I know that feeling well.
The house is steadier with the sun out, but every so often, the eaves groan like they’re remembering the storm. I press harderinto the hammer each time, as if noise and effort might quiet the memory of what I let myself have for a single night.
And Elsie—she’s not ignoring me this time, not exactly. She’spretendingto be busy. Holing herself up in the house, scribbling notes like she’s preparing for a cross-examination instead of a committee meeting. Pages and pages of dates, names, lineage, everything but the one conversation we both know we still owe each other.
And hell, I’ll take this version—writing at the table, chewing her pen, muttering at the margins—over the version who hid a letter and flinched every time I walked into a room. But if she’s going to keep her distance, I wish she’d at least do it at Mirabelle, or Fowler’s, or anywhere that isn’t five feet behind me through a wall.
It’s dangerous, both of us cooped up like this. Too easy to start wanting softness where there shouldn’t be any. And God, I do want it—still. Still enough to hope she might turn toward me again. But if she’s made up her mind, if she really means to leave, I won’t be the one to press a hand to the door she’s already closing.
I suggested she take a walk to the orchard. Or browse Mrs. Fowler’s bookshelves. Clear her head. She gave me that flat, unimpressed look. I think she’d rather wrestle legal documents than risk talking to me again.
So, I let her be. And I work.
I’m halfway through tightening the hinge on the screen door when Jack’s truck crunches up the drive. He parks half-crooked like always, door screaming in protest as he shoves it closed. Then he hops out with a six-pack dangling from one hand.
“Brought you a peace offering,” he says with a grin that means trouble.
I squint at him. “Peace for what, exactly?”
He shrugs. “Your sins. Your fuckups. Your general disposition. Dealer’s choice. Just figured you’d need something cold after all this grief you’re giving your porch.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans. Jack hands me a bottle and cracks one open for himself, leaning against the post. He’s clocked in for the day.
“Did the storm hit you bad?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “But Isla’s place got knocked around. I’ve been up there the last few days. Helping her clean up.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That right?”
“Yeah. Lot of branches down. Lots of, uh, debris to sort through.”
I snort. “If by debris, you mean unresolved tension and years of—”
“Watch it,” he warns.
I hold up a hand. “Just saying. You two should either get married or finally fuck and get it over with.”
Jack takes a long drink, unbothered. “Talk to me in a few months.”
That stops me. “That supposed to mean something?”
He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
He looks off toward the ridge, and for a breath, there’s nothing cocky about him at all. This is my best friend, but he won’t let me in. Normally, I’d needle him ’til he cracked. Today, I let him keep it.
Silence settles. The woods creak back to life. My hammer finds a rhythm as I finish resetting the riser. When I finally speak again, I keep my eyes on the step.
“Elsie and I’ve been going through the trust,” I say. “I’ve been pulling everything I can find on how it could work. For her. On her terms.”
Jack whistles low. “She agreed to it?”
“Not fully. Not yet. She wants to understand it first. That’s something.”
“That’s more than something. That’s damn near miraculous.”
I nod once. Then, quieter: “We also slept together.”
He chokes on his beer. Coughs, swears. “You what?”
