I'm still talking when I notice Wren has stopped unpacking. She's watching me, one eyebrow raised, a slow smile spreading across her face.
I stop mid-sentence. "What?"
"You basically just said 'I have plans.'"
I blink. "Yeah?"
"Tommy." Wren sets down the box. "You made plans. Two weeks out. With Sam."
I shrug. "So?"
"So you're the guy who keeps framed prints wrapped in a corner because you 'keep meaning to hang them.' And now you're planning museum dates in advance."
I look away, suddenly very interested in wiping nonexistent dust off the rag. "It's just an exhibit."
Wren crosses her arms, leaning against the counter. "It's a pattern. You're building something with her."
I don't answer. I set the rag on top of the toolbox, taking my time smoothing out the wrinkles.
Wren's voice softens. "So things are going well with Sam?"
My hands still for a second. Then I pick up a screwdriver I don't need, inspect it like I've never seen one before. "For a control freak, she's been surprisingly easy to work with."
Wren's expression doesn't change. "That's not what I was asking."
I exhale. Set down the screwdriver. "I know."
"Tom..."
I look up at her. "It's good. It's... really good."
Wren nods slowly. "And that terrifies you."
I run a hand through my hair, laugh—short, helpless. "Maybe?”
Wren waits. She's good at that—just waiting until I fill the silence. The hum of the tattoo shop's overhead lights fills the space. Someone walks past the front window, shadow cutting across the floor.
Last night, I sat on my couch with Sam tucked against my side, her head on my shoulder. She'd told me about her dad leaving. About being fourteen and watching her mom disappear into work and exhaustion. About learning that people leave.
I'd promised her I wasn't her dad. That I wasn't leaving.
I meant it. I still mean it.
I lean back against the shelf, crossing my arms. "I told her I'd come back. If I took jobs that required travel—Dubai, Portland, wherever—I told her I'd come back. And I meant it when I said it."
"But?"
"But what if I get there and I realize... I'm not built for this? For coming back?" I look at Wren. "What if I promise her something I can't actually do?"
Wren studies me for a long moment. Then she says, quietly, "Then you tell her that. Before you make promises you're not sure you can keep."
"I want to keep them." My voice tightens. "I just don't know if I can."
Wren pushes off the counter, walks over to me. She puts a hand on my shoulder. "You don't get to punish her for making you want to stay."
I close my eyes. "I'm not—"
"You will. If you're not careful." Wren squeezes my shoulder once, then lets go. "You'll pull back. You'll start making excuses. You'll keep yourself just distant enough. You think it's to protect her. That it won't hurt as much when you leave. But it will hurt. Both of you."
