Because of Them (Because of Love #2)

Chapter Two

MICHAEL

T he morning sun is hot on my back, waking me up with its burning glaze through the window. I carry my pillow with me as I roll over, covering my face. I must have slept in, with the way the sun streaks lines across my sheets through the vertical blinds I never bother to close. I live on the top floor of the tallest building in the suburb; no one can see me anyway. Not that I care if they do.

Stretching my arms above my head, the pillow falls onto my lap as I push myself to sit and swing my legs off the side of the bed. Baxter’s head pops up from his spot on the floor, plodding over for his morning pat. He lets out a bark when he sees the pillow in his favourite resting place, giving me his best puppy dog sad face until I move it away. Crouching on the floor beside my Golden Retriever companion, I soak in his unconditional love. The only kind I’ll ever get.

Rostered Day Off Fridays. My favourite day of the month, the best part of working for my dad’s construction company. A mandatory day off. A whole day to do whatever the fuck I want.

Baxter lets himself out onto the balcony and I flick on the coffee machine in the kitchen. After adding a splash of cool water, I down the shot of espresso in one go. Tastes like fucking shit, but I need the boost first thing in the morning. Without it, I’ll never get through my session.

Weights line the walls of the spare room; an all-in-one lifting machine sits in the middle. My one Friday off every month might be my favourite day, but Friday workouts are the ones I hate the most. Leg day.

I tried to be one of those gym guys who neglected his legs. I hate the exercises and frankly, I didn’t see the point. But the competitions demanded I build form in my thighs and calves, so I did. It became a habit. And although I haven’t done a comp in over a year and I loathe the exercises and the way I struggle to walk down the stairs after them, it’s kind of nice having some form where a lot of guys don’t. Gives me an edge, and something to stir shit over.

After my rounds of calf raises and lunges and squats, I emerge from my makeshift gym on shaky legs to the buzzing of my phone.

Weird . No one calls me, especially not in the morning.

My dad’s face lights up the screen when I pick it up from the charging pad on the bench.

Not today.

It’s my RDO and the very last thing I want to do is spend it talking to my father about his business. About how he wants me to run the thing one day. I can’t think of anything worse.

Rejecting the call, a stabbing in my heart reminds me of the one person I wish would call me. I fucked things up with Audrey. Bad. But no matter how many times I try to call her, how many texts I send. She never answers, never replies.

My mates all say to forget about her. The guys at work tell me to get over the wild few weeks we had. I can’t. I tried.

It doesn’t matter how big—or little, technically—the red flag was. I can’t forget about Audrey. I can’t forget about how her body moulded under mine, the way her breasts pushed against my chest when I sunk myself between her legs. We were perfect together, physically at least. And I doubt I will ever find another woman who fits so perfectly against me.

We had something most couples spend their relationships wishing for. An unmatchable sexual chemistry. But it started to evolve into something more and I began to freak out. Audrey’s older than me, not by a lot, but by enough. She’s thirty-two, which is so far from being old, but the differences in our lives were glaring. At twenty-six, I have a lot of my life still to sort out. But I shoved down my worries, hoping they would ease with time. Thinking that maybe I was destined to be with someone after all. Until I was rudely shocked out of the daydream.

I knew she had a daughter. She never tried to hide it. I figured I would get used to it. A kid is different to a baby, and for some reason it felt easier to grow into the idea of a kid being in my life than the thought of one day having a baby. I never knew how to act around Audrey’s daughter, but I was getting used to her being around. And that was something.

Until all my wishful thinking was destroyed in one tiny moment, by one tiny voice.

I woke up, erection pressed against the small of Audrey’s back. Moaning into her, I imagined all the things we might get up to before ever leaving the bed. My hand snaked down her front, toying with the band of her panties.

“Mummy!” Her daughter’s shrill voice had called down the hall. “Can I put Bluey on?”

Audrey had groaned at the rude awakening, calling out “yes” and pressing her behind into me. But the moment was gone.

Maisie’s tiny little voice had awoken a panic in me, and I rushed to get dressed, leaving before breakfast had even been served. I didn’t feel ready to be such a big part of the little girl’s life. I still don’t know if I am, I’d still bet on me making a fool of myself, but I’m willing to try. Properly.

As soon as I left, I regretted my hasty decision and I knew the impression it gave. Audrey is perfect, in every way. Her daughter doesn’t subtract from that, and I hate that I made her think it did.

