I rub the back of my neck, turning back toward the door. Maybe I can manage on my own. It’ll be awkward, probably painful, and I might scratch up the doorway trying to squeeze it through, but I’ve dealt with worse.
I know how to count on myself.
With a deep breath, I step outside and pop the trunk again. I plant my feet, brace my hands against the sides, and pull with everything I’ve got.
At first, it’s like trying to move a damn boulder—it just won’t budge.
Then, with a groan, it lurches forward.
Too fast.
I stumble back, arms flailing as the weight of it throws me off balance. My foot catches on the edge of the driveway, and before I can stop it, I go down—hard.
The chair, thankfully, doesn’t come crashing down on top of me. Instead, it teeters at the edge of the trunk, still half-wedged inside.
I wince, pushing myself up onto my elbows and brushing the dirt off my palms.
“Could’ve been worse,” I mutter. The chair could have fallen and shattered to pieces. I can heal. My bank account if I had to restore it yet again? Not really.
I quickly glance around to see if any of the neighbors saw me before scrambling to my feet. Not that I care much about what they think. People have never really bothered me. But I don’t need anyone joking about me to Mark like they’ve done before.
They don’t mean any harm. Their teasing about my obsession with Gran’s antiques is always in good fun. But Mark never laughs. He just gives that tight-lipped smile—the one that never quite reaches his eyes—and later, when we’re alone, he asks why I have to make a spectacle of myself.
Another thing I’d rather avoid.
There’s no one in sight, though.
Good.
Shaking off the thought, I square my shoulders and turn back to the chair. Now that it’s loosened, I should be able to pull it free. I grip it again, this time more carefully, and inch it out of the trunk, letting its weight shift gradually. It’s heavy, but manageable.
Icando this.
Once it’s fully out, I set it down gently on the driveway and wipe the sweat from my brow. My arms already ache, but there’s no way I’m stopping now. I just have to get it inside. Then upstairs. Then into the small reading nook I’ve been setting up for weeks—where it belongs.
Easy, right? Right.
“Uhh,” I groan to myself.
I bend my knees, gripping the chair firmly before hoisting it up. It’s more awkward than anything, its bulk making it hard to see past. Step by step, I shuffle toward the porch, nudging the door open with my hip and maneuvering my way inside.
I barely make it through without knocking something over. A picture frame rattles on the entryway table, and I wince as I set the chair down just inside the door. My arms are screaming, but the hardest part is still ahead.
The stairs.
Taking a deep breath, I tilt the chair onto its side, hoping that’ll make it easier. Then I start the slow climb—step by step—adjusting my grip every few seconds. The wood digs into my skin, but I grit my teeth and keep going.
Painful minutes later, I finally make it to the first floor.
Panting, I shove the chair into the corner of the bedroom, right next to Mark’s office, and close the door behind me. I press my forehead against it for a second, catching my breath. My arms feel like jelly, my shoulders ache, and my fingers feel permanently molded to the shape of the chair’s rungs.
But I did it.
Gran’s chair is inside. Safe. And most importantly, right where it belongs.
Straightening up, I turn to look at it. Even through my exhaustion, I can’t help but smile. It looks perfect here. This little corner, with a simple standing lamp, a small table for books, and a view of the weeping willow swaying in the garden seems made for it.
My great-grandfather planted the weeping willow tree outside when he built this house with his own two hands. Gran used to tell me stories about how she played under its branches as a little girl. She’d pretend the hanging vines were curtains, hiding her from the world. Or, on special days, she’d twist them into a veil and let them drape over her face like a bride on her wedding day.
