I rough the back of my hand across my forehead, pushing sweat droplets away. The wooden plank shifts under my feet as I propel the wheelbarrow along the makeshift bridge that extends over the freshly-dug ditch.

This is bullshit.

Pauly has had me hauling ripped-up sheets of drywall, broken chunks of brick and other debris across the yard all morning. I'm hot, I'm thirsty and my brain cells are shriveling up en masse from disuse.

Meanwhile, Dave is at the wheel of the excavator, swerving the vehicle from left to right to make zigzag tracks in the soil—just for shits and giggles—and the gang of buffoons around him laughs and hollers like it’s the most entertaining thing they’ve ever seen.

This. Is. Bullshit.

When I asked Pauly to give me some real goddamned work, he refused. "Boss's orders," he'd told me with a shrug of his big, meaty shoulder.

That only pissed me off even more. Fuck you, Charlie. He thinks I can't handle real work. He's trying to micromanage my damn life. Treating me like an invalid. Making me feel worse about a situation that's already so fucked up.

I get it. My body isn’t what it used to be. I got blasted by an explosive and frankly, I'm lucky that I'm even alive. I can't push myself too hard or else I'll pay the price with aches and cramps and burning sensations that make it feel like my flesh is on fire.

But at the same time, I don't need to be reminded of my injuries every second of the day by my well-meaning but overbearing friend. Dammit!

After dumping the rubble on the pile I’ve been building all morning, I abandon the wheelbarrow near the fence. Then, I grab a bottle of water from the cooler sitting in the bed of Pauly's truck. Trudging across the yard, I search for a few minutes of reprieve from the frat party atmosphere of the construction site. I wander around the side of the crumbling, hilltop mansion and find a quiet spot in the shade of the towering modern structure. I lean against the side of the house and allow myself to slide down until my ass is planted on the moss-covered flagstone paver tiles.

The area is enclosed on two sides by tall hedges and the outside wall of the kitchen on the third. There's a low patio off to the left. A few short stairs lead down from the house into the little oasis. The alcove shields me from view.

Resting my skull against the building's natural stone siding, I let my gaze wander around the place. Weeds sprout up from between the garden tiles and wind around the patio's railing. There's weather-beaten garden furniture strewn about the space. A collection of giant clay flowerpots sits abandoned with dried, withered ferns, elephant ears and decorative fountain grass hanging limply over the sides.

It’s a shame, really.

This is the kind of place to raise a family. Or at least it used to be before it fell victim to grime and decay. When I close my eyes, I can see it. Something hot simmers on the stove on a chilly night in fall. A mother stands at the kitchen window, watching over the brood of children running around in the backyard. I imagine the father stepping into the kitchen and wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist, pressing his lips to the base of her neck to breathe in her scent. The scent of wildflowers.

For a moment, that man is me and it’s Sophia in my arms and it’s our children playing in the yard.

What are you doing, man?

That thought is so out of left field I don’t even know what to make of it. But the way she kissed me the other day...The way her body reacted to my touch...I want more of that. I’ve always wanted more. I just didn’t think it was possible.

I’d accepted that I’d never see her again. And then I did. And that one moment has me questioning the fate I agreed to so long ago.

I’m a restless fucker. I’m not meant to settle down. I'm meant to go on adventures. To roam the back roads all on my own in my Chevy. I'll be a wanderer until my lungs fail and my heart collapses and I die alone. That’s the agreement I made with myself. It’s what I’ve come to expect of my life.

Defending my country was my higher calling. It was meant to be my contribution to this great country. Because a real man would lay down his life to protect the things he loves.

Since the explosion, I can’t suit up, though. I’m too mangled, the scars run too deep. So, wandering is the only thing left for me, anyway.

But Sophia’s touch and her kiss make me wonder if I need to re-evaluate that assumption. Ever since the barbecue, ever since I held that perfect body against me and felt those perfect lips on mine, I’ve been questioning my long-held conclusion. I've been questioning everything.

Man, I'm losing it...

I run a hand over my throbbing knee, trying ease some of the pain. I could just get a doctor to write me a damn prescription, resort to pills to ease the pain. But fuck pills and their laundry list of side effects. I may be broken but I'm still strong. I'm still a soldier and I don't need an easy fix.

Just to prove me wrong, the pain surges again right then. I grit my teeth and growl under my breath.

That's when I hear the patio door slide open. An unsuspecting woman in her fifties tiptoes out of the kitchen. Her shoulders are hunched up to her ears as she peels back the wrapper on a chocolate cupcake. The swanky woman steals a quick glance around then leans in eagerly and takes a huge, messy bite.

