Rachel opens the door before I can knock.
“You’re fast.” She steps back to let me in. Her hair’s pulled up in a messy knot, and she’s wearing an old Millbrook Falls High T-shirt that’s probably Jake’s and jeans with a hole in one knee. “I was expecting at least twenty minutes.”
“Light traffic.” I set the toolbox down. “Where’s this shelf?”
“Upstairs. My room.” She closes the door. “Fair warning, it’s a disaster. I was trying to organize my books and the whole thing just… gave up on life.”
I follow her up the stairs. The house smells like something baking. Chocolate, maybe. Or cookies. Something sweet that makes my stomach remind me I skipped lunch.
Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. The shelf in question is half-hanging off the wall above her dresser, books and picture frames scattered across the floor.
“Okay, yeah.” I crouch down to examine the damage. “This is definitely a situation.”
“Told you.” She sits on the edge of her bed, tucking one leg under her. “I tried to Google how to fix it, but all the videos assume you know what a wall anchor is.”
“Do you know what a wall anchor is?”
“Not even a little bit.”
I grin despite myself. “Good news is, it’s fixable. Bad news is that whoever installed this originally did a terrible job. These screws are way too short for drywall.”
“So basically, my shelf was doomed from the start.”
“Pretty much.” I open my toolbox and start pulling out what I need. “This is going to take maybe thirty minutes. Forty if I’m being careful.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” She watches me work for a minute, then stands. “I’m going to check on the cookies. Yell if you need anything.”
She disappears downstairs, and I’m left alone in her bedroom with a broken shelf and way too many thoughts.
The room is small. Cozy. The walls are pale blue, and there’s a photo collage above the bed—pictures of Tommy at various ages,a few of her and Jake as kids, and one of her parents. The dresser has a jewelry box and a stack of books. Everything’s neat except for the mess from the collapsed shelf.
It feels personal being in here. More intimate than the lake or the festival. This is her space where she sleeps and gets ready in the morning. Where she probably lies awake at night worrying about job interviews and custody battles and all the things she doesn’t talk about.
I force myself to focus on the shelf.
The original holes are stripped, so I have to drill new ones. Find the studs. Make sure this time it actually holds. The work is methodical. Familiar. I can do this kind of thing in my sleep.
Rachel comes back up twenty minutes later with a glass of water.
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done. Just need to mount the brackets.” I take the water and drain half of it. “Your cookies smell good, by the way.”
“They’re chocolate chip. Tommy’s favorite, but he’s not here to eat them, so you’re getting the benefit.” She sits on the bed again, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you really come? You could’ve told me to call a handyman. Or wait for Jake.”
I set the water down and pick up the drill. “Maybe I wanted an excuse to see you.”
The words hang there. Too honest. Too direct.
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When I glance over, she’s looking at me with this expression I can’t quite read.
“Theo—”
“I know.” I turn back to the wall. “I know this is complicated. I know you’re dealing with a lot. I know I’m Jake’s friend and that makes this… whatever this is… a bad idea.” I drill the first bracket into place. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m terrible at pretending I don’t feel things.”
