and even when i'm old and gray,
i'm gonna feel the way i do t o d a y . . .

🌊🌊🌊

Brody's P.O.V.

Four o'clock.

I pushed myself out from underneath the classic Chevy I'd been working on since eight o'clock this morning, wiping the sweat off my forehead and sighing. "Alright Don. I'll see ya!" I hollered once I stood up.

"Thanks Brod! See you later!" Donnie shouted back from across the shop. I couldn't see him, but I figured he was in the office or something.

After I brushed myself off a bit, I fished my car keys out of my pocket, along with my phone, and left the shop through the large, open garage door. My Jeep chirped when I unlocked it, my eyes not really focused on anything else but the screen of my phone until I reached my car. Then I chucked my phone in the cup holder and headed back home.

All the windows were down, bringing in the cool September air I found myself missing a little more than usual after an insanely hot summer. Not that I spent much time in Shellmark, seeing as that I was pretty much in a different country or city every other week, but the times I did come home, it was always sweltering. It could've been because I wasn't around enough to get used to it, or maybe it was just a weird season.

Now that summer is officially over and fall is in full swing with this month coming to an end, I've had a little bit of time off. In the meantime, I've been trying to help out Donnie at the shop as much as I can because in the past year, I hardly worked there. Surfing took over my life. And even though I'm in what's considered "time off" from surfing, that doesn't mean Owen hasn't been driving my ass into the ground with practicing. He's trying to get me ready for a huge meetup in California coming up soon, and I know he's doing his best and he's only trying to help me. But damnit, I'm tired.

Right now, all I can think about is getting home, showering off all the sweat and grease that's accumulated on me all day, and going the fuck to bed. Regardless if it's only four o'clock.

My mind was set on that one plan as I wheeled into my driveway and shut off my car once I was next to my mom's Lexus. Staring at it for a minute, I could've sworn she told me that she would be working all day. Then again, her hours are always screwy and I can't keep up with when she's going from one job to the next. She probably told me her schedule this morning before I left, but it was too early for me to comprehend anything.

I shrugged it off and got out, twirling my keys around my finger as I headed up to the back door. But from a split second of me glancing back out at the street, I froze.

What the fuck is that?

A shimmering, brand new Mercedes was perched in all its glory out front of my house.

Unable to resist myself, I strolled up to it and stopped to inspect it. The newest S-Class Coupe. Silver metallic finish. All black leather interior. Push-button to start. It's a goddamn $200,000 car.

I was practically drooling as I soaked its presence in. The license plate on the back said whoever owned it was from New York, which didn't help me solve the puzzle. Why is this here? And whose is it?

I admired it for another minute or so, then walked back up the driveway to go in my house.

"Hey Ma, whose car is outside?" I yelled out after shutting the door.

She didn't answer. To me, at least. There were voices coming from the living room area and they weren't attempting to be quiet.

"Oh! I guess he's home now," my mom exclaimed to whoever she was speaking to. Is the Mercedes owner here?

"Brody's home?" A deep, rumbling voice questioned. Whoever it was sounded like they were shocked about me coming home.

"Mhm, he was at work. He's at Donnie's place, he loves him down there. Doing stuff with the cars; he's really good at it," my mom explained my side job to the stranger.

"Wow, good for him."

My body was tense as I crept closer to the living room, awaiting to see the reveal of who was here. It has to be someone she hasn't seen in a long time, or that I haven't seen in a long time. The conversation seemed casual, but not enough to pass as one of her good friends stopping by randomly. There was a certain tensity to it that I detected, and it only escalated when I prowled around the corner and entered the living room to see my mom and a man sitting together on our couch.

Neither of them noticed me right away. It took my mom a second, and the man another. My mom's hazel eyes were glistening with admiration, while his blue gaze was incisive. Like he was looking right through me. Had my mom not spoken up, I would have.

"And here he is," my mom praised my sudden appearance, a small hand of hers gesturing to me.

