Hold My Breath(42)

“Right,” I say, nodding and chewing at the inside of my cheek. “I’ll brew a new pot of coffee then. Do my part.”

“Sounds good,” my uncle growls.

I laugh silently to myself because despite my uncle’s slight frame, portly belly, and thinning hair, he can still wear the confidence of a tough guy when he’s right. And he is…right. It does seem lazy not to go the extra mile.

I fill the pot with water and slide it into place, pressing the two-cup option. My uncle pulls out one of the mismatched wooden chairs from the small card table we’ve been eating our dinners at. I lean against the counter space where the fridge and coffee pot are housed and fold my arms, preparing myself for more words of wisdom, when he slides the watch he’s been working on across the table. The band is polished platinum, and the face is antiqued, but also a style one doesn’t find any more. I slide it closer and pull it into my hands, admiring his work while the tiny second hand makes its pass around the dial and the exposed gears underneath work in unison.

“It’s remarkable,” I say, holding my hand out to him to take it back.

“It’s yours,” he says.

My brow lowers.

“It was your dad’s, Will. Our dad gave it to him when he went off to college, as a gift. Your dad wore it for many years, but then it stopped working. I always promised him I’d get around to fixing it. Took a little longer than I planned to, I guess,” my uncle says. He chews at the corner of his mouth while his eyes stare at the treasure held in my palms.

“Dunc, I don’t know what to say…”

I turn the watch over, the date engraved on the back instantly recognizable.

“It was their anniversary,” my uncle says.

I smile, barely.

“I know,” I say, quietly.

I trace the cold metal rim with my thumb.

“Should be set to the right time,” he says.

I nod just as the sound of the coffee beginning to drip kicks in. I swallow and turn to face the pot, holding the watch carefully in my hands, unable to take my eyes off it.

“Thank you, Duncan. This…it means a lot,” I say.

My uncle’s chair slides out, and soon I feel his heavy hand pat my upper back twice.

“I know it does, Will. That’s why I had to finish it. You needed to have something of his that meant something,” he says.

Slipping my hand inside, I fasten the band around my wrist, the fit almost perfect. When I twist my wrist, there’s a faint sense of recognition—my arm reminiscent of my father’s, and I smile again seeing that. When the dripping coffee finishes, I pull the pot from the machine and fill both of our cups, setting my uncle’s on the center of the table to cool while I add a shot of milk and a sugar packet to my own.

My uncle takes his in his hand and drinks, not even bothering to blow away the steam. Hot and black, exactly the way it was made. Even the way he takes his coffee matches his personality.

“That sweet girl we both love has been sitting over there in that room for the entire morning,” my uncle says, jarring me out of my trance and jolting me enough to splash coffee onto the leg of my swim shorts.

“Shit!” I let out, setting my mug down and blotting the spot with a towel. It’s hot, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what I’m swearing about.

I toss the towel into our sink, and leave my mug on the counter, walking over to the door, but stopping and pacing back into the small kitchenette. I follow this same pattern three more times before my uncle chuckles.

“Did she come by while I was swimming?” I ask.

My uncle pulls his lips in, his eyes laughing at me while he shakes his head no.

“She’s just as bad as you are. She’d rather sit over there, in the dark, than come in here and have a real conversation,” he says.

I open my mouth to ask another question, but then his words settle in, so I close my mouth and take a sharp breath in through my nose.

Straight. Black. Hot. Honest. Just like his damned coffee.

I turn back to the door, but I don’t move. Frozen here in limbo.

“You gonna go over there and talk to her? Or are you gonna crack the door open and spy?” my uncle asks in a gravelly voice as he passes by me, his hot coffee in one hand and the TV remote in the other. I twist my lips at his back as he passes.

“I just don’t want to interrupt something. Maybe she wants time alone,” I say.

“Or maybe you’re just a chicken shit,” he says, not waiting for my response as he clicks on the late morning news and kicks his feet up on the oak coffee table, settling deep into the cushions. He’ll be napping as soon as that cup is drained, caffeine or not.

I think about flipping him off, but I can’t even do it behind his back because the old man is right. I am a chicken shit.

I slip into the bedroom to change out of my trunks, not bothering to hang them since they’re dry from sitting around in them all morning, and I pull on my cargo shorts and the gray, long-sleeved thermal that I’ve worn so thin, it’s actually cooler than any of my T-shirts.

Yesterday with Maddy was the closest thing I’ve had to normal in a long time, and we were at a male strip club. There was a small window on our drive home when I thought about asking her on a legit date. Every bit of me wanted to kiss her, but more than that, I wanted to feel the entire thing—the chase, the small little favors like holding her door open. Then Tanya called, and shit just quit feeling like I deserved more than I had already gotten out of life. I still have more I need to give to get myself back to even.