“Right. You’ll do great. But for Sorrentino’s, it’s bad. Worse than my parents are admitting. I’m trying to help financially, but …” She shrugs, taking a swing at casual and missing. “I’m one person with a Parks & Rec salary.”
“That’s why you live with your grandmother.”
“Part of it. Also, because she needs help with the house, even if she won’t admit it.” She sets down the papers.
“I wonder where all that wonderful stubbornness comes from?” I tease.
She balls up a piece of paper and tosses it at me. “Everyone needs help, but nobody wants to ask for it. It’s exhausting.”
I chuckle at the irony. “You don’t have to fix everything alone.”
“Don’t I, though?”
The words are an exact echo of what I’ve thought a hundred times, what I’ve lived by since I was twelve years old.
We lock eyes and I see myself reflected in her—carrying everything, the fear that asking for help means weakness.
“That’s a lonely way to live,” I say.
“Says the man who does everything himself.”
“Exactly. I know what I’m talking about. I’m a professional. An expert.”
She laughs, surprised, and the tension trickles into something warmer, more elastic.
“We’re a mess,” she says.
“Speak for yourself. I’m very well-adjusted,” my voice lifts because that’s only true some days.
“You just spent an hour sanding the same six-foot section of wood.”
I look down at the bar top. She’s right. I’ve been working in the same spot, distracted. “It needs to be smooth.”
“It’s been smooth for forty-five minutes.” She stands, walks over, and runs her hand across the wood. “See? Perfect.”
Her hand is small against the wide plank, fingers delicate but capable. I imagine those hands rolling lumpy meatballs, trying to fix leaky pipes, typing permit forms after hours, and holding up the weight of her family’s dreams.
“Come here. Let me show you something.”
I lead her around the space, pointing out the original firehouse features we’ve preserved—the brass pole (polished and functional), the vintage gear hooks, the old bell that still works.
I stop in front of a wall and gesture. “We’re going to cover itwith photos of firefighters over the years. A history of the station.”
“Sort of like the memorial wall?”
“But all candid shots.”
“You guys are such hot shots, not to be confused with ground crews managing fires.”
He chuckles. “You might say that.”
We’ve stopped near the windows. Dusky light streams through the glass panes. Dust motes dance in the air between us, and I notice sawdust caught in Winnie’s hair, glinting like tiny stars.
“You’ve got—” I reach out without thinking, sweeping it away.
My fingers graze her temple, and she goes still.
The touch lingers longer than necessary. I should drop my hand. Step back. Remember every reason I’ve kept my distance from day one.
