I look at the skyline. Then I look at my hands. They are blistered, scarred, and shaking slightly from the exertion.
Then I think of Margot.
I think of the last good Valentine’s Day we had. Five years ago. We ordered Thai food and ate it on the floor. She laughed at something I said, a real laugh, not the polite chuckle she gave me for the last two years. She touched my arm. She looked at me not as a provider, or a roommate, or a disappointment, but as a husband.
If I go back to the city, I get my name on the building. I get the ego. I get the rush.
But the silence returns to the house. The “ghost” comes back to the bedroom.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Why not?” Elias challenges. “If you hate this life so much, why stay?”
“Because I love her more than I love the rush,” I say. The realization hits me harder than the hammer ever could. “I hate being a nobody, Elias. It kills me. My ego screams at me every single day.”
I take a breath, the sawdust filling my lungs.
“But if I ever get a chance to lay my eyes on her again, I want her to see me, not the Architect. And that…” I shake my head. “That is the only thing that matters. I’d rather be miserable on a roof and happy in my kitchen than a god in that city and a ghost in my own home.”
Elias studies me for a long moment. He takes a drag of his cigarette, then flicks the butt off the roof.
“Alright then,” he says. He picks up the nail gun. “Hand me that cedar plank. We got a deadline.”
I pick up the wood. It’s still heavy. It still smells like sap. I still hate it.
But I lift it anyway.
Chapter 17
Ross
The precooked grocery store roast chicken sits between us, untouched. Yet my stomach remains knotted. The fork feels heavy in my hand. Days on his couch have turned hospitality into endurance.
“This beats takeout,” I say in an effort to remain thankful. We trade hollow sentences about the neighborhood and the weather as filler tracks.
Elias carves a slice of breast meat. “Consider it a severance package.”
Then someone knocks on the door.
My fork clatters against the ceramic. “Expecting someone?”
“You’re the only stray I’m feeding.” He gestures vaguely with his knife toward the hall.
My chest tightens. Somehow, I know it’s not Margot. Still, I offer to answer the door.
The short walk to the entryway feels long, the floorboards creaking under my socks.
When I open the door, Tabitha is standing on the porch.
She lingers in the doorway, watching me. Gone is the seduction or the rage I expected; she looks simply drained. The surface polish is still there, but the shine is gone.
“Hello, Ross,” she says. Her breath plumes in the cold air.
“Tabitha.” I remain planted, blocking her from peeking inside. “How did you find me and what do you want?”
She hesitates, her hand tightening on the lapel of her coat. She doesn’t have the confident pitch ready. She looks like she’s bracing for a blow.
“I wanted to talk,” she says, her voice genuinely soft. “About what happened. In your office. I was on my way to your house when I saw your car parked here. I know it’s yours because of the Seattle Mariners bumper sticker right next to your Detroit Tigers one.”