His gaze never broke with mine – it was secure. A feeling I hadn't felt with him in a long, long time.

Forcing myself to stay put would have been a lot harder if I wasn't already shell shocked. A voice in my head told me to run across the room and start screaming, throwing an endless fit until he left. But I couldn't. All I could do was focus on the flaring of my nostrils, the clenching of my jaw and my fists, and my turbulent heartbeat.

"Wow," he whispered in disbelief. He raised himself to his full height, always towering over my mom, and the average person. Always so tall. I didn't move a muscle.

Since I wasn't saying or doing anything to acknowledge him, my mom tried to get something out of me. She stood up too, her eyes on me but mine remaining on his. "Brody, do you know who this is?" She asked gently.

The man chuckled lightly as he looked at me like I was the greatest thing to walk into the room. But I thought the opposite about him. "Well, it's been awhile, I don't-"

"I know exactly who it is," I cut him off in an icy voice, enunciating each word.

My father.

My son of a bitch father is standing in my living room.

My father, who I haven't seen in seven years, is standing before me and looking at me like this is a normal occurrence.

My father, who left my mom and I without reason, is fucking here.

We all sensed the unwelcoming tone in my voice. My mom stood quietly beside him, not bothering to fill the silence that resonated in the entire house. I took in his impression, every little detail about him, like it was my first time ever seeing him. Which honestly, it might as well be. I cut him off long ago, and I have no intentions of ever bringing him back in my life.

He hasn't changed much. Whereas my mom who is still young as ever, looks worn to the bone but still manages to keep a smile, he looks fine. Absolutely flawless that it sickened me. Sharp in his perfectly tailored suit. Clean, like he showers twice a day and applies too much aftershave. Not even one dark, slicked back hair on his head was misbehaving. There wasn't the faintest hint of stubble on his sculpted face.

The same shape as my face. The same dark hair I inherited, just a little darker from not being in the sun and saltwater as much as myself. The same fucking blue eyes. Why did I have to grow up to be just like him?

Him clearing his throat snapped me out of my examination. Always breaking the silence.

"So, you gonna say anything?" He prompted, raising an eyebrow with the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Little did he know that was all he needed to say to set me off.

"What do you want me to say? 'Oh, it's been so long, Dad! I've missed you! How have you been?' Is that what you want to hear?" I spat sarcastically, my eyes now narrowed and glaring at him.

"Brody," my mom said in a disapproving tone. That didn't stop me.

"What the fuck are you doing here anyway?" I hissed at the man who is nothing more but a stranger to me.

"Well, I just thought I could drop by," he answered easily, shrugging his broad shoulders. The same ones he passed down to me.

I couldn't help but laugh at that pathetic excuse. "Nice. So that means I can just drop by my ex-girlfriend's house and think it's okay?" I fired back, and I saw my mom wince at my comparison. It still wasn't enough to keep me from arguing with my father.

"Um, well, that's really none of my business," he stammered out, awkwardly settling on adjusting his tie instead of looking at me.

It's nothing like him to be off his game. But I guess me actually putting up a fight, for myself and my mom, is leaving him speechless.

"You're damn right it isn't," I firmly nodded. "We've been fine without you for seven years. What in hell makes you think that you can just come back here out of nowhere?"

"Brody," my mom rebuked me again. "Stop cursing at your father."

"Mom, what is this? What are you doing? Why did you even let him in here?" I started going off at her now. Not that I would ever fight with my mom, but the fact that she allowed this fucker to come into our house just angered me beyond anything I've ever felt before.

This wasn't anger. This was rage. This was disturbing, infuriating, and nothing short of a disappointment.

"Brody, you don't understand," my mom sighed, shaking her head.

"Clearly not. I understand that this man doesn't have a right to be here after what he did to us. After what he did to you," I raised my finger at him, trying to get my mom to see my side. No matter what I said, she probably never would. She's got a different perspective on things than I do, and I can't change that.

