The image.
The version of me that knew which wine paired with what and how to look effortless doing it.
And for a while, I thought that meant I’d outgrown this.
But standing here, covered in dust and grout, my shoulders sore and my hands steady, I realize something simple and sharp:
That life never fed me.
It looked good.
It sounded good.
But it didn’t hold.
This does.
I glance at my mother, who’s watching me like she’s afraid the moment might disappear if she blinks. Her friends keep talking—about resale value, about how impressive it is, about howluckyshe is.
I smile to myself.
They think this is about skill.
It’s not.
It’s about remembering who I was before I learned how to pretend.
Before I traded callouses for cufflinks.
Before I mistook intensity for love.
Before I confused chaos with passion.
Tile doesn’t lie.
A wall is either straight or it isn’t.
There’s peace in that.
I set the last piece, step back, and finally turn around.
“Coffee?” my mother asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I could use one.”
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m escaping something.
I feel like I’m returning.
CHAPTER 23
BETH
By October, the office had gone quiet in a way that felt wrong.
Not peaceful. Not focused.
Just… hollow.
