Page 8 of Bourbon & Bonfires
The next few hours are a whirlwind of food, laughter, and teasing. By the time we settle in around the tree for presents, the kids are bouncing in their seats and the adults are yawning. We let the kids open a few gifts so they have all the adult attention before we each open our own presents.
From my parents I received a gift card to the game store for the new Xbox game I’ve been eyeing. Yes, I’m thirty years old and still play video games. Also from my parents are a few shirts, the token pajama pants, and one thing that takes me by surprise.
“Dad?” I don’t manage much more because I know I may start crying.
“You’ve earned it, Landon. I was serious when I said I plan to retire next year. Well, retire as best as I can. I’m not sure I’m cut out for buying an RV and driving around the country or joining one of those clubs for people our age where you learn square dancing or whatever. But, I am stepping back from the business. I’ll be less hands-on, and for that reason, I wanted to make it official. You’re now part owner of Lexington Heating and Air.”
“Are you guys okay with this? I mean, it’s a family business.” I direct my attention to each of my siblings who simply smile and nod their heads yes. Wow. Fifty-percent ownership of my dad’s business. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
“I have no words,” I mumble.
“You just let it all sink in, son. We’ll talk more after the first of the year, but this can’t come as much of a surprise,” my dad says before turning his attention to my nieces Kyla and Lexie as they open their gifts.
Dumbfounded, I sit back and watch as my family opens the rest of their gifts. I respond as expected when Wyatt and Sarah each hold up their wine holder and their significant others high five each other over the free babysitting.
Fifty percent of my dad’s business. Looks like this new year is going to be full of major changes.
Two hours after my dad handed me the paper gifting me half his company, I’m sitting in my workshop surrounded by the smells of sawdust, and I finally relax. When I graduated from college, I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. A degree in business is great if you own your business or have a drive to help run someone else’s. I didn’t have either. So instead, I went back to the job I held each summer as a teenager, HVAC tech.
A few years ago, I found that messing around with wood and creating small custom pieces of furniture and random accessories was cathartic. Then I found some old barn wood and started creating random art pieces. When people started requesting them, I was blown away. My friends and family have encouraged me to pursue something with the art, but I’m not sure it’s for me. I can’t imagine being expected to produce things on demand or within a certain time frame. For me, it’s the soothing sounds of the saw or the way the sandpaper in my hands feels as I glide it along each piece of wood. It isn’t about the sale or the potential accolades I may get. I do it because I enjoy it. Plain and simple.
Taking over the family business has always been an unspoken plan, but now that it’s here, I’m not sure it’s what I want. Or maybe it is. Hell, I have no idea. I suppose this is one of those moments being in a relationship would be beneficial. I could sit down with my girlfriend, or wife I suppose, and we could talk it out. A partner. A partner in life to help me figure out what the hell I’m doing with myself.
Maybe I’ve been wrong this entire time, and I am ready for a relationship. Not a hookup or a means to getting laid, but an honest, true, meaningful partnership with someone who gets me and what I need in life.
Basically, I need to find the equivalent of a mermaid. Not a siren who calls me to the darkness; been there done that. Yeah, that seems completely doable. I’m royally screwed. On New Year’s Eve, I’ll be wishing for more than good health and happiness. I’ll be wishing for a belated Christmas gift in the form of a beautiful, smart, funny, kind, and independent woman. That seems reasonable.
Asound I never want to hear again is that of my teenage son crying because his father hasn’t made the time for him. Not only hasn’t made time for him, but hasn’t bothered to acknowledge that Christmas came and went without so much as a text message to him. My own tears I can handle. But my son? I can’t, and I won’t. I’m beyond pissed at my ex-husband and frustrated with myself that I gave such a selfish man so many years of our lives we’ll never get back.
I’ve contemplated for days how to handle this new level of assholery that Dan has reached. Both Taylor and I tried to make Christmas special and fun for Mason to no avail. I assumed when Taylor offered to take Mason shooting for the first time he’d jump at the chance. I was wrong. Instead of tagging along with his uncle, my son locked himself in his room, new noise-cancelling headphones on his ears, and wallowed.
That’s why, when his childhood best friend called and invited him for the New Year’s weekend with his family at their cabin, I immediately agreed. Sure, Mason is on almost a permanent grounding, but he needs this. Hell, I need this. I need a few days without worrying and fretting over how badly Dan is screwing up our son.
“Mason, are you about ready to go? I promised Jordy’s mom we’d be there before noon.”
“I’m almost ready. I can’t find my snow boots. Do you know where they are?”
“They should be in the bag with the rest of your winter stuff. Did you find it?”
“Oh, I didn’t even look there. That makes sense. I’ll be ready in five.”
I’d act surprised at the fact Mason didn’t bother to look in the most logical place for his gear, yet I’m not. I’ve learned two things in the last year: One, teenage boys have the memory of a gnat. And two, common sense must not occur until late teens.
Once Mason has managed to locate all of his gear and my travel mug is full of freshly brewed coffee, we hit the road. Thankfully, we’ve been friends with Jordy’s family since the boys were in first grade, and his parents were willing to meet me halfway for this trip. I tap the buttons on the steering wheel to cue up some music as I pull out of our new neighborhood. As I slow to a four-way stop, I watch Mason put his earbuds in and lean back, resting his head on the headrest. Nope, not today.
“Mason,” I say in a normal tone. No response. I repeat his name a little louder. Again, no response. Instead of trying a third time, I smack my son on the leg, causing him to sit up straight and shout incoherent ramblings.
“Geez, Mom! What’d you do that for?”
“We’re going to drive for two hours, and I’m not doing it in silence. Take out your earbuds and let’s be civilized people andtalk.”
Mason sighs dramatically, pulls the earbuds out of his ears, and taps his phone a few times. Turning toward me, Mason folds his arms across his chest. “Is this going to be two hours of lectures? I’m not really in the mood for that.”
“No, Mason. Can’t we just talk? Hell, I don’t care about what, I just want to spend this time with you. I miss you, buddy.”
“Mom, we live together, how can you miss me? It’s not like I actually get to go anywhere.”
“We can talk about that if you like. I’ve been thinking maybe we can talk about lifting some of your restrictions after you get back to school. I’d like to see you make friends and maybe get involved in some clubs at school.”