I sit there longer than I should, engine idling, coffee cooling in the thermos.
Just go knock, Wright. It’s a roof, not a wedding proposal.
The wind slaps the tarp overhead, snapping like it’s impatient. I grab the hammer, step out, and instantly remember how slippery these boards get with sea mist. Perfect conditions for public humiliation.
The door opens before I reach it.
Bailey steps out, sweater sleeves pushed up, hair twisted into a messy knot that’s losing the fight against the breeze. She has a smudge of ink on her cheekbone and a cautious set to her shoulders—like she’s been bracing for me all morning.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual. It comes out like gravel.
She blinks, once. “You have impeccable timing. The roof’s about to fly to Norfolk.”
“Guess I picked the right day to remember my handyman phase.”
“I didn’t realize you had one.”
“Briefly. Between Pop Warner football and my first concussion.”
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Progress. Better than yesterday at least.
I hold up the hammer and the paper bag from the bakery. “Peace offering. Muffins and minimal power-tool use.”
She eyes the bag like it might explode. “Maple pecan?”
“Obviously.”
That earns me a tiny, reluctant laugh. She takes the bag, fingers brushing mine, and every nerve ending I own sits up and pays attention.
“I was going to call a roofer,” she says.
“Hadley told me you’ve been doing it yourself.”
“Of course she did.”
We stand there a beat too long, the kind of silence that hums. Then she steps aside. “Fine. But if you fall, I’m not doing the paperwork.”
“Deal.”
The stairs groan as I climb up to the roofline. The view from the top punches the breath out of me: the curve of the cove, the glitter of the water, the bookstore sign swinging gently below. The tarp’s barely hanging on. One corner flaps like it’s signaling distress.
I start securing it, the rhythm coming back like muscle memory—hammer, nail, pull, breathe. Below, I can hear her moving inside, the faint chime of the bell as someone comes in, and her voice, low and warm, as she greets them.
It’s ridiculous how grounding that sound is.
When the last nail goes in, I sit back on my heels, flex my sore shoulder, and let the wind cool the sweat on my neck. For the first time in months, the ache feels earned instead of empty.
“Still alive up there?” she calls.
“Define ‘alive’.”
She laughs, and it rolls up through the salt air, settling right where the guilt used to live.
I climb down, boots hitting the porch, and she’s waiting with two mugs of coffee that smell infinitely better than mine.
“Truce?” she asks, offering one.
“Depends on the terms.”
