"No need to decide now. Tuesday, I have a flight I can't cancel or change. Lots of prep work, too. Why don't we regroup after that?"
Putting off answering seemed easier than discussing anything else tonight with the taste and smell of him still on her. "Tuesday, then."
"Good. This is the right thing, babe, you'll see." He scooped his boots up and stood. "'Night, Rena."
He leaned and kissed her. On the lips, lingering a full two seconds beyond a peck but not long enough for her to gather her thoughts and object.
Then he was gone, the familiar thud of his steps echoing up the stairs.
And thank God he hadn't pressed her for more, because just like twenty-two years ago in the back seat of her BMW, she was afraid she couldn't tell this man no.
"Dad, I want to quit working at the restaurant."
J.T. stared up from the weight bench at his son spotting for him in their garage workout area. "What brought that on?"
"Just don't like it there."
"You're going to have to do better than that." He extended his arms, sweating through his third set of ten reps. His job required less lifting these days as things became more mechanized, but the physical exertion still let off steam. He had steam to spare at the moment, and he needed the time to check up on his son. "A man doesn't quit on his obligations."
Accusatory brown eyes stared back down at him. "Really?"
"There's a difference between divorce and quitting." He huffed through lifts. Muggy gusts of air through the open window by the tool bench provided minimal cooling, merely moving around the scent of sweat and motor oil.
"Sure, whatever."
"Seven, eight," J.T. counted to calm his frustration as well as mark his repetitions. "Nine, ten."
He hefted the two hundred fifty pounds onto the brackets, releasing the bar with a clang. He swung his feet around to the side, snagging a towel from the floor and swiping his head. "So, son? Reason for quitting?"
Chris shrugged, baggy T-shirt rippling. "Exams are coming up. I need to study and, like, with those extra deliveries Miranda was talking about, the job's taking up lots more time. I was thinking I could, uh, quit at the restaurant for a few weeks and then find something else once summer starts."
"Why not ask for a couple of weeks off?" He grabbed the gallon milk jug filled with water and tipped it back, chugging.
Chris swiveled away to adjust the weights, decreasing to one-twenty for his go-round on the bench. "My boss, Mr. Haugen, won't go for that."
"Do you want me to talk to him about time off or cutting out the deliveries?"
He jerked around. "No!"
J.T. set down the jug on the Astroturf covering concrete. "Did he let you go and you don't want to tell me?"
"I'd just like to find something else."
The reasons made sense, but something didn't ring true in his tone. Bottom line, though, he couldn't make his son stay with the job. Chris could just screw up and get fired if he wanted out that much. "Fine. I can't argue with a kid who wants to study more. But I do expect you to find something else once school's out. You're not going to lie around here all summer while your mother and I are at work."
Chris dropped onto his back on the weight bench, feet to the side on the ground. "Is this about the stuff in the trash again?"
"Partly." J.T. stepped in place to spot for his son. "I understand you feel that you can't betray a friend's confidence. But be careful. If this girl's boyfriend starts gunning for you—"
"He won't."
"Are you sure, because—"
"He won't."
O-kay. He wasn't getting any more out of Chris on that one. Although he almost hoped the angry-boyfriend scenario was true, because then there wouldn't be unanswered questions. One angry teen was a helluva lot easier to deal with than original concerns about a gang. Or that something might have leaked about his surveillance flights.
J.T. stared down at his son on the bench. "You owe your mother an apology for what you said the other night. You hurt her."