“Hey,” I say, quieter this time. “She’s not wrong … but that doesn’t mean you’re out of this.”
Becca would’ve said it cleaner, better. And she would’ve been right. That was the difference. She didn’t just talk about building something, she actually did it.
“You need to understand what you’re building,” I add. “And what it’s going to take to keep it standing.”
She nods, but the light’s dimmed in her eyes.
We finish the floor in silence. But the foundation we laid today—literal and otherwise—feels like a start.
Holly looks around with a big smile on her face. “Thanks for teaching me how to do this, Sam. I really appreciate all you do for me. And I want to be a part of building this, every step of the way.”
I smile at her, give her a big hug and tell her I will see her tomorrow.
I drive home and can’t pull myself together to get inside. I have always loved this house. I would visit my grandparents whenever I could. It was different from how my parents' house was. I was incredibly lucky to grow up in the life my parents created, but this house, this property, felt more real to me.
The garden in the back is cared for by Grandma. The shop, built with Grandad, holds all the “maybe I will use this someday” materials I inherited. I laugh thinking about the time Becca needed more garden markers, so I used a variety of old spoons, tools, and other metal materials.
I bent them in a corresponding pattern and got her a white paint marker. She laughed and said how much she loved them, calling it upcycling. Now I sit on our front porch, smiling at the memory.
As I lean back, I glance to the side of our porch. That’s where Becca wanted to put a swing. I didn’t think much of it since I was busy working or helping Holly. I head to my stockpile of wood in the storage shed and start gathering materials. I may not have kept my promises before, but I can start doing it now.
11
BECCA
It’s been two weeks of house-sitting at the Rothschilds. Two weeks since my marriage cracked wide open—too big to ignore, too sharp to hold.
Bernie and I walk the usual morning loop around the neighborhood. Everything here is perfect: shiny hedges, fancy pavers, and dogs dressed better than I am. I keep my head down and my breath steady.
Back at the house, I unclip Bernie’s leash, and he flops onto his bed with a groan, legs splayed like he ran a marathon. I snap a picture and send it to the Rothschilds, along with an update on their roses. I don’t expect a reply yet since they’re nine hours ahead, but Mrs. Rothschild loves her daily reports. It’s the least I can do.
After a quick shower and some dry shampoo sorcery, I open the front door to leave for work—and find one again.
Gift number nine.
Always waiting for me after Bernie’s walk, before I leave. As if he knows my routine better than I do. Sam’s little daily offering. His penance in ribbon and twine.
The second day, it was a cupcake from that ridiculousbakery I always refuse to splurge on. Seven dollars for a cupcake is robbery. Except when it’s on Sam's personal card. I took a bite anyway … and didn’t think about the price.
The note read:I know you love these and think they’re overpriced, but anything that makes you smile like that is worth it.
Another day, flowers from our backyard—our flowers—in a mason jar.You said they grow better when you’re happy. I figured they deserved a pick-me-up.
Then two tubes of my favorite Chapstick.If memory serves, you’ve either lost one or whittled it down to the plastic. I’m hedging my bets.
Damn him. He was right.
Day five, a worn baseball cap from the local Cascadia Bucks, the one I bought him on our third date when a bird pooped in his hair.Still the worst team in the state. But you laughed so hard that day, I knew I’d marry you. This hat always looked better on you anyway.
Sam never used our joint account for things like this. Dates, little gifts—always his card, like he didn’t want it to count against our budget. He used to say his personal account was for spoiling me. And in a lot of ways, he did.
Until one decision made all of that feel … irrelevant.
Today's gift is a bottle of my favorite laundry scent boosters. The kind I use on all our sheets and blankets that helps drift me off to sleep.
The note says:You always said scent is tied to memory. I can’t describe this one except home. I thought you should have a little piece of it while you’re away.
I blink. Hard. My throat knots.