My father inhaled, then exhaled a little louder. I darted my glowering eyes over to him. "I'm sorry if this made you really angry. I thought it'd be nice to stop by and see how you guys are doing," he muttered.

"Well it ruined my whole fucking day," I snorted. "And we're perfectly fine. We've been perfectly fine with no help from you."

"Stop it, Brody." Another scold from my mom.

I raised my hands in exasperation, my tunnel vision blocking off every thought about my father other than my own. I couldn't see my mom's side of their relationship, but I could see mine. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" I shrieked. "Do you see him? Clearly he's doing great without us! Did you see his car out front? Oh my God, it's a goddamn two-hundred thousand dollar car, Mom! And he's probably got some twenty-five-year-old bimbo back at home waiting for him to-"

"Enough," my mom snapped. The word sent a chill up my spine and it shut me right up.

I've only heard that tone one other time in my life – after I got arrested. Now it's coming out again because my father rose this behavior in me.

"That's none of your business why I have that car or who I'm dating," he spoke up, acting like he had a right to step up to me. Like he has a right to even be here.

The sarcasm came back in an instant. "Why do you have that car, Dad? Huh? You got some job at a multi-million dollar company? Where you're probably sleeping with all the young assistants every week?" I snarled with a smirk as I crossed my arms over my chest.

"You got a smart mouth all of a sudden," he chuckled a little, eyeing me up and down.

"All of a sudden?" I repeated in disgust. "I've been this way. But you wouldn't know because you've been gone for seven fucking years."

"Wow... you did grow up to be just like me," he said, the smug smile on his face enraging me even further.

That sentence was my fear. Growing up to be just like my father is the one thing I have dreaded since he left. My looks are inevitable, but becoming the man that he is would kill me. And after this past year, I think that's unavoidable too.

I'm meant to be a monster, I guess. Just like him.

"Just go back to New York," I sneered. "Go back to where you came from with your stupid fucking car and your stupid girlfriend or-"

Then I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes jumped to his left hand. His ring finger.

The gold band wrapped around it had my stomach churning, my head spinning, and my heart stopping. It shined against the light with treachery.

"Are you married?"

At the question, my father let out a ragged sigh and ran his fingers over his face. "Brody, listen-"

"Great. You want me to listen," I talked over him, barking out a short laugh. "So you put Mom through months of depression and heartbreak, but you get remarried. That's so fucking great. I'm glad we knew about the wedding."

"Can you just hear what I have to say?" He pleaded, suddenly seeming so weak and vulnerable. Clearly he forgot to take off his wedding band before I came in the room.

"Does your wife even know about Mom? Me? What you did to us? Or is she completely clueless on that part of your life?" I hit him with question after question, not giving him enough time to explain himself. He never explained himself after he left, so why should I ever give him that time again?

"Of course she knows."

"And? She thinks it's okay that you left?" I kept up the inquiries, not truly caring about the answers. Watching him get flustered brought me way too much joy. "God, you don't even know what you did to Mom. You have no fucking clue what she went through. But I do because I was here, unlike you."

"Brody, please-"

"I don't want to hear anything from you," I growled, and he finally stopped. "Not only do you have the balls to come here, but you have the balls to talk to her like nothing ever changed. And the fact that you're married? That's fucking disgusting. I can't believe you... what happened to the guy that taught me how to surf? The guy that was my absolute idol? That would hang out and watch movies with me whenever I was sick? What happened to dancing with Mom in the living room to Sinatra?"

The last one nearly swept him off his feet. Hundreds of emotions washed over his chiseled face, bringing out the man I'd been dying to see the moment I first walked in. Depressed, fatigued, aggravated, and anything in between. But most of all, heartbroken. My inner sadist wanted him to feel this way. I was chipping away until he felt worse than scum on the ground. Since he obviously isn't living the awful life that I thought he'd been living all this time, I had to do the trick.

"Now you know how Mom felt after you left," I murmured.

