“This is she.” I turn off the faucet. The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“It’s Holden.”
Holden? Why is Holden calling the shop? “Holden?”
“Umm, yeah. We’ve met a couple of times, you?—”
“I know who you are,” I interrupt. “I was just wondering why you were calling. Is everything okay?”
“No, well, I mean, yes. I was going to the shop to, um, work, but it’s closed, and I…I don’t know, got worried? I’m not sure. It’s fine. I’ll hang up now.”
I stifle a laugh and put him out of his misery. “We’re closed on Tuesdays, but the sign fell, and I haven’t been able to fix it. One more thing for my list.”
“What’s wrong with it? I happen to be pretty handy; I’m sure I can help next time I stop by.”
What’s wrong with it? It’s exactly what’s wrong with everything else: me not having the time or the funds to geteverythingdone and having to play the prioritization shuffle.
I can’t catch a break.
“Natalie?” he asks, and I let the tears free. He can’t see them silently falling down my cheeks or me falling apart.
“Holden, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“Are you crying? I’m sorry, I didn't mean to spook you. This was the phone number on?—”
I hold back a sob that’s ready to let loose. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I don’t even know the last thing he said. I’m using all my energy to not completely lose it right now.
He’s not talking anymore—just silent. His breathing is a steady anchor on the other side of the line, and slowly, I match my cadence to his.
I let out a long sigh, and he says, “Is today a harder day?”
There’s something about the kindness behind his tone, the way he doesn’t tell me he’s sorry or ask if I’m sad because he knows, at a deeper level, that I am. Because he’s not a stranger to grief, and he knows some days are harder than others. All I can do is hum.
“Is there anything that triggered it?” This practical stranger, asking all the right questions at the right time, is making my heart melt. It feels like a hug, one I didn’t know I needed right now.
“My house is falling apart.”
“Do you need help?”
Of course, he goes straight for the jugular—help.
“I told you, I’m not at the store today,” I say. I try to make it sound casual, like I’m not falling apart. Ha, too late for that.
“I know,” he replies. “But I can help with whatever’s going on at home.”
My heart hammering, I lean against the counter and stare at the chaos around me. “Unless you know how to patch a hole in my porch, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I actually do know how. Do you have the materials there?”
I freeze. Idohave the materials, but not the skill, the energy, or the emotional capacity. But asking him? Letting him comehere? Letting him see how frazzled, how messy, howbarely functioningI am today?
“Yes,” I say anyway. “But that’s beside the point. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Good thing you’re not asking,” he says softly. “If you’re comfortable with it, share your address, and I’ll come take a look.”
My breath catches in my throat, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.
My eyes prickle, my vision blurs, and I hate, all of a sudden, how I’m so tired all the damn time.