If only Audrey would let me show her how I feel. It took more than a week for me to build up the courage to message her again, and my radio silence must have been so loud after how I ran out, so I don’t blame her for not wanting to give me a second chance. Only now I’m trying to get back what we had, and she is the one ignoring me.

I fucked up. But I’ll never stop trying to make things right.

A message pings from my father.

Dad: I know it’s your RDO but call me. As a son, not an employee.

Well fuck, his message hits a chord, but it’s the chain under it that catches my attention.

A little blue dot next to Audrey’s name. She messaged me. In my haste to open the thread, I fumble with my phone, dropping it to the counter. Picking it up, I have to read the message four times before the words sink in.

Audrey: Hey Michael, can we chat?

My body screams to type Yes and hit send, but my brain holds me back. Chat? In what way?

There’s chatting like how I used to chat with multiple women at a time, trying to find the one that felt right. I haven’t done that since I met Audrey though. Or chatting like catching up on each other’s lives. Or—and God I hope it’s not this—chatting like a final talk. I have no idea where she wants this chat to go.

The message log says she sent the text this morning, while I was doing my stupid leg workout. My stomach cramps, part hunger, part a ball of anxiety at the thought of calling her back. I have to call my dad back too, even though it probably will be work related despite his message. I reach for a banana, needing fuel before I attempt anything else.

When I’ve shoved the final bite in my mouth, my stomach feels a little better. Audrey first, then I’ll tackle the call with my dad.

The phone rings twice, but when Audrey answers, the sound of cartoons blasts into my ear.

“Maisie, turn it down!” Audrey yells. I hear her shuffling away down the hall, muffling the obnoxious music.

“Sorry Michael, how are you?”

She sounds out of breath. Dread mixes with the anxiety in my stomach, swirling against my pre-breakfast snack.

“Audrey, I’m … good. How are you?”

“Oh, you know, work, motherhood, life.”

I don’t know. The conversation is all forced small talk, doing nothing for the storm inside me.

“Audrey what’s—”

“Can we see—”

We cut each other off. “Sorry, you first,” I prompt.

Audrey blows out a long puff of air. “Can we see each other? Like, go for coffee or something?”

My cheeks burn. She wants to see me, finally. I can’t help but wonder what prompted her swift change of heart. But then, I suppose it must have felt the same for her when I started calling her again too.

“I’d like that. Today?”

“Not today, I have to get Maisie to school and get to work.”

Right, I forgot the whole world doesn’t get these blissful days off like the trade industry.

“On the weekend. I’ll see if Maisie can go to her dad’s. Can I text you?” Audrey gulps down her words.

“Okay,” I strip the concern and confusion from my voice. “I’m looking forward to it.”

I try to convince myself it’s true as I end the call. I try not to think about the way each word caught in her throat, or how she sounded on the verge of tears. I try to imagine all the ways it could go right, instead of focusing on the way my hairs stand on end like they know something I don’t.

I wait until what’s left of the morning has passed before calling my dad, delaying the inevitable berating as long as possible. I eat a proper breakfast, binge some more of my favourite true crime podcast and take Baxter for a walk before the clouds give up. I wipe down all my weights, order a delivery of groceries, trim the fraying ends of my shoulder length hair and contemplate cutting it off altogether. I fill time with mostly meaningless crap, until enough has passed that whatever work crisis my dad thought needed immediate attention will be long past, or at least he would have dealt with it himself.

“Son.” His voice echoes down the line as he drives. I despise when he calls me son, it’s too formal, like we belong on some prissy upper regency drama show.

“Father,” I respond in jest, adding an unnecessary inflection just to spite his choice of language.

He scoffs. “Quit the shit. It’s been hours. What if your mother was sick?”

“She’s not though.”

“Fine. She’s not. But we are getting older.”

Collapsing on the couch, I let my head fall back against the cushions. “Dad, I don’t want the whole ‘I want to retire and I want you to take over the business’ spiel. We’ve been through this.”

I don’t add the ‘over and over and over again’ that cycles in my head. Dad has wanted me to take the reins from him for years, but despite his constant and incessant conversations about it, I still don’t want to. Once upon a time, maybe I did. But I was even younger and dumber then than I am now. And who knows, maybe in a few more years I’ll want to again. But not now, and the more he keeps bringing it up, the further away that hypothetical moment becomes.

According to Dad, at twenty-six I should be ready to take over the company he started as a teenager. The reality is I’m far from ready. I don’t have control of anything in my life, I can’t add a national company to the mix of things I always manage to fuck up.

