I’ll be there. But if Campbell brings out even one cone, I’m leaving.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Owen:
YES. Booo cones, go Ty!
Liam:
I can pick you up?
Campbell:
8 a.m. don’t be late
I groan immediately.
“See?” Emma grins. “Don’t you feel better already?”
“No,” I say flatly, shoving my phone into my pocket. “Now I just feel tired earlier than planned.”
“You’ll get over it, now, move,” she announces before clapping her hands and pointing down the hall. “You smell like regret and poor choices.”
I manage to choke out a tiny semblance of a snicker as I push off from where I’ve been standing and follow her down the hall.
I’m not fixed; what’s happened has happened. But for the first time since everything went sideways, it feels like maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to stay this way.
CHAPTER 27
VIVIAN
The shop is peacefully quiet. It always gets like this after hours, the kind of silence that settles into the corners and makes every small sound feel louder than it should. My tools against the bench. The soft scrape of pencil over paper. My stool squeaks when I move the slightest bit.
I lean closer to the sketch in front of me, elbow braced on the worktable, pencil tapping once against the edge of the page before I force it back down. The outline of the trophy stares back at me—clean, simple, unmistakably a hockey puck.
I’ve drawn it six different ways already. Maybe eight. Same shape, same idea, just slightly different variations of something that still doesn’t feel like enough. It needs something.
I check my notes from the bonding sessions before I drag the tip of the pencil along the top edge, sketching in a pattern I immediately second-guess. Tiny stones, maybe. Set low so they catch the light without trying too hard. The girls want a diamond, but it’s not like they can afford it. So, I’m trying to figure out something that gives the illusion of it. Something that feels intentional instead of like they’re cutting corners.
I let a rush of air escape me and sit back, rubbing the side of my hand across the page like that might magically fix it.
It doesn’t.
“Come on,” I mutter, more to myself than anything, staring at the sketch like it might start cooperating if I glare at it long enough. It doesn’t do that either.
I reach for another sheet, already halfway into reworking the design, when the sharp jingle of keys cuts through the quiet. A second later, the front door opens.
I glance up automatically, heart giving a small, startled kick before it settles just as quickly when I see her.
“Gran?” I push back from the bench, brows pulling together as I take her in. “What are you doing here?”
Gran holds up a foil-covered container like it’s proof of something. “Larry made a casserole for dinner,” she says. “So I thought I’d bring some by.”
I stare at her, still half in my head, half in the sketch in front of me. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
“I can drive a car, only need one hand to do that. It’s an automatic.”
I know better than to challenge her. And I’m too wiped out tonight to go further down this track. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