I didn't think the air could get any thicker in the room, but after I said that, it seemed like we were all suffocating. The family we once were died right in the room we were standing in, their skeletons disintegrated into the ground the moment my father walked out the front door. I wasn't sure if they could feel it too, but it was like every emotion I pushed away when I was thirteen came back with a vengeance.

When my father left, I never cried. I was furious, seething with every day that passed with him never coming home. Then it just disappeared. I turned off my emotions and went headfirst into my rebel phase. The one where I couldn't care about anything but letting go, through alcohol, girls, or just being plain stupid.

Now, with him standing in front of me after being gone for seven years, it hit me harder than when he left. I think because I forced myself to believe that he would never come back. Being so young and ignorant, I did whatever I could to forget all about him and eliminate him from my life.

It made it that much more agonizing to accept because he came back in the same time frame as when he walked out – a week after my birthday. Twenty is a lot different than thirteen, but right now, I felt no difference.

The perturbed look on my mom's face, the way she wouldn't look at anything but her feet, how her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, told me she felt my pain too. As for my father, I couldn't tell what he was feeling, with his one hand hanging from the crook of his neck, the other dangling at his side. The stress was evident on his features. Maybe after all this time, now it finally caught up to him.

A sudden outburst from him nearly scared me, because it was quiet for so long.

"I'm sorry, okay?" He blurted, his voice strained. "I know you don't believe me and you probably don't care, but I am sorry. I don't know what you want me to say."

His apology didn't matter to me. I never asked for one from him, and I never wanted one. But for some reason, I felt my bottom lip trembling when I heard it.

My stiff, harsh, sarcastic front fell apart. The vulnerable and weak thirteen-year-old I should have been back then returned.

"Why did you leave?" The whimpering question slipped from my mouth before I could stop it.

From the minute I realized it happened, I persuaded myself that I never wanted to know the reasoning behind my father leaving my mom and I. Not a part of me could care why, and I lived with that mindset up until this moment. Figuring that this might be the last time I ever see him, I couldn't go on without knowing. I had to hear it from him. I was older now, possibly mature enough to understand, and I wanted to get some closure and move the fuck on.

My father released a deep breath, his shoulders falling. On the other hand, mine tensed. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to handle this story, but I ignored the feeling and sucked it up.

"I was in love with your mother, Brody. I was. I still love her, I'm just not in love with her anymore," he started off, his voice calm and steady like his composure. I kept focusing on my shallow breathing and let him continue, because I knew that wasn't the end of it. "I-I didn't have a choice – when she got pregnant, I had to stay with her. At that time, yes, I was still in love with her. I always was, because she was everything to me. But no matter what, the pregnancy put a lot of pressure on me; on both of us. I had no option but to stay, and be the father to her child. My family didn't want me abandoning her, or you, so I held on for as long as I could. And as you got older, it got to the point where I just couldn't stay anymore. Us being forced together wasn't enough to save our relationship. The early pregnancy wasn't planned, and it... changed both of our lives."

"You mean ruined," I choked out. His sharp inhale proved I was right. My gaze flipped over to my mom, with me shaking my head over and over. "Mom... you're okay with this?"

She nodded, rolling her lips into her mouth and attempting to smile for me. "It's hard, but yes. You have to understand... these things happen sometimes," she merely shrugged a shoulder.

I scoffed, doing everything that I could to hold my tears back. They were brimming my eyes, blurring my vision and making it difficult to speak without my voice cracking, but there was no way in hell I'd let my father see me break. So I channeled that anguish into frustration instead.

"I get it," I said, wiping my sniffling nose with the back of my hand. The wavering of my voice was unavoidable, as was the one lone tear that built up a little too much in the corner of my eye. "It's fucked up but I get it. Apparently, you thought thirteen was old enough? That was the age you decided I would be fine with you leaving? Great, but you missed so much while you were gone. You skipped out on all the nights when Mom cried herself to sleep, for months. You missed when she had to get two jobs, just to support me and her. And the best part? You managed to