A grunt of laughter pitches from my throat and she jolts. I watch as the cupcake falls from her hold and her hands leap to her string of pearls in surprise. 

Crap, I startled her.

With an elbow braced on the side of the house for leverage, I push myself up to my feet and rise into view from behind the hedge.

Her throat works as she swallows quickly. "Oh my god!" she breathes out on a nervous laugh. "I didn't see you there." She dusts crumbs and frosting from her lips with dainty fingers and adjusts the candy-pink sweater tied impeccably around her shoulders. This is a woman who's used to keeping up appearances.

I adjust the hardhat on my head. "Sorry about that." I dust my hands on the back of my grimy pants. "Didn't mean to scare you."

The well-maintained woman glances down at the cupcake sitting on the toe of her pristine white tennis shoe. Her cheeks flush with shame. "That's what I get for trying to sneak in sugar after my workout." She gives me an empty-sounding, rich-people laugh. All control. No depth.

An unsettled feeling rises into my awareness and really, I just want to get away from this person. I snatch up the fallen dessert and toss it on top of an overflowing garbage can off to the side of the porch. “I'll go get some paper or something to clean that up," I offer turning in the direction of Pauly's truck.

"Oh, we've got paper towels somewhere in the kitchen, I'm sure." She sweeps her hand through the air. "Come inside. I just brought you fellows a ton of snacks.”

"Nah. I'm not hungry. Thanks for the offer but—"

She bats her eyes at me from under the rim of her pink sun visor. "I've got triple chocolate..."

My stomach growls, betraying my hunger. She grins victoriously.

I throw a glance over my shoulder. "I don't think that would be appropriate, Mrs. Davies."

"Call me Clara. And don't let the whole busty cougar vibe throw you off. I'm harmless. I don't bite. At least not without clear and explicit instructions to do so." She winks and sashays inside. 

Something tells me not to do it. But because I'm starving like a stray dog, I follow her into the kitchen. 

I lean on the counter by the door and let my eyes travel around as she opens up the cupcake box. There's a layer of dust on every surface and the kitchen furniture is covered with thick plastic sheets. A huge zigzagged crack runs up the wall behind the stove and there’s severe water damage on the ceiling.

None of that fully takes away from the beauty of the house with its wide-open floor plans, its clean lines and geometrical style. It has a glass, steel and concrete design and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a clear sightline to the coppery hills in the distance.

Clara hands me a cupcake and leans on the counter across from me causing her cleavage to spill from the neckline of her fitted, sleeveless blouse. "This place is in serious need of a makeover. You guys have your work cut out for you, huh?" She swipes her tongue through the frosting of her own cupcake.

She reeks of desperation. She's looking for attention, I won't give it to her. I keep the conversation strictly business. "Yes, it's a gorgeous house. We'll get it back in tip-top shape for you and your family in no time."

Her shiny, Botoxed veneer fractures when I say that. "This house is going on the market," she winces visibly. Her skinny frame seems to close in on itself with grief when she speaks. "My husband—well, soon-to-be-ex-husband, actually—bought this place for our son and his ex after they got engaged. They were supposed to move in right after the wedding two years ago. But my idiot spawn called off the whole thing at the last minute and broke the poor girl's heart."

She sets down her cupcake and wanders into the living room, swiping a silver frame off the mantle. The wheels in my head spring into action. Wait...No, it couldn't be...Nah...

She stares lovingly at the picture as she approaches me. "Isn't she a beauty?" It's a picture of Sophia. Standing next to some clean-cut, blond-haired bastard in a candy pink polo shirt. “They were supposed to fill this house up with adorable little grandchildren for me to dote on. But Josh had to go screw that up for me…and now, I’m just alone.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m still struggling to cope with my shock as I stare at Sophia’s picture.

Clara’s phone rings on the counter and she glances at it. “Speak of the devil…” she mutters. “It’s my son. Excuse me. I have to take this call.” She opens the door and goes out to the front lawn to answer phone. The room tilts ever so slightly. This mini-mansion was supposed to be Sophia's home. This is the life she was supposed to live. With that guy.

My mind shifts back to the dank, little motel room that I'm renting out by the night while I’m here in Copper Heights. All of a sudden, it feels ridiculous for me to even imagine being with Sophia when that's all I have to offer. She seems more unattainable than ever.

At the approaching stampede of boot-covered feet, my attention snaps back to my surroundings. My coworkers storm the kitchen, eager to get their hands on the cupcakes. 

