“Chris doesn’t want…That is, we don’t talk a lot about my job, either.”
His gaze ran over me, like I was a board he was measuring. “Do you like it? Being a teacher?”
“I love it. Most of the time. High school students feeleverything so passionately, and I get to share my favorite books with them, to read their writing and hear their opinions and really get to know them. Maybe even make a difference in their lives.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“It’s hard when you know one of your kids is going through some bad stuff and you can’t help. And it’s the absolute worst when you try to help and the administration won’t let you,” I continued, my voice picking up speed. “Like, I got called into the principal’s office over a book I loaned a student, and it turned into this whole thing about my classroom library. I’ve always believed stories matter. Everybody’s stories. And if you silence someone’s voice, if you take away their story, you’re teaching your students they don’t matter, either. And Chris respects that. He really does. He talks about how proud he is that we’re both in helping professions. But…Well. When he has a bad day at work, someone dies. When I have a bad day…” I hitched a shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.”
My feelings didn’t matter.
Joe regarded me steadily. “Sure it does. You care about it. He should care about you. Unless he’s a selfish bastard.”
“No, I told you, he’s a doctor. He treatschildrenwithcancer.”
“Can’t beat that.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“Okay.”
“It’s just that Chris does so much, he’s been through so much, I feel stupid complaining. But that’s not him. It’s me.” I winced. Worst breakup line ever. “I need to be better at telling him what I want.”
Instead I avoided the hard discussions, pretending everything was fine while the omissions and missed opportunities piled up, while our relationship eroded and the water widened between us.
I scowled at the casserole dish in my hands, picking at the label. Maybe Ihadbeen leaving the relationship for a long time and hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to myself.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
The masking tape stuck to my thumb. “Sorry?”
“What do you want?” he repeated patiently.
“Oh.” I pulled my scattered thoughts together. “I’m figuring that out. A desk, to start.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You came to the right place, then.”
I stared at him blankly.
He nodded toward the large shed. There was an overhang on one side, protecting some tarp-covered piles, and a low, long dormer projecting from the pitch of the roof on the other. I recognized the sign—my father’s sign—above the door.gallagher restoration.Joe must have taken it from Dad’s workshop along with the bench. A second, smaller sign hung below, simple block letters burned into a vintage wooden centerboard.found wood design.
“You’re…Are you changing the name?” The lump in my throat made my voice strident. Accusing, almost.
But Joe didn’t take offense. Or if he did, it didn’t show. “Nope. Your father built this business. We’re still Gallagher Restoration.”
“But the sign…”
“That’s me.” Joe cleared his throat. “I’m Found WoodDesign. I started it as a sideline, making things—furniture—out of reclaimed wood. Salvage.” He swung the door wide. “You can look around, if you want.”
I eyed the invitation of that open door. His closed-off, watchful face.
“Focus on what you want,” Daanis had said.
I took a deep breath and walked through the door.
14
Joe
