The words echoed, mixing with others.It's not practical. We need you here. Someone has to take over.
How often had I nodded, stayed, and convinced myself it was what I wanted?
I passed The Drop—dark now, the booth where Hog and I had sat would be empty. I passed the marina where boats sat locked in ice.
What's really keeping you here?
The business. Hog. The life I'd convinced myself I'd chosen instead of the one that had chosen me.
How much of it was actually mine? Dad's tools. Dad's clients. Dad's reputation. Even the workshop—had I built it or only maintained what he'd started?
I pulled into Hillcrest Park and killed the engine.
Lake Superior stretched before me, dark and endless. The Sleeping Giant was barely visible through falling snow.
The silence was absolute except for my breathing.
I thought about the photo. Dad and I, both grinning, with his hand on my shoulder. Thirty-two years of carrying weight and calling it love.
Maybe it was love. Perhaps love and obligation got tangled up so thoroughly you couldn't separate them without destroying something vital.
As I sat staring at Superior, I realized that adaptable was the wrong term. Surrender was more accurate.
Anger settled in behind the thought. I needed to breathe somewhere that wasn't full of ghosts.
I started the truck and drove toward the workshop—the one place that was mine because I'd rebuilt it and reshaped it for me. It wasn't what I inherited.
The workshop lights flickered on in sections. Workbenches. Tool pegboards. The cabinet I'd been refinishing. Sawdust on every surface.
It smelled like cedar and mineral spirits and coffee from the ancient pot in the corner.
I locked the door behind me and stood there, breathing it in.
I moved to the central workbench and found Dad's initials carved in the corner—the one time he'd visited this space—his way of marking territory.
I traced the letters with my thumb. "I'm not you."
The words echoed in the empty space.
I repeated it, louder. "I'm not you."
I pulled out my phone. Seven-thirty. I sent a message.
Rhett:Hey. You busy?
The response was quick.
Hog:Never too busy for you.
I exhaled.
Rhett:Can we talk?
Hog:Yeah. Where?
I looked around at the scattered tools in the workshop that felt more like home than any house I'd ever lived in.
Rhett:Workshop
