The Rebuilding Year Read Online Free

wrist. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to be dumping on you. You have a nice face, but you don’t need to listen to me complain.” He let go, and drained his glasses one after the other. “I’m lousy company tonight. I’ll head out and let you have the table.”
    Ryan watched him stand. The guy was steadier than Ryan would have expected, after knocking back those drinks. He wound through the tables toward the door. Then Ryan groaned. John’s hand had dipped in his pocket and come out with a bunch of keys. Shit, no way was he okay to drive home, no matter how straight he was walking.
    Ryan scrabbled for his cane under the table, hauled himself upright, and chased after the tall man. He caught up to John in the parking lot. The guy was fumbling to fit a key in the door of a battered pickup.
    Ryan reached around and took the keys. “No way, dude.”
    “Huh?” John blinked at him. “That lock’s just kind of tricky. I got it.”
    “I don’t think so. You just had four drinks in fifteen minutes. Let me call you a cab.”
    “Can’t leave the truck here. I need it in the morning. I’ll drive careful.”
    “You won’t drive at all.”
    “I don’t like cabs. I can just sit here for a bit. It’ll be fine.”
    Ryan thought about it and sighed. He owed the man. “Get in and I’ll drive you home.”
    “You don’t have to do that.”
    “Yeah, I do.” He unlocked the door, shoved his cane and textbook under the seat, and swung himself in. It was an automatic transmission, thank God. His left leg wasn’t up to a clutch. He still missed his beloved Mustang.
    He reached down and slid the seat forward. Way forward. Either John was even taller than Ryan realized, or he liked to drive like he was sitting in a recliner. For all its dents, the truck started up smoothly. John was still standing in the open door, staring at him.
    “So get in already, and give me directions,” Ryan said.
    After another moment, the whiskey-soaked neurons apparently started firing. John closed Ryan’s door, walked around, and climbed into the cab. “Left on Calder.”
    The truck ran quiet. Two more turns, without conversation, and they were on Central, heading out of town. John sat slouched in his seat, rubbing a hand on his knee.
    “I’m sorry,” John said eventually. “You’re right. Trying to drive was stupid. I usually keep things to two drinks, so I don’t have to worry. I just slipped.”
    “It sounds like you had a reason.”
    “I guess. All these years, she knows exactly how to get to me.” He blew out a whiskey-coated breath. “I love my kids, you know. And Cynthia makes it as hard as possible for me to see them.”
    “Where do they live?”
    “Los Angeles. Now.” John leaned back and sighed. “We lived in Chicago. When we got divorced, Cynthia moved to Springfield. So I moved too, to be close to the kids. I commuted to my job. Then after a year, she announced she was getting married and moving out here to York. I found this job, moved out, got an apartment. Then Cynthia started telling me my place was too small for the kids to stay overnight. They were too old to share a room. Which was true. So I bought the house. Plenty of space. Then she told me they were moving to LA.”
    “How long ago?”
    “It’s been a year. I thought maybe…but she went out of her way to tell me that her new husband’s position in LA is temporary. They’ll move again in another year or two. So I just stayed here.”
    “When was the last time you saw them?”
    “July. They were here a week, between camp and a trip to Europe with the new hubby. He has money. She said they’d come for this weekend—they have Friday off. Some school thing. I should be picking them up at the airport right now, with two and a half days before I’d have to drop them off again. But something came up. So then it was going to be in October, the school-conference week. But she just called. They were invited to someone’s mountain cabin to go horse trekking.