Jimmy cleared his throat. "Boss, my wife's seven months pregnant. Second kid. I can't gamble on maybe-money. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," I said. "You've got a family to think about."
"I'll stay with Dave," Jimmy said, his voice firm. "Keep the business running. But if you need weekend help, call me."
"Appreciate it."
Carlos nodded. "Same here. I need the steady paycheck, but I'm not walking away. I'll work with Dave. Keep things going while you're out there."
Two of the younger guys murmured agreement. They'd take the safer road, but they were staying put. Nobody asked about Alderman.
That left Collins, Frank, and Walt.
Collins spoke first. "I'm in."
I looked at him. The kid was twenty-three. He had his whole life ahead of him, and he was choosing to bet it on me.
"You gave me a shot when nobody else would," Collins said. "Taught me how to read plans, how to frame a wall, how to not cut corners. I'm not walking now."
I had to look away for a second. Clear my throat. "Thanks, Collins."
Frank pulled another toothpick from his pocket, stuck it between his teeth. "My kids are grown. My ex already took half my shit in the divorce." He grinned, humorless. "Might as well lose the other half doing something stupid. Besides, someone's gotta make sure you don't kill yourself trying to set a ridge beam solo."
I almost laughed. "Appreciate that, Frank."
Walt shifted his weight, adjusting his bad leg. "I'm semi-retired anyway. Been doing finish work to keep my hands busy." He looked at me with those steady eyes. "You pulled me back in after my accident. Gave me work when everyone else said I was done. What else am I gonna do, play golf?"
My throat tightened. "Walt?—"
"Let's build a house," he said simply.
The shop was empty by nine.
I stayed behind, the silence of the machinery a welcome weight after the noise of the meeting. Sunday was three days out, but I wanted the transition to be as clean as I could make it for Dave. He was taking on six months of my life; the least I could do was leave him a shop that wasn't buried in my clutter.
I started in the break room, tossing out the expired milk and wiping down a microwave that had seen better decades. It was mind-numbing work, the kind that usually kept the ghosts at bay.
Then I found the mug.
It was shoved behind a stack of unclaimed plastic containers, blue ceramic with a chip in the rim. I pulled it out and turned it over in my hands. The white text across the front—I’d Nail That—was framed by a cartoon hammer.
Ryan and Olivia had given it to me five or six years ago at one of those backyard birthday things. I remembered the heat of the grill and the way Ryan’s voice always seemed to carry over the fence. I’d shown up with a six-pack and the low expectations of a man who didn't much care for parties.
Olivia had handed me the gift bag with a small, expectant smile—the kind she wore when she was hoping she’d gotten a detail exactly right. Ryan was already halfway through a story about a site inspection, barely glancing over as I pulled the mug from the tissue paper.
I’d laughed, despite myself. "I’d nail that. That’s terrible, Liv."
"I know," she’d said. There was a spark in her eyes then, a quiet sort of mischief. She’d known exactly how bad the pun was,and she’d picked it specifically because she knew it would be the only thing that could make me crack a smile in a crowd.
Ryan had clapped me on the shoulder, his attention already drifting to the next person with a beer, but Olivia had stayed there for a beat longer. She looked pleased, watching me hold the mug like she’d just handed me a secret code.
I ran my thumb over the chipped ceramic now, and the memories I usually kept under lock and key started to leak through.
I thought of all those Sunday afternoons in their kitchen. Ryan was always the center of gravity, holding court on the patio about zoning variances or structural loads. I’d usually be at the island, nursing a beer and watching Olivia move through the house. She was the one who kept the engine running—refilling drinks, setting out food, asking the questions Ryan never thought to ask.
How’s the Morrison job, Ben?
She’d remember the answer, too. Two weeks later, she’d be the one asking if I’d resolved the issue with the permit office. She noticed the small things—the friction points of my life that Ryan walked right past.