“And before you can come up with your usual arguments, I know you were younger than I am when you started this business. I know you want to step back and watch it grow instead of working on it day in and day out now. And I know you want to pass your legacy onto your son. I know all of those things Dad, but I don’t know the first thing about running a business. I still make a mess of every job you leave me in charge of.”

Baxter pads his way across the room, sensing my rising mood and the way my pulse is spiking. He’d make a great service dog if I ever needed one. Clambering onto the couch, he drops his front paws on my lap, resting his head between my knees. He’s big, even for a Golden Retriever, far too big to be a lapdog, but he insists. I’m happy to oblige, happy for the comfort from someone who doesn’t seem to always expect more from me.

“Michael, stop. I don’t expect you to know how to run the bloody business. I just expect you to try.”

His disappointment leaks through the phone. The way it always does.

I want to live up to the expectations he has of me, but the truth is I’m not sure I can. I was barely a day over fifteen when I left school to start my apprenticeship under his instruction. For a while, it was great. Working with my dad and not having to go to school like the rest of my mates. But over time the appeal waned. Now, I’m only in this job because everything about it comes so easily. Because I have no idea what else I would do with my life.

After finishing my apprenticeship, I stopped pushing myself to learn. I’m far from the most skilled carpenter on any job site, but I know the basics and that’s all I need to get a house built. The other blokes can fine tune the cabinetry and do all the precision work, I’m more than happy just focusing on the basics. The foundations and having a good frame are more important than the insides looking pretty. And I’m pretty good at assembling a frame.

Aside from that, I like having no one depend on me on the job site. And I like being able to depend on my father when things turn to shit. If the wood delivery is wrong or the owner wants us to work faster, I can palm off the responsibility of dealing with the shit to my father—or whichever lackey he assigned as project manager.

“I have tried, Dad. Remember?”

It was a disaster. The job was delivered five months late when everything imaginable went wrong. It baffles me that even after that atrocity cost the business thousands of dollars in late penalties, he still wants me to try again.

“Michael, that was three years ago. I was stupid to think you’d be able to handle project management only a few years out of your apprenticeship. But you’re not that young kid anymore. Stop pretending you are.”

“I still feel like that young kid though.”

It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud to my father, the first time I’ve come even close to opening up to him. But it feels good.

“Well, maybe the way to change that is to try again?”

I hate that he is right.

“Fine,” I choke on the word as it comes out, regretting it instantly. “What’s the job?”

My father’s booming laugh echoes through the phone line. “There is no job yet. I honestly didn’t think you’d finally agree to it. I called you to see if you could look after the dog in a few weeks. Your mother is sick of the cold, she wants to go to Port Douglas.”

I reach down to scratch Baxter’s neck. He shifts his head in my hand and wags his tail against the armrest of the couch. He’d probably enjoy the company for a few days, even in the form of mum and dad’s tiny Cavoodle Miffy. I won’t be able to leave her alone in the apartment while she is here though, her eyesight is pretty poor and she won’t know how to use Baxter’s doggy door.

“You know I will. But, you actually didn’t want to talk about work?”

“Nope. Unless you wanted to talk about work”

“No but …”

I fade out, and the conversation stalls in the uneasy way it often does between us. Neither of us knowing the expectations we place on each other, neither of us willing to test the boundary between our father-son relationship.

“Enjoy your day off.”

“Thanks Dad, bye.”

Hanging up the phone, I’m still caught on the fact he wasn’t calling for work. He hadn’t wanted to berate me about my work ethic or pressure me into stepping up. He just, I don’t even know, wanted to chat, I guess. Which is unusual. It’s always been easier talking to my mother, I find comfort in telling her everything and feel safe letting her know my woes.

Dad on the other hand, not so much. He is a typical, hardworking, Aussie tradie. Work tough, live tough. If he had a motto that would be it. Growing up, he never cried, barely hugged me, struggled to show any emotion. Good or bad. I knew he loved me. I know he loves me. He just isn’t the kind of man to make a big deal about showing it. So, I’ve never been the kind of son to open up to him. About anything.

I can’t figure out why he is starting now. Or if he is starting now. That phone call felt like a big moment, but really, we didn’t talk about much. He asked if I could dog sit. I told him I would have a go at project managing a job again.

In the grand scheme of family discussion, it was nothing. But for us, it was something. I think.