Here's the next chapter! Sorry it's kind of boring, I'm hoping to update sooner now that I'm home from school. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

I sat at the kitchen table, fiddling with my phone as a light summer rain skipped against the windows. I heard the television click off in the living room, and Bert walked into the kitchen a few seconds later. He leaned against the counter, looking out at the rain. A rumble of thunder sounded.

"I have to talk to you," I said tentatively.

Bert turned and folded his arms in front of his chest. He studied me carefully. "What is it?"

I cleared my throat. "Dad called me a couple days ago."

My brother continued to stare at me.

"He wants to go out for lunch. On Fathers' Day."

I could see my brother fighting to keep the emotions off his face, but I saw them clear as day: confusion, anger, hope. Though he never said it, I knew Bert's dream was to have our father back in our lives. It made me angry; my father didn't deserve to have a kid like Bert vying for his attention. I could almost see why my dad turned my back on me. I was royally fucked up for a long time. But Bert? Bert was a good kid, a perfect kid. Why he had turned his back on such a good son would forever be a mystery to me.

"So…What'd you tell him?"

"I told him I'd get back to him. I figured I should talk to you first."

Bert turned around and pulled out some bread from the pie drawer. He wasn't hungry, just looking for something to do that didn't require him having to physically face me. It was Bert's way of curling in on himself.

"Why didn't he call me?" he asked angrily.

"Maybe he doesn't have your number," I tried.

Bert slapped some peanut butter violently onto one of the slices. "Well, he got your number somehow."

"Listen, how about you ask him yourself."

"He can call me if he wants to-"

"At lunch, I meant."

Bert stopped mutilating his peanut butter sandwich and turned to me slowly. He gauged my face, looking for any sign that this was some sort of joke. "You…You'd go?"

I scratched my head, still wondering if this was a bad idea. "Not on Fathers' Day. A day around then, though. If you want, I mean."

Bert pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. "Wes, you always talk about how much you hate him," he said. "How you'd never talk to him again in a million years."

This was putting it nicely. I could hear the question hanging in the air, What changed? All I could think of was Macy giving me her advice while we worked in the kitchen together. Those sad grey eyes, missing her own dad while I hated mine.

"I'm not his biggest fan, you're right. And I still think he's a dick who's going to screw us over, but I think we can get some closure out of it at least. Hear the bastard out." I grinned at this last sentence, trying to wipe that serious expression off of Bert's face.

It didn't work. Maybe Bert thought it was a bad idea, or maybe he thought I'd change my mind and refuse to go.

"Do you want to call him?" I asked, offering my phone to him with the contact pulled up.

Bert looked at it and slowly looked at me, biting off a piece of his sandwich and swallowing without chewing. "No," he said around a mouthful. "He called you, so you do it." With that he crossed into the living room and plopped down on the well-worn couch, flipping on the TV.

"Now if the glaciers do melt, chances are there will be an enormous tsunami that will swallow the whole world."

I rolled my eyes and looked back to my phone. I took a breath, then pressed the call button.

"We should all prepare ourselves for the end of the world."

"Dad? It's me."

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in the grocery store, attempting to sell some of my pieces. A man who had bought his wife a sculpture for her birthday was also the owner of the store, and called me weeks later to see if I wanted to sell in the store for a small commission. Now, I found myself standing in the store, talking to numerous women and selling several pieces. As I was still reeling a little from scheduling lunch with my father a few days after Fathers' Day, I found the idle chitchat and sales pitching soothing.

"Now, I'll need you to come deliver it personally," a feisty older woman was saying as she wrote her address on a piece of paper. "I don't have those big strong muscles like you." She winked at me and squeezed my upper arm playfully.

I laughed good-naturedly. "Oh stop ma'am, you're making me blush."

The woman hooted with laughter before pulling out her checkbook. I was used to being hit on by older women; it was a common occurrence during our catering gigs. Once, a very intoxicated woman attempted (and succeeded) to make her husband very jealous by hitting on me for an entire night. The man was huge, and, naturally, I was terrified. Delia sent me home early before my nose was broken.

"This will look just perfect by my front door," the woman was saying now, her huge floppy hat obstructing her face as she wrote the check. She ripped it off and handed it to me. I looked at it.

