I don’t say anything, but I put my dish in the sink when I’m done and head out.
Dad doesn’t look surprised when he sees me climbing over the fence line with a tool bucket in hand, but Eli does.We have barely talked, and I don't know whether he is just giving me space or if he heard what happened with Tessa and is pissed.
“You know how to use those?”Dad calls.
I roll my eyes.“You taught me, didn’t you?”
“Seems like you forgot a lot of what I taught you lately,” he says mildly.
“Yeah,” I say.“Trying to fix that.”
We fall into the work.It’s simple in the way nothing in my life has been for years.Pull, hammer, staple, step back.Move down.Repeat.By the time the sun drops low, my arms ache from something that isn’t the gym.My lungs feel cleaner.My head is quieter.
And somehow, even with sweat on my neck and mud on my jeans, I feel more myself than I have in a long time.
The first big snowstorm of January hits hard, blowing in off the mountains and dumping white across the valley.
Mom frowns at the weather report.“Road will be a mess.”
I stand at the window in my parents’ kitchen, watching the flakes swirl, and all I can think is:
She lives out there.Alone.
I don’t let myself overthink it; I grab my keys.
Dad looks over from the kitchen table, one brow raised.“You going to the city?”
“No,” I say.“I’m going to Hawthorne Ridge.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods.“Take the truck.Better in this weather.”
I switch keys and drive slowly.The closer I get to her property, the more the snow thickens.Her long drive is buried, drifted over, the ruts completely hidden.
I pull onto the shoulder, put the truck in park, and just sit for a second, engine ticking.
I promised her I’d give her space.This isn’t breaking that.I’m not going to the door.I’m not asking for anything.I just… can’t stand the idea of her truck sliding off this icy hell and no one knowing until morning.
I throw the truck in four-wheel and ease into her drive, following instinct more than sight.When I get close enough to see the line of her porch, I stop and kill the engine.
I move efficiently, finding her shovel and salt, and getting to work.It takes over two hours to clear enough that she could get out in an emergency.My cheeks burn from the cold, breath puffing out in hard white clouds.Snow soaks into my jeans.My fingers go numb.
I don’t knock, I don’t text.I don’t even look up at her windows.
I just stand at the bottom of her steps for a second, shovel hanging in my hand, and let the quiet sit in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even though she’s not there to hear it.“I’m so fucking sorry.”
Then I drive away.
I do it again the next storm.
Sometimes I fix little things when I’m there, and she’s not looking.
It’s the first time in a long time I've done things for someone, knowing they might never know I did.It feels… right.
Terrible in what that says about me...But right.
The shelters come next.
