“Cheers to that,” Chan says, clinking his glass against Ross’s.
“Here’s to affordable housing,” Elias adds.
The evening flows easily. We trade stories, embarrassing college memories, bad dates, the kind of history only old friends hold. Ross is in the thick of it, laughing, shoulders relaxed.
When the door finally clicks shut behind them, the house falls quiet. But it isn’t empty.
We clear the table together. The scent of roasted garlic still lingers in the air. Ross takes the serving bowl from my hands, his fingers brushing mine.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” he says, pulling on yellow rubber gloves. “You know how messy I can be.”
“Deal.”
I watch him at the sink. He scrubs the roasting pan with the same focus I used to see him apply to blueprints. But here, with his sleeves rolled up and soap suds on his arms, he looks different, lighter.
When the counters are wiped down, he glances toward the garage.
“Hold on,” he says.
He disappears for a moment and returns holding a small wooden box.
“This is for you.” He sets it on the table.
“What is it?” I trace the wood grain. The dovetail joints are tight, the edges sanded smooth.
“It’s not jewelry,” he says quickly.
I open the lid. Inside, resting on felt, is a key.
I look up at him. “A key?”
“To a cabin by the lake,” he says. “Elias bought a run-down place on the lake. I traded labor for equity, spending my Saturdays helping him fix the roof so we can have the keys every other weekend.”
Oh, sothat’swhat he has been doing. I wasn’t worried, because he and Elias carpooled every Saturday, but I thought it was for a client. “You’ve been renovating a cabin?”
“Yeah.” He leans against the table. “I wanted a space for us. It’s rustic, but… it’s ours. Partly.”
I turn the key over in my hand. It’s cool and heavy.
“I know it’s not the luxury we used to have,” he says, watching my face closely. “But I thought it could be a place to reconnect.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, my voice thick.
“I promise, the roof barely leaks anymore.” He offers a tentative smile.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
He begins to describe it, the wooden beams, the view of the water, the work that’s still left to do. As he talks, his phone sits on the counter, screen dark and forgotten.
Chapter 29
Ross--Next Year's Valentine's Day
The kitchen smells of redemption.
It’s a mix of roasted garlic and the sharp, clean scent of lemon—the exact sensory opposite of the cold, congealed lamb that haunted this room a year ago.
I step through the door, the floorboards settling under my weight. For the first time in a decade, I am not checking the time. I am not calculating traffic or mentally drafting an email to a structural engineer.