"Ma'am, this is too much money," I said. "The price tag says-"

"Oh I know what the price tag said, young man," she snapped at me. "But I know a good piece of art when I see one, and you're not asking nearly enough for it. So just take the damn money."

"But-"

"Don't make me write you one for more."

We had a short stare-down, but I knew I wouldn't win this one. In all honesty, I was too flattered to come up with an appropriate response.

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll deliver it tomorrow morning."

She smiled and patted my arm, beginning to walk away. "That's a good boy. Goodbye, now."

I watched her walk away before stuffing the check in my pocket with all the others.

"Macy, what are you doing?"

I heard the voice to my right, and instantly searched for it. I saw a blonde girl as she walked to the back of an aisle, where, to my surprise, Macy stood. She was holding a pot, and staring at it very focused and determinedly. As the girl I assumed to be her sister asked her a question, Macy gestured to the pan. Then, she glanced my way and looked surprised-or startled-to see me.

I lifted my hand and waved. Macy's face flushed, and then her sister glanced at me. I ran my hand through my hair and looked away, feeling a little awkward. Finally, Macy grabbed her sister and sauntered up to me.

"Hey," I said as she approached. "I thought that was you."

"Hi," she said, looking at me with those big grey eyes. She was wearing a track shirt, flip flops, and these little white shorts that showed off her long legs.

Her sister was distracted by my sculptures, running a finger along one of the turning gears. "These are amazing," she said, with no lack of sincerity. "I just love this medium."

"Thanks," I said. "It's all from the junkyard."

The woman circled the sculpture like a shark, and I could tell she was looking at the art through experienced, knowledgeable eyes.

"This is Wes," Macy told the woman. "Wes, this is my sister, Caroline."

They both had the same blonde hair and high cheekbones, and they were both tall and thin. But Macy had her father's eyes, while Caroline's were hazel or brown.

"Nice to meet you," said Caroline. She offered me her hand, and I shook it, smiling as she began circling the sculptures again. "What's great about this," she said authoritatively, "is the contrast. It's a real juxtaposition between subject matter and materials."

I hadn't really thought that far into it, but it sounded good to me. I looked at Macy and raised my eyebrows, impressed. Macy shook her head and offered an apologetic look, and looked back at her sister, much as a student would settle in to watch as a teacher began a lecture.

"See, it's one thing to do angels, but what's crucial here is how the medium spells out the concept. Angels, by definition, are supposed to be perfect. So by building them out of rusty pieces, and discards and scraps, the artist is making a statement about the fallibility of even the most ideal creatures."

Wow, I thought, wishing I could write this down and recite it to potential customers.

"Wow," Macy echoed as Caroline continued circling and muttering. "I'm impressed."

"Me too," I murmured back. "I had no idea. I just couldn't afford new materials when I started."

Macy let out a surprised laugh. I glanced at her quickly, catching her in the act and grinning despite myself. I caught her eye and we stood there for a moment, smiling at each other. She looked beautiful in her casual lazy-Sunday attire, and I wondered again how any guy could run from a girl like this telling him she loved him.

And for one strange moment, I knew we were having some kind of moment. I looked at her lips, tantalizingly turned up into that coquettish smile, before Caroline broke our trance.

"Oh, wow," she said excitedly. "Is this sheet metal you used for the face?"

I cleared my throat and rubbed the back of my neck, trying to focus on what she was talking about. "That's an old Coke sign. I found it at the dump."

Her eyes lit up. "A Coke sign! And the bottle caps…it's the inevitable commingling between commerce and religion. I love that!" She spun around and faced me, waiting for my response.

I realized I had none, so I just nodded. "Right," I told her. Happy with this, she spun back to the other sculptures like a toddler rifling through her Christmas presents. "Just liked the Coke sign, actually," I said quietly to Macy.

Macy laughed again. "Of course you did."

A nice, post-rain breeze blew through the open doors, sending the scent of rain and Macy's hair wafting towards me. I took a deep breath. She smiled like lavender and vanilla. The breeze had caused some of the halos to spin, and it caught her attention. She bent down next to one, studying the sea glass attached. She ran a long, slender finger along it.

"What is this?" she asked me, looking up at me.

"Sea glass," I said, bending down beside her. "See the shapes? No rough edges."

