“And you were naturally good at it, weren’t you?” One side of her mouth turns up in a smile. “It wouldn’t surprise me. You’ve always been that way. Naturally capable.”
My limbs heat under her praise. “I’d like to say yes, but no. My first attempts were garbage.”
She laughs once. “I bet that’s not true.”
I give her a knowing look. “It’s one hundred percent true. But I got better. I kept practicing. My teacher let me come intothe classroom after school and work. I didn’t think about it until now, but I’m sure that meant he stayed late.” My heart pinches at the realization.
“Did your parents know you were good at it?”
I nod once. “They thought it was a little hobby. They called it whittling.”
Avery snorts derisively. “Sounds about right. When did you stop?”
“After Nash died. I put all my focus into becoming a firefighter.”
“And then you put all your focus into allowing me to step into my career.” She stares down at the box.
I coax her gaze up with a finger under her chin. “Don’t feel bad. Choices, remember? I made mine.”
She nods, but she still feels guilty, and I don’t know how to change that.
I let go of her chin, removing my chisel and writing tips from the box. “The next order is a sign for a wall. I think it’s a wedding gift. Want to watch?”
Avery grabs the stool she’d been sitting on and places it beside me at my bench. She sits down and grips the edge of the stool with both hands, leaning forward. Her hair falls over her shoulders, hanging in the air.
I point at the hair tie on her wrist. “May I?”
She looks at me, not understanding what I mean.
“It’s not safe to have your hair hanging near tools.” I work the hair tie over her hand. Stepping behind her, I gather her hair. My fingers brush the nape of her neck.
A pleased sigh filters out from her. Her head tips left, and my fingers slide around her neck, moving gently back and forth. Avery’s closed-mouth groan curls into me, making me think about things we can’t do here.
“You’d better stop,” she murmurs.
“Or?” My hand dips lower, skimming the tops of her breasts.
The back of her head meets my chest. “I don’t know. I don’t have anything good to say next.”
I smile at the top of her head and take back my hand. “We can’t do anything in here anyway.” I finish the job of tying back her hair and take my seat.
“Out of respect for Joel, you mean?”
I lay out the rectangular slice of walnut. “Mostly, yes. Joel has been good to me.”
“What about your parents?”
“What about them?”
“How have they been to you?”
I flip on my woodburner, adjusting the dials to my preference. “Supportive, I suppose. As much as they can be.” I start in the right-hand corner, pressing the chisel into the wood. “They try. They just…”
“Fall short?”
“I’ve disappointed them. And I’ll never measure up.” I continue the length of the wood, turning it forty-five degrees when I get to the lower corner. “I don’t see that changing.”
It used to hurt like hell to think about my parents, and all the ways I’ve let them down. Now I feel bad for them, more than anything else. They’re choosing to miss out on their only child, because they can’t get over what happened to Nash. Maybe they have the kind of broken heart that will never heal. Maybe they fear healing, because they think it means leaving Nash behind. I don’t know what it’s like to be them, to be parents who’ve lost a son. I do know what it feels like to lose a brother, to have half of your heart ripped out and wonder how the world keeps turning when he’s not in it.
