He must hear the shift in my breathing because he whispers, “Natalie?”
“I—” I swallow hard. “I don’t even know where to start.”
I hear him exhale. “Please send me your address, or I’ll drive every road in Baker Oaks until I find a house with a broken porch.”
It pulls a helpless, watery laugh out of me.
“I’m not joking,” he adds.
Silence stretches. I don’t know whether to let him in or shut him out, whether accepting help makes me weak or exhausted, or if I can let this practical stranger come here.
But he’s not completely a stranger, right? Yes, I may not know his full name, what he does for a living, his age, or really anything about him. Other than his dad is not really a dad, that he’s giving him a second chance, and that something behind his eyes seemed hopeful when I met him. And right now, I could use some hope.
“If you truly mean it,” I whisper.
“I do.”
I close my eyes. I’m too tired to argue or pretend. “I’ll text you.”
We hang up, and for a moment, I stand there with my hands braced on the counter and a feeling in my chest that might be relief, or shame, or maybe both at once. I text him the address and wait in the kitchen with whatever this feeling is in my stomach.
What are you doing, Natalie?
His truck pulls up fast,but I can’t bring myself to care. I’m already on the porch, lemonade in hand, trying to look composed, like I didn't cry into the sink ten minutes ago with him on the line.
“You didn’t have to come,” I murmur, offering the glass instead of eye contact.
“I wanted to.” His voice is silky, and it contrasts with what I’m feeling right now, like honey sliding over something salty and exploding when it comes in contact with your taste buds.
He steps up, immediately scanning the damage I’ve been pretending not to panic over. When he sees the hole, the warped boards, the missing plank right where Vero had to jump over this morning, I feel embarrassment burn hot across my chest.
“This was smaller this morning,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds. “I tried to fix it. I think I made it worse.”
He doesn’t judge. He takes all the space in, looking around and taking a sip of the lemonade. Somehow, I know he can see more than what’s in front of him, as if the hole in the porch is like the hole in my heart—growing more hollow without proper care.
The redness of my eyes. The exhaustion I’ve been carrying for months. The way my whole life feels like a thousand tiny broken boards I’m supposed to repair alone. Even if I’m surrounded bythe best friends a girl could ask for, at the end of the day, that’s what I am: alone.
A single tear betrays me.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, wiping it away. “I didn’t mean to get emotional. You’re just…here, being kind, and I?—”
I can’t even finish the sentence. I miss my husband.
“How can I help?” he asks, and he sounds so sincere, it almost breaks me again. It’s a shared experience, grief, but not the same feeling. He can’t know exactly what it’s like, nobody can, because my relationship with grieving my husband and his absence is only mine, not anybody else’s. And that’s one of those incredibly messed-up things about losing someone: you can’t even name the exact thread that was broken in the universal experience of missing someone.
“Unless you have a time machine to go back five years before my life fell apart…”
His brown eyes widen.
Mine do too. “God. Ignore that,” I tell him.
“Hey,” he whispers, his voice so soft, it’s barely audible, but it does what it intended. It settles my nerves a little. His hand tentatively rests on my shoulder, willing me to look at him. “I know I have no clue what it’s like. I know I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, and hell, I know we don’t actually know each other much, but I sympathize. I can’t even say I would try to understand, because I wouldn’t, but what I can do is try to help.”
I blink rapidly; his hand leaves my shoulder and invades the edges of my cheek as his thumb brushes away a lone tear. “Let me, please.”
I nod, understanding he might need this as much as I do. Maybe he’s one of those people who help for the sake of helping, because it makes them happy or feel fulfilled or whatever. Whatever it is, I’m thankful.
“How do you even know how to fix a porch?” I lead him along the porch, showing the boards I tried to fix, the ones I made worse, all in one long, never-ending, run-on sentence.
