Chapter 23
WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS NOW?
Tucker
Two full days, and the overgrown weeds are gone, the driveway isn’t covered with green moss, and the hedges around the house are trimmed instead of trying to become one with the house.
It actually looks like it’s turning into a home instead of a cautionary tale of neglect.
I got the vibes today that the producers didn’t expect we could finish the yard in such a short time.
Truth be told, if we didn’t have the help of the town, I’m not sure we would have.
The vibes I get from Andrea are still off.
There’s this deep feeling in my gut she would rather see this season be a failure than a success…
or a Nailed It as the show calls it. But by the end of the day, the looks shifted to something of wonder.
They didn’t expect our community to show up the way they did.
They didn’t expect to get the shots they did so that viewers would fall in love with Scottie and this project.
But they did. They are. They will.
Bluestone Lakes is more than just a community—we’re family. When someone’s in need, we do what we need to help. When word spreads, people come. It’s what the producers didn’t say, but I heard anyway: the yard alone could’ve eaten the schedule alive if we let it.
But it didn’t.
It’s done.
We bought Scottie breathing room.
And that part matters more than anything.
By the time the last van pulls away, the house feels quiet.
It reminds me of the time before all of this started where this property was my peace.
My safe place to sit and think. In a way, it still is.
Even when dozens of people are hammering away or painting walls, it’s still the peace I’ve always come here for—it’s still the place I can hear myself clearly.
I step across the yard, dragging leftover lumber toward the side of the house. It doesn’t need moving, but my hands feel restless, and movement keeps the thoughts from getting too loud. I reposition them in neat stacks where we will need them for the next project we tackle.
“You know it’s still going to be here tomorrow, right?”
Griffin’s voice comes from behind me, but I don’t turn around. “I’m aware.”
I bend down to pick up a stray nail that isn’t in anyone’s way and toss it into the bed of my truck, before rounding my truck, opening the passenger door and organizing my tool belt on the seat.
“I feel like this doesn’t need to be said,” Griffin says, still behind me and resting a hand on my shoulder. “But in case you need the reminder, you don’t ever have to pretend to be strong around me. You know I’m always here for whatever you need.”
“I don’t know what you mean?” I say in a semi teasing tone over my shoulder. “I’m not pretending.”
He studies me, eyes flicking over the way I reorganize my tool belt. “Right.”
“I’m not,” I repeat. “I’m just cleaning things up here before heading to the bar.”
“You work too much. You don’t give yourself a break.”
I shrug, turning to face him. “I like working. You know this.”
He rolls his eyes. “No one likes working this much.”
I lift my chin, trying to keep the conversation light and even teasing to avoid wherever my gut thinks Griffin is going with this. “Well…I do.”
He exhales through his nose. “I’m not here to drag up old shit.
I’m not here to call you out or argue with you about how much you like working.
I’m here to be your friend—your cousin. And because of that, I know when a break is needed.
” His gaze drifts toward the house looming behind us. “Tonight, you need one. You’re off.”
“You just gave me a night off recently,” I argue.
“And maybe it’s time for another,” he says, his tone softer but he doesn’t back down. “You can pretend all you want with the show, with life, and with whatever is going on between you and Scottie. But you can’t pretend with me.”
I look down at the grass at my feet no longer clawing its way up my ankles, trying to come up with something funny to say back and make him take it back so I can work.
Keep the jokes going as I always do, to maintain a light, optimistic mood.
But nothing comes up. My jaw tightens, and nothing comes up.
He gestures toward my truck parked behind me. “Go home, Tucker.”
And before I can say anything more, he walks away.
Part of me is glad he did, because I know anything that would have come out of my mouth would have been bullshit. Griffin knows all about my past. The trauma. The devastation. The way my life changed entirely in one single night.
The night I lost everything.
I swallow hard, dragging my sweaty palms down my jeans as if it will wipe away the feelings. Something stirs beneath the surface of my mind. The memories push, demanding space I refuse to give them.
Flashes of light.
Heat.
Screaming.
