“There’s Monroe! He’s back!” our goalie calls when he hears my teasing, and I feel myself slip into the rhythm with these guys.
I feel the grin spread over my face.
It’s good to be back.
Chapter twenty
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
Patti Jensen: Just saw Gabe Thatcher walk through the square like he was personally fighting off a blizzard. The Blue Line didn’t even ask for his order, they just handed him a cinnamon roll and backed away.
Ash Patel: Man’s been extra quiet since Monroe left for the Knights. Even Riley hasn’t teased him all week.
Stan Gordon: That’s because Riley made us promise. Said he’s giving him “emotional neutral-zone time.”
Riley Novak: Look, Thatcher gets real still when he’s hurting. Like a porch light left on after a storm.
Patti Jensen: And I may have moved a few bakery orders up. Sugar helps sadness. It’s science.
The light in the garage is soft and low, coming from the old metal lamp I clamped to the side of the workbench. I haven’t turned on the overheads. Don’t need to. Don’t want to.
I don’t love how I can get all melancholy and up in my head like this. But I’ve felt it coming for a while so it’s not surprising.
At least my hands are busy. Just the lamp, just the sign, just the sound of the blade catching grain.
I should’ve been done with it by now.
The wood I chose for the sign is oak—heavy, thick, with just enough age to feel like it belongs to something that’s been around a while. I pulled it from a stack I’d been saving in the back of the shed, left over from the last teardown at the old bakery. Solid, even after decades. Like it remembers where it came from.
I like the idea of taking a piece of what was and making it into what could be.
The carving is slow work. Not the kind you can rush. I traced the design days ago but can’t seem to make myself finish it. My chisel keeps catching on the curve of the scrollwork, the blade slipping just enough to make my jaw tighten every time.
There’s a blank space for whatever he names it. Not my bar. Not even my dream. But the sign feels like a promise anyway. It’s supposed to hang above the doorway, a kind of welcome. A kind of declaration.
My hand slips—just a little—and the corner of the chisel bites into my thumb.
I hiss through my teeth, more surprised than hurt. The cut is small, barely breaks the skin, but the drop of blood that wells up is dark and clean and unforgiving.
It falls before I can wipe it away.
Right onto the wood.
I watch it soak into the grain, just below the curve of the rounded border. It doesn’t pool, doesn’t run, just disappears into the fibers of the old wood like it was always supposed to be there.
I press a rag to it, even though I know it’s too late.
“Guess it’s part of the sign now,” I murmur.
There’s no one here to hear me. That’s probably for the best seeing that I’m talking to myself while making signs nobody asked for.
***
It’s the last game of the series with Boston and the house is quiet in a way it hasn’t been since Roe left. Not outside my stolen moments of not sleeping in favor of being in my workroom.
No background commentary from Jamie, no popcorn bowl half spilled on the couch. Just the steady drone of the TV and the hum of the heater kicking on.