I edge away from the kitchen counter and wander into the open-concept living area just off to the side. The glutton for punishment in me leads me over to the mantle. Even more dusty pictures of Sophia sit above the fireplace.

Pictures of her with that douche nugget, looking all posh on yachts and at fancy restaurants and lounging on private beaches. Doing things I could never afford to do for her. It's a harsh reminder that it doesn't actually matter how much I want her. The reality is, she'd never settle for a guy like me...if I were the settling down kind of guy to begin with. 

Anyway, it’s starting to make sense why she was trying so hard to keep her distance from me all throughout Leo’s birthday party. I may have been good enough for a one-night stand on her worst night but beyond that, I’m not her type.

Loud and obnoxious as always, Dave rolls into my space with his loyal disciples trailing along. "Mrs. Davies has got a heck of a rack on her, doesn't she?"

Now is really not the time, asshole...

He’s not smart enough to see the scowl on my face for the threat that it is. He leans an elbow on my shoulder, huddling over me like we're old bros who go way back. "So, check this out—word on the street is that that sexy GMILF is on the market again. Her hubby served her some divorce papers and she's looking for a little companionship and reassurance, if you know what I mean.”

I shrug him off of me. “How are you brave enough to touch me? Are you that stupid?”

"GMILF is grandmother I'd like to fuck, by the way," Jim tells me because apparently, it is absolutely crucial to him that I understand Dave's vulgar acronym.

How are these fools qualified to operate heavy machinery?!

Dave beams. “The woman has the hots for me. She totally rubbed her ass on me the other day and pretended it was an accident. But Archie, you look like you desperately need to get your rocks off. So, have at her. You have my blessing. I'm taking one for the team."

"Man—just shut up..." I grumble. He doesn’t realize it but he's a half-sentence away from getting my fist rammed through his teeth.

Jim scrunches his nose like he smells a stench. “Sloppy seconds, man. Nobody wants yours.”

Dave prods me on. "C'mon. My seconds aren't that sloppy."

"Nah, I know what the problem is," Jim says. "He's still waiting to swoop Daycare Chic Barbie off her feet." He nods his chin at Sophia's picture in my hand.

Dave’s face twists with disgust when he glances at the photo. "Get off it, dude. The chick's a loser." He turns to walk away.

All I see is red.

And the next thing I know, my big body is flying across the distance between us. Stunned by my sudden burst of movement, Dave spins toward me and my fist connects with the center of his face. He goes stumbling backward but I grab him by the collar and drag him across the living room and out the door onto the lawn. I fling him to the ground.

Each punch is deeply gratifying. Each kick is a burst of sweet relief. After a while, it has nothing to do with him. It's all about the fact that I finally—finally—having an outlet for all the frustration I've been feeling.

Logically, I know it's not fair to pin this rage on Dave. It's not his fault that he's a first class idiot. But now that I've started unleashing my pent-up fury, I don't know how to stop.

I'm vaguely aware of the roar of an engine coming closer, the grinding sound of tires crushing gravel, the slam of a vehicle door.

Big hands are on my shoulders, pulling me back and shoving me hard. Somehow, they manage to drag me away and prop me up against the side of one of the pickup trucks. I blink a few times, coming back into my body. Charlie's red, angry face comes into focus. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" He gives me a shake.

I glance over at Dave. He's a bloody mess on the ground. Paint cans have been overturned. A scaffolding knocked over. 

"That guy's a fucking clown," I yell, jabbing a finger in the direction of my writhing co-worker.

My eyes connect with Clara's. She's standing near the door with her arms folded beneath her breasts. Her lips are thinned. Her forehead is pinched. She does not look happy.

Charlie lowers his voice to a growl that only he and I can hear. "I get it. You're all fucked up in the head right now. I understand. I was fucked up too. For a long time. But this is my business, Archie! My reputation! You can't be throwing tantrums on my worksite."

Leo steps in between us. “Calm down, fellas.” A hand on Charlie's shoulder. A hand on mine. "Look—I have an idea. Charlie, you go smooth things over with Mrs. Davies. Me and the guys are gonna start cleaning up the mess. Archie, you go take a walk to cool your head—"

I jerk my shoulder out of his grip. “Hey, guess what? I have an even better idea,” I growl as I tear off my hardhat and chuck it at a wall. A loud, bone-chilling sound rings out as the plastic connects with the concrete. “I fucking quit."

Even when Leo calls out behind me, I don't look back as I limp off across the paved circular driveway and down the steep hillside back into town.