Because I might not know how to handle feelings. But I know how to build.
And tomorrow morning?
I’m bringing my toolbox.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Abilene
Friday
“Okay. Labels first. Always labels first. If you forget labels, you panic. If you panic, you drop things.” I slide another jar into the crate and mutter, “And if you drop things, you cry. We are not crying today.”
The kitchen is already half madness, half comfort. Honey jars line the counter in uneven ranks, catching the early morning light like they’re showing off.
Beeswax candles cool on parchment paper, their soft, sweet scent wrapping around me as a familiar blanket. Twine tangles around my wrist as I tie off another bundle of honey sticks, my fingers moving fast, practiced, just a little too tight.
I’m talking to myself because it helps. Because silence lets my thoughts wander, and I really don’t want them wandering today.
“Golden Meadow goes left. Creekside Bloom goes right. Forest Dawn… don’t mix them up this time, Abilene. Last week, you nearly sent lavender honey to a man who swore he was allergic to ‘anything floral.’”
I snort under my breath and reach for the chalkboard price sign, wiping it off with my sleeve. The house smells of honey andcoffee grounds and damp wood, the haunting aftertaste of rain and smoke still faintly present if I let myself notice it too hard.
I don’t.
Today is about forward motion.
Market crates get stacked by the door. One for retail. One smaller, neater box set aside for Millie’s Mercantile. Uniform jars, clean labels, everything tidy and impersonal enough to sit nicely on someone else’s shelves.
I double-check the invoice, tap it straight against the table, and tuck it into an envelope.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Okay. We’re organized. We’re functional. We’re not spiraling.”
A crash outside makes me jump so hard I nearly knock over an entire row of jars.
“What the…?”
Metal scrapes against concrete. Something thuds. There’s the unmistakable sound of a toolbox lid being flung open, followed by a low, familiar voice muttering a curse that doesn’t belong to the morning birds.
I freeze.
Slowly, carefully, like the sound might vanish if I move too fast, I step toward the window and pull the curtain aside.
And there’s Jesse.
In my yard. With tools.
A lot of tools.
My heart flips in a way that is deeply unhelpful.
For a full three seconds, I just stand there staring out the window like my brain has blue-screened.
Jesse Murphy is in my yard. With a ladder and a tool belt.
And, oh no, he’s stretching.
This is not the morning my nervous system signed up for.
