I pull over before I get too close, just to take in the place where I grew up. Yes, grew up, and fast, too. I had to.

The old porch is still standing and the ground is still charred. No idea why Dad hasn’t tried to do some work, bring in some soil or something to cover it, or at least torch the porch so it isn’t still taking up space. The whole place is a fucking eyesore.

Do I hate my mother? Maybe. Do I blame her for all the shit that went wrong in my life over the last ten or so years? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I dwell on it, let it draw me down? No. I stayed the fuck away and went after what I wanted, and now I have it. I am living my dream, one not bought from selling drugs or selling out, but earned from the blood, sweat, and tears of many, many years.

I throw the SUV in drive and hit the gas, the tires kicking up loose gravel. I speed past the burned can and to the left, toward the garage.

There are about five cars in the old driveway waiting for the old man or the owners to pick them up and about twenty heaps of shit in the field beside the garage.

Throwing the car in park, I get out and walk toward the door that says, ‘Beckett and Son.’ I open the door and the bell jingles, though it’s not much of a warning that someone is coming in when the air compressor is blatting and the grease gun is whining.

The smell of oil fills my senses and gone is the scent of her.

I see Dad bent over a car with the hood open, a shop rag hanging from his back pocket.

“Yo! Old man!” I yell to him like I always did back then.

I hear his deep laugh, and he takes a step back before standing.

“Not much older than you, boy.” He smiles, wiping his hands on the rag. “Sixteen when I—”

“Got her knocked up,” I finish his sentence and smile.

“What’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a light bulb, son?”

“Can’t unscrew a pregnant woman,” I answer.

“Wouldn’t want to, either. Something good came out of her.”

“How you doing?” I walk over and give him a quick hug.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“You feel like going out to dinner?”

He shakes his head. “Now, you know the answer to that.”

My dad never goes out. He hates it, says it’s a waste of time and money getting all dressed up so someone else can cook for you. Then you have to pay them. If he’s gonna get dressed up and hit the town, he would rather be getting laid, not having a meal.

“Got steaks in the car.”

“Gimme ten minutes to finish old lady Smith’s car and get washed up.”

“The grill have propane?” I ask.

“Sure does, but how about charcoal tonight?” He smirks.

“On it.”

I walk out and around to the back, smiling when I see the patio off the back of the apartment he added on to the garage after the fire. A brick fire pit was built in the far corner. There are a couple benches, even some shrubs, and a couple pots that have flowers planted.

“Place looks good, right?” my old man asks, slapping me on the back.

“Yeah, it does.” I smile. “Where’s the charcoal?”

“I can get it after I take a quick shower.” He walks toward the sliding glass doors that enter the palace.

“Dad, where is it?” I laugh.

He points to one of the benches. “Bags are in there.”

I open the bench, grab the charcoal and lighter fluid, and carry it to the pit.

When he comes out, he’s in jeans and a sweatshirt that says Carhart. I laugh to myself because, back in the day, anything with that logo was our equivalent to a fucking Armani suit. I send him Levis and Carharts every Father’s Day and every year on his birthday.

“Looking good, old man,” I say as I pull out my Zippo and light it up.

Dad shakes his head when I stand back.

“What?” I ask.

“You still got Glenda’s lighter.”

“My life changed that day. It’s a reminder.”

“All of our lives changed that day. She went to jail, you got hauled away to foster care, and me ... I sat in it.”

“Sat in what?”

“Shit.” He motions toward our old place.

“And it still stands,” I remark, looking at it.

“Took me forever to convince them I wasn’t fucked up like her so that I could get you back.” He snaps his fingers. “Then in the blink of an eye, you were gone.”

“Had things to do,” I say, feeling the weight of his words.

“Made a name for yourself.” He smiles. “I’m proud of you, son.”

I look at him, never having heard him say that before. He winks and then looks at the old place.

“Looks like you’re doing well, too, Dad. Just one thing needs to go.”

“What’s that?”

“That fucking relic.” I laugh, bending down to grab the lighter fluid. “You feel up to a bonfire?”

“You have her lighter; I have that pile of shit.”

“I’ll use the lighter to spark that pile of shit and toss it on. Neither of us need the reminder.”

“You forgive me finally?” he asks.

“Forgive you for what?” I have no clue what the hell he’s talking about. He didn’t do a damn thing.

“Not booting her ass before she fucked everything up, burnt down our place, and got you sent away.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” Never thought it was. He was the only consistency I had.

“I knew what she was doing. I fought it, but my words fell on the deaf ears of a junkie I was enabling. I should have booted her. If I had, you wouldn’t have been sent to that place, and you would never have lost the girl and—”

“I don’t blame you, Dad. Hell, I don’t even blame Glenda anymore. Don’t even think about her.” I turned it off like a switch, one that, when turned back on, was like a scene from a hoarders show, roaches scattering back into the darkened corner. I would rather leave the light off.

“But you don’t come home,” he says quietly. “Can’t blame you.”

“I was finding my way, and I found it, Dad. I’m home for a couple days.”

We stand quietly, looking at the ruins.

“I want that fucking thing gone. You game?”

He smirks. “I think we got ten minutes before we throw those steaks on.” He nods. “Better be damn good steaks, too.”

“Got a bag of clams, too, old man.”

“You don’t say? What are you, making millions now or something?”

“No.” I laugh. “But I won’t stop until I do.”

“That’s my boy.” He pats my back.

I reach down to grab the lighter fluid.

“Son, that ain’t gonna do shit. Let me grab the gas can.”

***

I spend two days with my old man. The first, we eat steak and clams, his favorite, and the next, we rake up the burnt remnants of the old tin can. Then we eat steak again.

At night, while he is sacked out in his recliner, I message back and forth with Sonya, who is busy getting her boy better. I understand and respect that a hell of a lot more than she will ever understand, but I miss her.

Taelyn and she talked. Sonya’s okay to stay at home for the next ten days. Apparently, X’s and her son was a preemie, too. As a result, they totally get what she is going through.

Two of the tour stops are in Cleveland, and I will be making damn sure I get to see her then.

When I get back to Florida, the auditions for the opening act are in full swing.

Sonya and I send messages daily—several times a day, actually—about work, the opening acts’ social status locally and globally, and how they would benefit us as a group. She is also apparently designing a website for the band. She calls it a portal through the wall of Steel we hide behind. I read some of the bio stuff, and she is a wordsmith for sure. She makes a group of otherwise normal guys sound like a mysterious group of musical magicians with mysterious and mystical talent. She also sells the hell out of what she calls our sex appeal. It was something she was against when she was hanging with the chicks with dicks crew.

I smile, thinking I brought her out of that just in time. Now she is a chick who likes my dick and my dick loves her.