Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Chapter 10
It felt like everything changed over the course of the summer. Owen continued to grow and amaze me with his new-found skills. He was very much a toddler now, even if I still called him a baby, and that came with new challenges and new rewards. One of the biggest changes was that his vocabulary expanded beyond the “ba” sound, and when he started calling me “Dada” I almost melted with happiness.
In July, Lucky’s thirtieth birthday came and went without much fanfare, at his request. It actually landed mid-week, so the following weekend my housemates and I made him a nice dinner, and I baked him a cake. He said he didn’t want presents, but I gave him a few little things anyway—some books I thought he might enjoy, a framed picture of him with Owen and me, and a few of Owen’s colorful scribble drawings. He seemed happy about them, so I was glad I’d decided to ignore his request for no gifts.
Of course, the biggest change that summer was that Lucky moved to Miami as planned. He began working side-by-side with his dad and learning the job of running the family business, and I knew he was feeling a lot of pressure.
But every weekend as promised, he flew back to San Francisco and we had our Saturday evening together. I asked him if all that travel added to his stress, but he said it was just the opposite. “Sometimes, I feel like our time together is the only thing keeping me sane,” he told me. “It’s also the only time I feel like myself. The rest of the week, I’m playing a role, trying to be the man my dad and our employees need me to be. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t come back here every weekend and just breathe.”
Our routine was always the same. Lucky worked ridiculously long hours Monday through Friday, and he also went into the office for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings before getting on a plane. He’d arrive in San Francisco in the afternoon, and I’d meet him at the garage so we could enjoy a couple of hours on our own. Meanwhile, Lark and Dylan had “guncle time” with their nephew, which often included trips to Golden Gate Park or some other fun location.
We’d all meet back at the pink Victorian after that for dinner with the family, and then we’d hang out with Owen until it was his bedtime. After that, Lucky and I would either spend the next few hours cuddling and talking, just the two of us, or we’d join my housemates in the living room for family game night, or a movie, or cocktails and conversation.
He always spent the night, followed by a leisurely morning with Owen and me, before a car service took him to the airport. He got back to Miami early enough to get ready for the week ahead, and the routine would start all over again.
Overall, this seemed to be working. Okay, so I missed him like crazy during the week. I also worried about the strain that much travel was putting on him, even though he swore he was fine. It was hard to imagine him keeping this up for years on end, so I didn’t know what would happen long-term. But I was so grateful for our time together and the effort he made to be with me.
On the last Saturday in August, I let myself into Lucky’s garage with my key and shut off the alarm, then turned on some fans and opened the bay door to air it out. It was more than a little warm and stuffy, after being closed up all week.
I’d been surprised when he’d told me he wanted to hold on to the garage. Then again, his dad was probably paying him a pretty decent salary, so I assumed continuing to pay rent on it wasn’t a hardship. I could see why this place meant a lot to him, too. It wasn’t just someplace for us to sneak off to, it was a symbol of the life he’d led in San Francisco.
Even though it was still furnished, it was much emptier now than it had been. Before he left, he’d packed up his tools, donated most of the completed motorcycles to an auction benefiting a local LGBTQ teen shelter, and given all the spare parts to Skye for use in his metal sculptures.
All that remained now were two motorcycles—the vintage Harley-Davidson Sportster he used to ride around town, and the custom 1957 Harley Hydra-Glide he’d finished shortly before he moved. And yes, I was actually starting to learn a little about motorcycles, after listening to Lucky’s many enthusiastic dissertations on the subject.
He kept saying he should give those bikes away too, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. I could see why. They were a symbol of his former life, like the garage, and they had a lot of sentimental value. What surprised me was that he didn’t want to ship them to Miami. Maybe that was because his new life was so different from his former life that they just didn’t make sense in that setting.