2. Oliver

Chapter 2

Oliver

M y father looked pale and withdrawn when he opened the door, and I couldn't say I blamed him.

"How are you holding up, old man?" I asked gently, and he shrugged.

"Been better," he admitted, his voice hoarse. He had bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't been sleeping.

I walked past him into the living room of his new apartment. An empty, smelly pizza box sat on the coffee table, and I wrinkled my nose.

"Anchovies."

My father laughed. "Your mother would never let me order them."

With good reason , I thought but didn't say.

My father's penchant for smelly fish wasn't what made my mother want to separate, but it certainly didn't help. Neither did his long hours working on the oil rig.

"Trent's out in the car," I said. "Ready to go to dinner?"

He looked ready, his button-up shirt wrinkly but clean.

My father nodded, clearing his throat, and sliding on his shoes at the door. "I appreciate you coming over to visit, Ollie. I'm sorry I'm in such a bad way."

I clapped him on the shoulder. "It's all right, Dad. It happens to the best of us."

Hell, it had even happened to me though it was a long time ago. Not after thirty years, luckily, but still. I couldn't think about Lex now, that would just send me into a spiral. I needed to be there for my dad, not wallowing in my own past hurts.

My parent's separation brought a lot of that up again, and it was hard to ignore.

When we got into my truck, Trent whooped out a cheer from the backseat.

"Grampa!"

"Hey, slugger," my father responded, his mood seeming to lift. "What have you been up to lately?"

"Coloring," he said, his l sounding like a w.

Trent was every bit of five years old, but his speech impediment sometimes made him sound younger. He had a big vocabulary for his age, but some people didn't understand that just because he had trouble with pronunciation didn't mean he was slow or underdeveloped.

The speech therapist at school assured me that some kids just take a while to catch up, and that Trent was well on his way. I found it kind of cute, but I didn't want Trent to be bullied for it, so I was relieved to know he was improving.

"Gonna be an artist, huh? Your dad used to draw, you know," my father said, humming in the back of his throat.

"Dad used to draw?" Trent asked, his blue eyes widening.

"He did. I think I may have kept some of his drawings. I'll show you when we get back. "

"Wow, Dad," Trent said solemnly. "You're full of surprises." He was so grownup for his age.

I snorted out a laugh. "Well, don't say that until you see the drawings."

We arrived at the restaurant, a local steakhouse that I knew served a burger that Trent would actually eat. He was a picky eater, but if all the burger had was cheese and meat, he'd be okay.

The hostess smiled brightly at us before taking us to our seats, her cheeks flushing when I smiled back. I was used to getting attention from women. I wasn't egotistic, but I saw myself in the mirror every day and I knew that I was attractive.

My parents were still good-looking, even in their mid-fifties. Mom, with her dark auburn hair showing a few streaks of grey and a figure that most twenty-year-olds would envy, and Dad, with a full head of salt and pepper hair and a body that was still in good shape.

Years on an oil rig had made him broad and muscular, and he kept it up as he got older, only developing a slight belly pouch.

I ordered myself a beer yet when I tried to order Dad one, he held up a hand to stop me.

"Not drinking right now," he muttered.

"That's a good idea, Dad," I said softly, and cancelled my beer, ordering a soda instead and a juice for Trent.

I knew that my dad had the tendency to drink too much when he was upset, and I was proud of him for denying himself alcohol while he was in a bad spot.

The waitress brought our drinks, and we ordered dinner. Trent occupied himself with crayons and a couple of kid's menus, while Dad looked over at me, rubbing his hands over his thighs nervously .

"How is your mother doing?"

"Dad—" I started, but he cut me off.

"I just want to know she's okay."

"She's okay," I said softly. "She's hanging in there. She misses you."

He scoffed. "I don't know about that."

"I'm sure she does, Dad, it's just... you know Mom. She's hard to get a read on."

"Don't I know it."

My father was always the emotional, passionate one while my mother was more reserved. When she asked him suddenly for a separation, my father was floored. So was I. She wouldn't explain exactly what it was that spurred her to do it, and my father and I were both at a loss.

It could be a million things, I supposed. I didn't know the intricacies of my parent's relationship anymore. I'd been living on my own for years.

"How long have you been off the rig?" Dad asked, and I couldn't help but grin.

"Too long. I'm itching to go back."

"You know, now that you own those rigs, you don't have to physically be there all the time," my dad drawled. "That's one of the perks of being an oil magnate."

"I like being on the rigs. They keep me in shape. Keep me humble."

Dad hummed in response, but I knew he understood. After all, he owned a few rigs himself, and he'd always gone out to work whether he needed to or not. We were roughnecks through and through. It was in our blood. My grandfather, Dirk, first struck oil in nineteen-forty-five, right here in Wagontown.

Our family has lived here ever since, although Dad and I both did plenty of traveling to offshore rigs for work. I'd grown up with oil on my hands, following Dad around the rigs, going on multiple business trips with him.

