“Let’s start with the entrance,” I say, gesturing to the front of the house. “We’ve designed the ramp to integrate directly into the landscaping. It won’t feel like an add-on but like a part of the home.”
Stepping onto the plywood subfloor, the vibration of my boots echo through the joists. Harley and Mrs. Delgado follow. I canfeel Harley’s presence behind me, a static charge that makes the hair on my arms stand up. But I keep my eyes on the older woman, on the person who needs the doorways to be wider and the world to be softer.
The crew is watching us. Diego is near the back, leaning on a shovel, his eyes tracking our movement. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel his support, a solid wall of shared labor behind me.
“The doorways are all thirty-six inches,” I explain, pointing to the framing. “Lever handles throughout—much easier on the hands than knobs. And we’ve reinforced the walls in the bathroom for grab bars, even if we don’t install them yet.”
Harley says nothing, her notebook open, her pen moving.
And as I lead them deeper into the wooden ribcage, I realize that this is exactly what I deserve. To be a stranger in her life, rebuilding a house for a woman who no longer knows my name.
Above us, the nail guns fire in rhythmic bursts—thwap-thwap-thwap. Meanwhile, a saw screams through a length of plywood somewhere near the back.
I lead them into what will be the kitchen.
“The counters will run along this stretch,” I say, my voice projecting over the hum of a generator. “We’re using a composite material that’s durable and easy to clean. No porous stone to worry about.”
Mrs. Delgado stops and stares at the empty space where the cabinets will be, her brow furrowed.
“It’s too high,” she says. “Last year I was in a car accident and messed up my shoulder. To reach up, I would need a stepladder or I risk straining my muscles.”
“You’re right,” I say, my voice low and focused. “Standard height is fifty-four inches. But that’s a number, not a rule. We can drop the cabinets here by the window to fifty.”
Pulling the pencil from behind my ear, I reach for the blueprints on the plywood table. Then, I sketch a modification on the fly, my hand steady despite the noise around us.
“See here?” I point to the paper. “We’ll put the pull-out drawers below so you never have to twist your shoulder to find a heavy pan.”
I’m so focused on the sketch that I don’t notice Harley moving.
She reaches for the blueprint at the same moment I do, her intent probably being to see the change I’m proposing. Her fingers—cool, soft, and terrifyingly familiar—brush against the back of my hand.
It’s like an electric surge, a sharp, white-hot spark that travels straight up my arm and settles in the hollow of my throat. I freeze. The sounds of the construction site—the shouting workers, the drone of the saw—vanish. There is only the sensation of her skin against mine, a ghost of the life we used to have.
In a synchronized flinch, we pull back at the same time.
I keep my head down, staring at the lines on the paper until the ink blurs. Heat radiates from her.
“Th-that would be better,” Harley says. Her voice is tight. She sounds shaken. Good. At least it’s not just me.
Mrs. Delgado hasn’t noticed our silent collision. She’s leaning over the blueprint, her eyes widening as she understands the sketch. A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face, deepening the lines around her eyes. “I love it,” she whispers.
“Good,” I say, finally looking up like she’s the most important person in Chicago. Because right now, she is. “It’s your kitchen. It should work for you, not the other way around.”
She examines Harley, her eyes glistening. “He listens, Harley. This young man has a good heart. He sees the old woman.”
The hammer blows resume, louder now, a frantic bang-bang-bang that fills the silence.
“I’ll finalize these specs with Diego today,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “We’ll get the framing for the cabinets adjusted before the electrical goes in.”
Harley nods, her pen scratching against her notepad with a sudden, renewed vigor. She’s retreating into her notes, building a wall of ink between us.
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” she says.
The ‘Mr. Thompson’ is a slap, a reminder of the distance. But the way her hand is still trembling slightly as she holds the pen tells a different story.
I turn back to the blueprints, my fingers tracing the same spot where her skin touched mine.
Mrs. Delgado is currently across the room, having cornered Diego to discuss the placement of a spice rack. My crew likes her. They enjoy building things for people who appreciate the angle of a doorway or the height of a shelf. It makes the sweat feel like an investment instead of a tax.
