In Mike We Trust by P. E. Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

almost felt like he was hearing it from his dad.
    â€œYou never told your dad, did you?” Mike asked, reading his mind again.
    Garth shook his head.
    â€œI wonder how your mom would have reacted if your dad was here. Obviously, part of her reaction is the fact that she’s still dealing with the accident. She’s grieving, I get that. But I also wonder how she might have dealt with your…announcement…if she had another person—your dad—here to talk about it with.”
    â€œYeah,” Garth said.
    â€œHey.” Mike reached across the coffee table and tapped Garth’s shoulder. “I’m glad you told me.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYou confided in me. I take that as a compliment. Thanks.”
    Garth couldn’t help but smile. “You’re welcome.”
    Â 
    A little while later, Mike tapped on the door to Garth’s room and asked him if they had a toolbox. They’d had several—his dad had been quite a tool collector, having owned two different hardware stores—but the toolboxes were in storage. The walk-in unit his mom had rented was like a microcosm of their former life. It was stacked with furniture from their old house that wouldn’t fit in the apartment, crammed with cartons of knickknacks and lamps, and, worst of all, filled with box after box of his dad’s shirts, pants, and shoes (his mom had eventually brought herself to clean out the closet, but hadn’t been able to give the clothes away). Garth had been in the storage unit only once since they’d filled it, and walking into that dank, crowded square of corrugated steel had felt like entering a tomb. An extension of his dad’s grave.
    â€œThe storage place is way far away. It takes, like, an hour to get there,” he exaggerated. “Why? What doyou need? We’ve got a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers here.”
    â€œA bit more than that. Tell you what—do feel like going for a drive? We can go to a hardware store, pick up what I need, and then you can give me a mini-tour of Richmond.”
    â€œSure,” Garth said. “Oh, wait. I sort of told my friend Lisa I’d hang out with her this afternoon.”
    Mike shrugged. “Bring her along. You guys can tag-team tour-guide.”
    When Garth called Lisa, she sounded less than enthusiastic. “I thought you were going to be over here by now. I have this new CD I want to play you—a British import of a band called Kazooster. I’ve listened to it fifty-four times in the past two days; it’s amazing.”
    â€œSorry, I—I just had all these chores. Why don’t we do the mini-tour first and hang out later? Mike says we can swing by and pick you up.”
    â€œâ€˜Mike’? You’re not calling him ‘Uncle Mike’?”
    â€œHe doesn’t want me to.”
    â€œOh. Well, I guess Kazooster can wait.”
    The sharp blue Camaro was, by far, the coolest car Garth had ever been in. He rode shotgun; Mike steered with his right hand and hung his left arm out the window. In Lisa’s driveway, he did his shave-and-a-haircut tap on the horn.
    She came out a minute later, her camera hanging around her neck.
    â€œShe’s going to take pictures of us?” Mike asked.
    â€œNo. It’s her thing, though. Photography. She rarely goes anywhere without her camera.” Garth opened his door and leaned forward so she could climb into the backseat, but Mike put the car in park, left it idling, and got out to officially meet her. “I’m Mike,” he said, extending his hand.
    She seemed caught off guard by the formality. “Lisa,” she said, and shook the hand.
    â€œLisa, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And clearly it was destined to happen, because of our shirts.”
    Garth peered through the windshield—they were both wearing Pink Floyd T-shirts. Lisa’s was fairly new, the decal deliberately scuffed up to make it look