I set the phone down and get back to work, but my mind is turning over what she didn’t say. She dims around Ryan. She redirects conversations away from him the same way Sadie used to redirect conversations away from Owen. I tried talking to Sadie once about Owen. A year into their relationship, I watched him cut her off mid-sentence at the farmers market, then laugh and tell the person she was talking to, “Sorry, she rambles when she’s nervous.” She wasn’t nervous. She was excited about a new book she’d ordered for the shop. Owen turned that excitement into something embarrassing, and Sadie just folded. She smiled politely and went quiet.
I pulled her aside later and told her she deserved better than that. She didn’t come by the forge for three weeks.
Some lessons you can’t teach. You can only be there when someone’s ready to learn them.
The scroll work isn’t cooperating. The outer curve keeps flattening when I want it to round. I reheat, adjust my grip, and try a different angle.
Better. Not perfect, but better.
Papá would say that’s enough. That perfection is the enemy of done, and done is what pays the bills. But he’d also spend an extra hour on a piece no one would look at twice, because he’d know it wasn’t right, and the knowing would eat at him.
I’m my father’s son in that way.
By early afternoon, I’ve finished the scroll sections and moved on to the post caps. Simpler work. Functional, not decorative. My hands move on autopilot while my brain wanders.
Something’s shifted between Sadie and me this week. The way she holds my hand like she needs the anchor. The way she looked at me in her kitchen the other night like she was seeing me for the first time.
The words are always right there, and I consistently swallow them because the timing is always wrong.
But they’re getting harder to hold back. Every time she looks at me with those eyes that are just starting to see what I’ve been showing her for five years.
Soon.
I set down my tools and stretch. My shoulders ache. My hands are sore. The railing is nearly done. Two more days of work, maybe three. The Hendersons will have it by Thursday.
I grab a bottle of water and step outside. The November sun is low, painting everything a rich gold. From the workshop door, I can see the edge of town—the road that leads to Main Street, to the shop, to her.
She’s down there right now. Selling books. Recommending stories. Smiling at customers who smiled back and keeping her composure with the ones who didn’t. Showing up for a town that’s still deciding whether to show up for her.
I want to drive down there and check on her. Make sure she’s eaten. Make sure no one’s giving her shit.
Instead, I go back inside and pick up my tongs.
She doesn’t need me to check on her all the time. What she needs is someone who shows up without being asked, who makes things like bookends, breakfast… a life… and offers them without conditions.
I can do that. I’ve been doing it for five years.
The metal heats. The hammer falls. The shape emerges.
She doesn’t need me at her door today. She needs a day where she proves to herself that she can do this on her own.
I think she already knows. She just needs to believe it.
CHAPTER 9
I’m doom-scrolling again.
I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s the digital equivalent of picking at a scab. It’s painful, counterproductive, and guaranteed to make things worse. But I can’t stop refreshing the Sierra Rose Ridge Community Facebook group page.
It’s been three days since the vandalism. Three days of Mateo showing up at the shop every morning before going to work at the forge, Isabel stopping by with coffee, and Macy aggressivelyrecommending romance novels to every customer like she’s on a personal mission to prove smut is literature.
Three okay-ish days where the comments died down to something slightly more than a trickle. It was enough that I started to believe maybe—just maybe—the worst was over.
Except now there’s a new thread. My stomach knots.
I should stop reading. Put the laptop away. Go to bed like a reasonable person.
But nope.
