The bit slips. I hear the high-pitched whine of the motor even through the glass. Ross flinches; his posture snaps tight.
Then, he cracks.
Ross Calder, a man made of ice and steel, hurls the tool across the porch. It hits a post with a violent thud and skitters across the floorboards.
He sits back on his heels, chest heaving. He looks human. But most of all, he looks like a stranger.
For five years, we outsourced our house maintenance. Repairs all hired out so his hands could stay clean for the firm. If a lightbulb went out, he called a guy. If the lawn grew too high, he wrote a check.
But this? There is no one to hire. There is just the wood, the heat, and his own incompetence.
I watch him crawl across the deck to retrieve the drill. He wipes sweat from his eyes with a filthy hand, leaving a smear of black grease across his forehead. He doesn’t notice.
My fingers knot into the cashmere. Watching him feels illicit, like witnessing a man trying to learn a language he’s never heard.
Hate should be the only emotion here. It would be so easy to lock the door and close the blinds.
But the anger in my chest makes room for something sharper. Something dangerous.
Curiosity.
I want to see the blisters. I want to know if this penance is a performance for an audience of one, or if the man next door is finally doing the work when no one is watching.
Finally, the screw sinks home. He sits back on his heels, breathing hard, looking at the wood as if he’s just conquered a mountain. Then, he gets up, moves to the top step, and sits back down. He has something in his hand. I’m squinting, trying to make it out, when my phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. I pull it out.
It’s him! Ross.
I glance through the blinds. His shoulders are hunched, his face tight with a vulnerability I’ve never seen. Unable to silence him when I’ve witnessed a vulnerable piece of him, I answer and press the phone to my ear, keeping my eyes locked on him through the slats.
“Hello?” I say.
Across the yard, he freezes. He grips the railing of the porch so hard his knuckles must be white.
“Margot,” he says. His voice in my ear is a ghost; the man on the porch is a stranger. “It’s me.”
I watch his lips move. I watch him swallow hard.
“Ross,” I say finally. “I... I can’t do this right now.”
He starts talking fast, desperate. I watch him pace the small square of the porch he just repaired. He looks small. He looks human.
“I need time,” I tell him, my voice steady even as my heart hammers against my ribs. “I need to figure out who I am when I’m not managing your life.”
He sags. The fight goes out of him right there on the wood.
“Okay,” he whispers. “I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Goodbye, Ross.”
I end the call but don't move. I watch him lower the phone and stare at the ground. He doesn't know I'm ten yards away. He doesn't know I saw the bit slip, or the grease on his face, or the way he didn't give up.
I drop the sweaters onto the duvet. Wren’s guest room can stay empty. I’m staying right here.
And I’m going to watch.
Chapter 16
Ross
