“It’s truly extraordinary how quickly you can shape-shift fromdecenttoinfuriating.”
“I have a gift,” he muses.
Together, we fill the shopping bag with trash and set the tools on the counter, then he follows me out to the living room. Iwalk quickly toward the door, hoping he won’t ask any questions about the state of the rest of the house. If I’m lucky, he’ll mosey right out and go on his merry way.
But my luck is shit these days.
“What’s the story with the stairs?”
I turn to find him surveying them. He picks up one side of a broken board and examines where it’s still partially connected to the frame. When he sets a hand on the railing to lean closer, it falters under his weight. He pulls back. “Shit. Fabes.”
“I know.” I busy myself with rearranging the books in front of the fan.
Rounding the steps, he stares up at them from underneath. “I think every single one needs to be replaced.” Dread sinksheavily in my stomach. That was a lovely two-minute span of feeling like I’d made progress on the to-do list. “Did Gramps build these?”
“No. Ithink they’re original.”
He wiggles a few of them, standing on his tiptoes to reach higher, and that’s when apopandsnapechoes through the cabin. It ends in a bleak silence. We both freeze, Theo with a newly loose board in his hand and me with a waterlogged book in mine.
All I can do is stare. This place is crumbling right before my eyes. That fissure in my heart splits wide open.
As if he can hear it happen, Theo walks toward me, brows dipped with concern. “I’m sorry. Ididn’t mean to break it.”
I blink back the burn in my eyes. “Not your fault.” My voice cracks on the edges. “It was bound to break anyway.”
His hands fold around my shoulders, and he lowers his head to meet my gaze. “It’s okay, Fabes. Ican fix them.”
I swallow back the emotions bubbling up my throat. “No. This is my project. Ican do it. Ineed...” I straighten my spine. “I need to do it myself.”
Theo’s expression sharpens. His gaze tracks over my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth, and down to where his hands still cup my shoulders. It feels intimate in a way that should be uncomfortable. Ishould be pushing him away and asking him to leave.
But there’s something safe and nostalgic and warm in the small space that separates us, and I can’t find it in me to step away.
“Let me help you,” he whispers.
A hollow feeling worms its way into my chest when I remember the words I heard him say at the hardware store. The words he probably didn’t mean for me to hear.
But what if I needyourhelp?
I didn’t let myself acknowledge it at the time. I shoved it faraway, under a rock, in the next county, where I didn’t have to think about that soft plea threading through his voice.
But it comes crawling back to my mind now.
He needs my help.
And when I needed his this morning, he showed up—left work, got supplies, and was here in a handful of minutes. He dropped everything for me.
Glancing around the cabin, I catalog all the work that needs to be done. The railing, steps, hallway, the now-soaked drywall in the bedroom. Between needing to do the labor but also needing to be at work to pay for supplies, I can’t keep up. I’m spinning in circles. But with two of us working on it... maybe it’s feasible.
It could be mutually beneficial. It doesn’t have to mean I’mlettinghim fix everything for me. I’m basically paying for it with my time. Ithink? It’s not the same as my parents cleaning up my messes because he’s getting something out of it. This time, I would be working for the help. Right?
I meet his gaze. “Do you know anything about insulation?”
He releases my shoulders. “Some. Why?”
“What about drywall?”
“I’m decent.”