I'd never done without, but I'd also learned the value of hard work. I was grateful for my dad because of that, and grateful to my mom for being gentle and sweet with me. I had great parents growing up and I still do. I'll tell anyone who asks the same.

That's one of the reasons why I'm so worried about this separation. Mom seems okay, if a little dimmed, but I know Dad is lost without her, and it shows on his face and in his actions.

"Is she seeing anyone else?" Dad blurted out, and I nearly dropped my bread.

"Dad, no," I insisted, and I really didn't think she was. I wasn't just humoring him or sparing his feelings. "She told you that's not what it's about."

"What is it about, then?" he asked, exasperation evident in his tone as he watched Trent pick apart a roll and eat it. "She won't talk to me."

"She won't talk to me either," I admitted. "But she has her reasons. Maybe she just needs some space. It'll come out in time."

"I miss her."

I reached across the table to take my father's hand in mine, squeezing it softly.

"I know you do, Dad. Things will work out. You'll see."

Tears filled his brown eyes, so much like mine, but they didn't fall.

"All right, son. Maybe you're right."

Trent began chatting with his grandfather about a new friend he'd made at school, and Dad teased him about having a girlfriend, even though Trent insisted the little girl, Holly, wasn't his girlfriend but only a girl who was a friend .

I watched them, smiling fondly, as the food arrived.

I dug into my ribeye, loving the way the blood dripped from the meat as I put it on my fork.

Trent grimaced. "Gross, Dad."

"Delicious," I insisted, stuffing my mouth full as he glared at me, slowly eating his burger.

Dad laughed and it sounded genuine. I smiled at him, hoping that this outing was making him better and perhaps a little more connected to family.

As an only child, I was all my parents had until Trent.

"What are your plans for the rest of the night?" I asked. Dad just shrugged, which seemed to be a common answer from him lately.

"Probably just watching television. Being retired isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"You could go out with me. We don't have to order alcohol; we could just go somewhere and have fun."

Dad scoffed. "What kind of fun? None of those club girls want an old man sullying their experience."

"You're not old, Dad."

"Tell that to my joints," he joked, and I chuckled.

"Grampa is old," Trent said. "But so is Dad."

"Ouch," I replied, dramatically putting my hand over my heart. "Harsh, kiddo."

Trent shrugged. "It's true."

My father laughed, long and loud, and it sounded like it came from his gut. It made my heart happy to hear him laughing with us. I knew that he'd been having a really hard time. Thirty years, gone, in the blink of an eye.

I couldn't imagine. With what I went through with Lex, it would have broken me to have been with her for that long only to lose her .

Dad seemed to be in better spirits as we left the restaurant.

"Are you sure that you don't want to go out?"

"I'm sure," he grunted as he got out of the truck. Trent slept peacefully in the backseat, his head against the cushion of his car seat.

Dad opened the back door to kiss him goodbye, and Trent hugged him tightly before going right back to sleep. Dad smiled, fondness and love glowing in his brown eyes.

"See you soon, Dad," I said, watching him as he unlocked the door of his apartment.

It was a small place, not much to it, but I supposed he was hoping that he wouldn't be there for long. With the money my father had, you'd think he'd have a penthouse apartment or something bigger, nicer.

But he'd never wanted anything other than the three-bedroom home he'd bought with Mom.

I owned a six-bedroom house that was more of a mansion, but then again, I'd kind of gone buck wild when I made my first million. Sometimes I regretted it, having so much space for just me and Trent. But most of the time I loved it, especially my heated indoor pool and in-home theater.

If you had it, why not spend it and flaunt it? That was my philosophy.

I headed next to my childhood home. When I arrived, my mother was seated on the front porch in one of the rocking chairs. It hurt my heart to see her rocking with no one in the seat next to her, so once I got Trent inside and in his bed, I came out to sit next to her.

She smiled at me. "How did dinner go?"

That was probably her way of asking how Dad was.

"He's... struggling, Mom. "

"We're all struggling," she mumbled, looking away, but not before I spotted hurt in her blue eyes.

"What's going on with you and Dad?" I asked. "Why did you ask him to leave?"

She sighed. "It's complicated, Ollie. Trent staying the night?"

Of course, she'd change the subject. It was her go-to when she didn't want to talk about something. And if Mama didn't want to talk, I knew better than to press her.

"If it's all right with you. Thought I'd meet up with a friend for a beer or three."

She smiled and nodded. "That's good. You need to get out more. Stop working so much."

I leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Thank you for looking out for Trent."

She waved her hand at me. "He's my only grandson. You know I'll always look out for him."

I smiled and stood up, walking slowly to the truck, and getting in.

Even though my dad declined my invitation, I was feeling restless. I needed to get out, needed to let loose. Mom was right—it had been too long.

Something felt different in the air tonight. Maybe if I went out, I'd end up having a really good time, good enough to get my mind off everything for a little while. It felt like something was coming, I could feel it in the hair on the nape of my neck.

Something good was happening in the air, and I wanted to be there for it. Whatever it was.