Emma reached for a roll. “These smell incredible.”
“Family recipe,” Grace said quietly.
Marcus still didn't look up. Grace's eyes met mine for just a second—long enough for me to see something underneath the composure. The one you get right before you go under.
I wanted to say something. Ask Marcus what the hell was wrong with him, why he couldn't take two seconds to acknowledge the woman he was supposed to marry. But it wasn't my place. Whatever was happening in her relationship wasn’t my business unless she made it my business. Not until she asked for help.
So I did what I always did when I didn't know how to help. I found something to fix.
“I noticed the porch step is loose,” I said. “I'll take a look at it.”
“Owen, you don't have to—” Grace started.
“It's no trouble.” I was already moving toward the door. “I'll grab my tools from the truck.”
The morning air hit me like cold water. I stood on the porch for a moment, breathing in the smell of fallen leaves and wood smoke, letting my heart rate settle.
The step wasn’t that loose. I’d fixed it three months ago. It had held just fine. But I needed something to do with my hands, something to keep me from walking back into that dining room and asking Grace why she flinched when her fiancé touched her.
I found my toolbox in the truck and crouched by the step. Ran my hand along the boards, tested the nails, and made a show of inspecting problems that weren't really there. The work didn't matter. What mattered was staying busy. Staying out of that dining room. Staying in my lane.
This was what I knew how to do. Fix things. Show up. Be useful.
And somehow, it was never enough.
Grace found me an hour later.
I heard the screen door creak before I saw her. She came down the steps carefully, two mugs in her hands. She settled beside me on the porch, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
“Coffee break,” she said, handing me a mug.
I took it. Again. Too sweet. I’d never told her I preferred it black. After sixteen years, it felt like one of those things you didn’t correct anymore.
We sat in silence for a while. The mountains rose blue and hazy in the distance. A woodpecker hammered somewhere in the trees. Inside, I could hear Marcus's voice, muffled but confident, holding court the way he always did.
“You've been quiet,” Grace said finally. “Even for you.”
I stared at my coffee. Watched the steam curl and dissipate.
“Sarah and I broke up.”
Grace went still beside me. “Owen. When?”
“Last week.”
She didn’t ask what happened. She knew me well enough to know I’d tell her if I wanted to, and that pressing would only make me shut down.
“Her loss,” Grace said quietly.
I almost laughed. “She said I was too safe. That too much security was boring.” I took a sip of too-sweet coffee. “That she couldn't remember the last time I surprised her.”
Grace was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful. “That sounds like something wrong with her, not you.”
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe that Sarah was the problem, that all of my exes had been the problem, that there wasn't some fundamental flaw in the way I loved people that made them want to leave.
But Sarah was the third woman who’d said some version of the same thing. Too reliable. Too steady. Too safe.
At a certain point, the common denominator stopped being them.