"Oh, right," she said, trailing the pad of her finger along the edges. "That's so cool."

I shrugged. "It's hard to find," I told her. I reached out and spun the halo again, then watched the glass whiz by as I tried to ignore how close I was to Macy. Her long legs looked so smooth, I had to physically fight the urge to run my fingers along them as she had done to the sea glass.

I cleared my throat again. "I bought that collection at a flea market, for, like, two bucks." She looked at me, and I was struck again by how similar her eyes looked to some of the sea glass. "I wasn't sure what I was going to use it for, then, but it seemed like too good a thing to pass up."

"It's beautiful," she said, staring at the angel again. I watched her eyes rove over the angel, delighted that she liked it.

"You want it?" I asked.

She looked at me, surprised. "I couldn't."

I grinned, standing back up. "Sure you can," I told her. "I'm offering. Here," I said as I picked up the little sculpture.

"Wes. I can't."

"You can. You'll pay me back somehow."

"How?"

A few less gentlemanly ideas popped into my head, and I quickly brushed them aside. "Someday, you'll agree to run that mile with me. And then we'll know for sure whether you can kick my ass."

She looked conflicted. "I'd rather pay you for it. How much?" she asked, pulling her wallet from her back pocket.

"Macy, I was kidding," I said. "I know you could kick my ass."

She studied my face, looking for anything in my face that would tell her not to take it. I smiled at her. "Look," I said pleasantly, "Just take it."

She looked torn for a moment longer, then said, "Okay. But I am paying you back somehow, sometime."

If only, I thought wistfully, again casting away those tantalizing ideas. "Sure. Whatever you want."

Caroline, who had picked her way to the farther end of my arrangement, had a phone pressed to her ear and was quickly zeroing in on us again. I felt a little intimidated by this woman, who obviously knew what she was doing and what she wanted. She was digging through her purse at the moment.

"…No, it's more like a yard art thing, but I just think it would look great on the back porch of the mountain house, right by that rock garden I've been working on. Oh you should just see these. They're so much better than those iron herons they sell at Atache Gardens for hundreds of dollars. Well, I know you liked those, honey, but these are better. They are."

I glanced at Macy, who was clutching the little angel to her chest and watching her sister with the ghost of a smile. One hand ran idly along the sea glass.

"Iron herons?" I asked.

"She lives in Atlanta," she told me, confusion in her voice as well.

When Caroline hung up the phone, she turned to me, her eyes narrowing. "All right," she said. "Let's talk prices."

Caroline turned out to be an excellent customer, and even wanted to see my bigger pieces. We arranged to meet so she could come see them in my workshop, and wrote me a check for the angel she'd picked out.

"A steal," she said, handing me the check. "Really. You should be charging more."

"Maybe if I show someplace else," I said honestly, putting the check in my pocket without looking at it. "But it's hard to get pricey when you have baked goods on either side of you."

She smiled, bending over to pick up two of her angels. "You will show someplace else," she told me confidently. "It's only a matter of time." I smiled and nodded my thanks to her. She hitched her purse up on her shoulder and looked at her watch. "Oh, Macy, we have to run. I told Mom we'd be home for lunch so we could look at the rest of those color swatches."

Color swatches? This girl seemed like a force of nature. She opened her mouth to say something to me, and then got distracted by an angel to my left. She made an "oooh" sound and flitted over to it like a little hummingbird.

Macy watched her with deadpan eyes. "Well," she said to me. "Thank you again."

"No problem," I said, then gestured to Caroline. "Thanks for the business."

She laughed. "That's not me," she said. "It's all her."

I shrugged. "Still, thanks anyways."

"Excuse me," a woman from behind me called. She was standing by a big sculpture with a "sold" sign draped across it. "Do you have others like this?"

I looked back to Macy. "I should go, I guess."

She nodded. "Go, I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see you around."

I walked over to the woman, who was studying the sold sign shrewdly, probably trying to find a way around that little inconvenience. Fortunately, I had another one like this. I began talking to her, spiels about commerce and religion and juxtapositions already lost to me. As the woman talked to me, I watched Macy leave. As her sister chattered happily beside her, Macy was looking down at her angel, one finger on the sea glass.

I wondered if she would think of me whenever she looked at it. I realized I would like it if she did.