I see the way Ben watches Davis and I wonder what it would take to get a man to look at me like I’m the last bottle of water in the desert.

I head back to the marina and my silent phone.