Chapter 3
Fable
“Knocks, I think we’re cursed.” I nudge a bucket under the dripping pipe. Every time I think I’ve finally managed to stop this leak, I run into a new problem.
My tortoiseshell kitten nudges at my elbow, trying to worm his way under the bathroom sink to see what I’m doing.
“No, buddy. I actually don’t need your help for this.” I drop the pipe wrench so I can set him back a few feet behind me. He gives me a sassy meow in response. “You’re already on my naughty list after the shit you pulled with my phone cord. I don’t need you making this worse.”
His dark eyes blink once, completely unapologetic about the fact that my phone is now dead because he chewed through the charging cable.
I pull my laptop onto my thighs and press play on the video.
The man on the screen explains the steps to cut and replace the piping while I make a supply list on the back of a receipt.
When the video ends, I walk outside to shut off the water to the A-frame.
At least while I’m at work today, I don’t have to worry about that small leak turning into a flood.
On my way back down the hall, my feet pause in front of the downstairs bedroom door. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for my routine check-in as I turn the knob.
Dust particles dance through the sunlight streaming in from the window. They drift over the stacks of boxes, a sheet-covered armchair, and the table that sat in Gramps’s kitchen for as long as I can remember.
This room is a time capsule, holding memories for me that I’m too afraid to examine closely. Opening any of these boxes—seeing his books, blankets, puzzles, Christmas ornaments—would hurt too much. So they stay tucked in this room. Frozen in time. Undisturbed.
He’s still everywhere in and around this cabin.
In the kitchen, where he used to make me and my sisters cups of tea every afternoon.
In the living room, where he read me stories while I did puzzles.
In the dining area, where we labeled jars of his fresh thimbleberry jam.
On the back porch, where we sat, watching the seasons change.
After Gramps died two years ago, my sisters and I spent a weekend here, putting everything in boxes until Dad could decide what to do with it.
When our parents started having conversations a few months ago about how run-down the property had gotten, they hinted at selling it, and I couldn’t let that happen.
The thought of someone else owning this place made me nauseous.
Knocks brushes my ankle as he steps two paws into the room. “No, no, no,” I whisper, pulling him back. “This isn’t for you.” It isn’t for me, either—touching anything in this room would feel like poking at an infected wound.
I scoop him up and glance over everything for one more long moment before carefully shutting the door.
“He would’ve loved you though,” I murmur, nuzzling my cheek against Knocks’s head as I walk to the kitchen to make tea.
While the kettle heats up, I pluck the to-do list from the fridge and add a few items to it.
The list seems to be growing instead of dwindling.
There are some bigger, safety-related items that need to be done as soon as possible, like fixing the broken steps, replacing all the smoke detectors, leveling the house, and stabilizing the railing on the stairs.
Then there are things that would be nice to fix, like getting some insulation under the house before next winter and figuring out why it takes about seven years for the water to get warm in the shower.
Last, there are items on the list that I think would be fun. Like painting the hallway to brighten it up and removing the wall that Gramps always talked about taking down to open up the kitchen. Those are bonus tasks that I dream about getting to accomplish.
Altogether, this is a huge project. But I’m determined to tackle it. I need to prove to myself that I can accomplish something.
High school Fable was successful. Motivated. Top of the class, full of plans, and executing them to the highest degree.
Then something happened. A switch flipped during my first semester of college, and all that motivation vanished.
For years, I haven’t been able to find the path I’m meant to be on, and that has led to many failed attempts along the way.
My family has rallied behind me for every new idea I’ve had.
Going to college? They got bumper stickers and helped me move in.
Dropping out? Mom found me an apartment and searched job pages with me.
Going to be a waitress? Family trip to Seattle to visit the restaurant.
A barista now? Perfect, we have a new spot to get coffee.
The flower shop is hiring? That’s amazing, we love flowers!
The hardware store? Here, you need your own tool belt!
They show up every time. Full excitement.
They’ve helped me move to and from Seattle, paid out the rest of my lease when I couldn’t, let me live with them for the last two years, reassured me, “This is the right decision,” every time I switched jobs.
They help me clean up the mess, sweep it under the rug, and we move on like nothing happened.
And I love them. God, I love them so much.
But every time they pick me back up, there’s this look on all their faces. It’s a knowing, we-saw-this-coming look, and I don’t even think they realize they’re doing it.
That’s all right. Don’t worry about it. Life happens, sweetie.
My self-confidence crumbles in the face of it. I’m chaotic, unsuccessful Fable—moved back home because I couldn’t get my life together. And even though they’ve never said those words, that’s exactly how it feels.
The truth is, when it comes to this A-frame project, something feels imperative about it. It’s fundamental. Foundational. I can’t move on until I’ve done this and seen it through to the end. It may not be perfect or easy, but I’m determined to keep trying for Gramps. He deserves my greatest effort.
I add fix bathroom sink piping right under where I’d crossed it off last night, thinking I’d resolved it for the second time. I pin the list back on Gramps’s vintage sage-green fridge beside the only picture I have displayed in the house.
My ten-year-old smile and Gramps’s sixty-seven-year-old smile shine back at me from the grainy photo.
We’re crouching beside the flower bed in front of the A-frame—where his pink, orange, and yellow tulips blossomed every spring.
He has that sparkle in his eye that was reserved just for his granddaughters.
That sparkle began dimming a few years ago, when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
“Can you read to me?” Gramps would ask, and I would. The Hobbit, My Side of the Mountain, and Julie of the Wolves. All books he introduced me to. His favorites.
“Remind me again about the bookstore we’re going to open,” he’d say, and I’d recount every detail he’d lined out for me over the years. The cozy chairs in the back corner, the plants in the front windows, the free books on the stoop, because in his words, “everyone needs a story.”
“Tell me about my Hazel,” he’d request, and even though Grandma passed away when my dad was a child, I’d tell him every story I’d heard over the years.
About her favorite flower, the tulips he tended in her honor.
About their wedding in the mountains, with only their parents and the birds to witness their vows.
Slowly—heartbreakingly—Gramps began to forget those tulips, forget his favorite books, forget the secret to opening Baby Blue’s door, until we were left to carry those memories.
But no matter how many memories there are, it’s not enough to fill the giant hole left behind by his loss.
The kettle squeals, and I startle, blinking to clear my vision. Making Gramps’s perfect cup of tea soothes my heart a bit. I let it steep for a few minutes, then add a tablespoon of cream—exactly how he taught me.
Then I lift my warm mug toward the photo on the fridge. “Cheers.” I swallow a sip and close my eyes, doing my best to re-create the little hum of contentedness he used to make. “Happy Birthday, Gramps.”
I’m stocking the shelves with a million types of light bulbs (Why the hell are there so many different options?) when I realize I left the supply list at home. It’s probably still sitting on the bathroom floor. