She ignores me. Of course she does. All her focus is on the alcove, on the exposed bit of framing, on the spot where weather chewed through wood and time.
She crosses the room, boots squeaking on the floor. Her fingers hover over the damaged trim like she wants to touch it but is afraid it’ll crumble.
“She’s taking on water. We have to open her the rest of the way up, replace the rotten section. Before it takes more with it.”
“You’re opening the wall.” Her voice is tight. “Behind the seat.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re… what, exactly? Just going to slice into it right in time for this festival and a reality TV show coming in. Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“It’s either that or wait for it to come crashing down on someone.” The words hang heavy in the air. “Or worse, a guest.”
She flinches. Two days ago I would have celebrated her reaction… before I kissed her. Now, I pick up the pain slicing through her.
Nice. Nailed that, Morgan.
“We’ll put up a temporary wall while the work’s happening,” I add quickly. “Decorate it. No one will even realize what’s going on back there. They’ll be too busy taking selfies and pretending the snow situation doesn’t suck.”
Her eyes flick to the empty space around the seat, then to the built-in display cabinet crammed full of Bee’s glass snowmen. Her shoulders go rigid.
“You’re moving those?”
“For a few days. To protect them. We’re not barbarians.”
She makes a strangled little sound. “Don’t joke about this.”
“I’m not joking. We’ll box them, tuck them somewhere safe, put everything back when it’s done.”
“Convenient timing.” Her eyes narrow. “This isn't about your second bar plans, is it?”
“Yes, I waved my magic candy cane and made a season’s progression of water damage appear overnight just so I could get my goddamned bar for that unexpected packed house bestowed upon us when we got four feet of much-needed snow.” I lean in. “But shhhh, the snow is shy. So shy it's hiding.”
I might be really fucking tired. And stressed. And filterless.
But the second bar plan is a problem for SpringEverett. Present Everett is hanging on by a thread and negotiating with exactly zero more people today.
“You’re not touching the seat, then?” she presses.
I look at it. At the curve where it meets the wall. The places where paint wore down to raw wood.
I should tell her the truth.
That the storms forced my hand on the inside of the wall, but the rest of it was already living on borrowed time.
That my head is full of numbers that don’t add up and this room—this whole building—has to earn more than sentiment if it’s going to make it through the next decade.
But Dad’s voice is still ringing in my ears.
John’s list of urgent repairs is getting longer by the day.
I’m one more argument away from losing it, and if anyone can drag me there, it’s the woman standing in front of me with her jaw clenched and her eyes too bright.
I can’t fight them both today.
I can’t fighthertoday.
“We’re addressing the stuff that has to happen so this place doesn’t literally fall apart. That’s it.”
