“Someone wants you back,” Elias says, eyeing the gold ribbon.
It doesn’t matter, because it’s not Margot’s doing.
Still, my gut tightens as I approach. Inside, nestled in shredded gold paper, lies the life I ran from. I run a thumb over the card, feeling the heavy, expensive stock. Ross,let’s discuss your return. The firm needs you.
For a second, the safety seduces me. The temptation is a physical pull, a craving for competence and control. There, I was someone. Here, I’m a separated man rotting on someone else’s couch, their dog licking my toes when I’m not paying attention.
“Dang it, Sally!” I gently shoo her away.
Safe from dog licks, I glare at the wine. The purified air of the conference room seems to waft from the basket, carrying the weight of a suit jacket.
Gripping the basket by the rim, I heave it into the tall metal bin in the corner. The crash is violent, glass shattering against metal, heavy thuds of bottles breaking.
Leaning against the counter, I wait for my hands to stop shaking. It felt good.
Elias stands in the doorway, observing the bin, then me. He asks no questions, but jerks his chin toward the back door.
“Time you learned how to fix the sagging back porch.”
“Are you serious?”
“Come on. Can’t have you breaking my trash cans all day.”
Outside, the wood is gray and splintered, the air biting cold. Elias points a callous finger at the sagging joist.
“I’m an architect,” I say, surveying the structural failure. “I draw these. I don’t build them.”
“Clearly,” Elias grunts, handing me a power drill.
The tool feels foreign in my grip, heavy, blunt, vibrating with potential energy. I align a screw on the fresh yellow pine. Squeezing the trigger, the drill whines, kicking back against my palm. The bit slips, skittering across the wood and gouging a jagged scratch into the grain.
“Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty,” Elias calls from the steps, nursing a beer.
“I know how a drill works.” Itching my forehead, I ignore the twenty-degree chill. My fingers are numb. I should have grabbed gloves, dang-it. But I keep working, because the cold is the only thing distracting me from the pain in my chest.
Attempting it again, I push too hard, desperate to prove I’m not useless. The bit strips the screw head with a screeching grind. Heat creeps up my neck. I’ve managed multi-million-dollar contracts, yet I can’t drive a single screw into a piece of wood.
“You’re fighting it,” Elias says, stepping closer. “Let the tool do the work.”
He guides my hand, adjusting my grip. “Slow down. Steady pressure.”
On the third try, I engage the trigger slowly. The screw bites. It sinks into the wood with a satisfying crunch, flush with the board.
“Again,” Elias commands.
We work for three hours. The sun drops, casting long, cold shadows. My forearms burn, and grease and sawdust coat my skin. But the sag is gone. It’s not a skyscraper, it’s a patch job. Yet when I test it with my weight, the wood holds.
I sit on the top step of the newly fixed porch, my back against the siding. My hands are raw, shaking slightly from the vibration of the drill. It’s a good kind of tired.
See, I knew Elias gets it. This was all part of his master plan.
When my hands are steadier, I stare at the phone.
I’ve called Margot every day. Usually, I hang up before the voicemail. But today, the adrenaline from doing something with my time lends me courage. I dial.
It rings. Once. Twice. The sound echoes in the empty kitchen.
“Hello?”
