To work with wood, to build and create with a natural resource—first, you had to understand how it worked. My teacher had come from a long line of craftsmen from furniture makers to sky-scraper designers.
The fact he had Inuit blood and could trace his family tree back to the natives on his mother’s side was a plus for learning, not just about how to hammer a nail or finesse a dovetail joint, but how to nurture the trees we used. How to take a wooden plank and turn it into a home.
I’d learned more living with his wife and two sons, absorbing every lesson, than I ever did at university (or at my more recent abode). Then again, that education had been of a different nature.
You promised you wouldn’t think about it.
For the hundredth time, I gritted my teeth and pushed away thoughts that only pissed me off and hurt. Clenching my fists, I followed the herd down the air-bridge and onto the plane.
I was sad to leave.
But eager to put a stamp on my new career. My new life. A life I was eternally thankful for after everything I’d done to screw it up.
I didn’t deserve it, but my father had agreed to help fund me. Acting as guarantor for the business loan I’d applied for: Opulent Oak Construction. Not to mention, he’d been fundamental for me securing the work permit for entry into the USA. Without him...well, my second chance wouldn’t have mattered.
He’d given me my world back. He trusted I wouldn’t let him down.
I had no intention of doing that. Ever again.
He’d granted endless support and fatherly devotion, even after everything I’d done. However, he had a condition—completely adamant with no concessions.
So, I did the only thing I could.
I gave in.
I agreed to fly to Fiji (the one place I’d always wanted to visit as a kid) and live a little before burying myself in my new company in England. He wanted me to sample freedom before I shackled myself to a long-term commitment.
He wanted me to have fun.
Ha!
After everything that’d happened, he thought I knew what that word meant.
I have no bloody clue.
How could he expect me to be an average twenty-seven-year old bloke after the history I’d already clocked up? Even now, he still looked at me like the golden son...not the black stain I’d become. I didn’t deserve fun. Not after what I’d done; especially at a time he needed me the most.
Fun.
I hated the word.
And even if I did remember how to indulge, I wouldn’t waste my time on girls and booze because I had a driving need to create something from nothing after I’d destroyed everything. I had a lot of sins to make up for, and if my father wouldn’t let me start atoning at home, well, I would have to find another way.
I’m a bastard, pure and simple.
I hated that I’d lied when conceding to his terms. I’d looked him in the eye and agreed to go to Fiji under the proviso of sunbaking, drinking, and having a one-night stand or ten. However, instead of reserving a bed in a gross backpackers with other self-centred idiots, I volunteered my skills to a local firm who built homes for under privileged locals.
I needed to find redemption before I drove myself insane with sickening memories and overflowing self-hatred.
Only thing was, the company expected me to start work first thing tomorrow. Otherwise, they’d give the contract to another applicant. No tardiness. No excuses. Be there or miss out.
I won’t miss out.
Trudging onto the plane, my mind skipped to the last time I’d seen my father. Over six months had passed since our last embrace. He’d slapped my back and whispered in my ear. “Learn, study, and behave. But once your training is up, fly to Fiji, get lost in warm seas, and remember how to live. Then come home refreshed and I’ll do whatever you want to make your business a success.”
He’d even pulled the cheap shot guaranteed to make me crumple like a little kid. He’d argued that if Mum were still alive, she would’ve said that work didn’t equal a life, even if it was a passion. There were other important things and having unplanned experiences was one of them.
Asshole.
Poor, grieving asshole.
Me, too. We were both grieving assholes, missing the one person who gave our souls purpose only to ruin us when she died.
What happened wasn’t her fault.
My nostrils flared, pushing her out of my mind.
I pulled the crumpled boarding pass from my back pocket, trying to find my seat.
Goddammit.
Fifty-nine D. Right down the back of the plane.
The thought of having to squish around people pissed me off. But the sooner I was seated, the sooner I could pull out my headphones and lose myself in a movie.
Waiting for a family to shove their luggage into the overhead compartment, I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder and pulled out my phone. I’d promised my father I’d text him before we took off. Ever since losing Mum, he’d been neurotic at the thought of losing me.
Tapping a generic ‘I love you and talk to you soon’ message, I pressed send.
Huh, that’s strange.
I tapped the screen, waiting for confirmation that it’d sent. However, the sending icon just swirled around and around, never connecting.
The family finally slid into their row, granting me the freedom to carry on down the aisle.
Giving up on the message, I shoved the phone back into my jeans and hurried to my seat. An air-hostess stood blocking it. She backed away when I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re lucky last, huh?” Her red hair caught the glare of false illumination.