I shove them back down where they belong so they can’t touch me, because letting them rise only makes me feel things I don’t want to feel. I’ve spent far too fucking long building walls strong enough to keep it buried, and I’m not about to let a moment like this crack them open.
Maybe I do need this night off after all.
But when I get back to my house, everything feels wrong.
I shower and throw on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt.
Then I find myself walking around the living room and kitchen like I don’t belong here, like a stranger in my own space.
It feels like I’m forgetting to clock in somewhere.
I’m not used to being here when the sun is still in the sky; even if it’s cresting over the mountain for sunset, it’s still illuminating my place just enough that I forget what it looked like before tonight.
I move around the kitchen more by muscle memory than by intention.
Pulling out a pan and some things stuffed away in my refrigerator, I get to making dinner.
It’s not until I’m standing over my sink that I catch the light turning on in the apartment above my garage.
My movement stills because I was so lost in my own head when I got home, that I didn’t even look up the stairs the way I find myself doing every night when I get home from the bar.
I tell myself I’m just watching the window to make sure she’s okay.
But the moment the light switches off and I see her making her way down the stairs, I bolt for the door, ready to invite her in for dinner because it’s basic courtesy to offer her food.
I scoff to myself. It’s a lie, and even I don’t buy it.
I want to see her.
Without people hovering over us or working on the house.
Just…her.
She stops at the middle of the steps, looking down at her phone and sending a message. She looks from the street and back to her phone as if she’s waiting for someone. Jealousy roars to life for no damn reason.
I step outside, and the closer I get to the stairs, my stupid heart reacts like it’s hearing its favorite song.
She looks like she’s dressed to go out—hair down straight, falling over her shoulders.
She’s wearing a pair of tight jeans and a flowy brown tank top tucked into the front of them.
The colors aren’t as vibrant as the day I met her, but even muted, she’s still… bright.
“Hey,” I say, stopping a safe distance from her.
It startles her, and she snaps her head up, hand flying to her chest. “Christ, Tucker. You scared the shit out of me.”
“I thought you heard me coming. My boots are never quiet.”
“I guess you’re right.” She smiles, body relaxing. “I was busy reading a text from Lily that she’s running late.”
“That sounds about right for her.” I laugh. “Are you…heading out?”
I don’t know why I paused asking her that. I’m not entirely sure I have the right to know what she’s doing. But a deeper part of me wants her to stay, when my heart is screaming to let her go. It’s screaming to not to get too close.
She nods, taking one more step down. “We’re going to Seven Stools for some dinner and drinks. I thought you’d be working.”
I try not to read too much into that.
Did she want to see me tonight?
“I’ve been demoted to the guy who stays home and cooks. Griffin forced me to take the night off.”
Her brow furrows. “This is the second night off for you since I’ve been here.”
I shrug like it’s not a big deal.
But inside? It makes my heart beat double time that she notices.
“You work a lot,” she adds, studying me in that way she’s started doing lately, like she’s trying to figure out what’s underneath my jokes. “It might make someone think you’re running from something.”
It lands harder than it should.
I hold her gaze for half a second too long before forcing a crooked smile. “Or maybe I just really enjoy my own cooking.”
She doesn’t smile back.
“Why do you do that?” she asks, eyes narrowed and head tilted to the side as she makes her way to the bottom step of the stairs. “Why do you always hide behind jokes?”
Her question catches me off guard because she doesn’t say it accusingly, she says it like she’s genuinely curious. I huff out a quiet laugh and glance away from her. The idea of letting her see that? It kicks my heart rate up a notch.
“If I stop joking,” I say, bringing my eyes back to hers.
“Then people start to see the parts of me I can’t fix.
The cracks that don’t sand smooth. The stuff duct tape doesn’t hold or spackle won’t cover.
” I swallow, wanting to look away but I can’t.
“I know how to fix houses, but I don’t know how to fix people. Especially myself.”
Something softens in her expression and I see the faintest smile form on her lips. She steps toward me, stopping in front of me. “Maybe you don’t have to fix everything.”
“That thought keeps me up at night.”
The words hang thick between us, and neither of us looks away. Her eyes keep searching mine for a better answer. She wants the truth I don’t let anyone close enough to see.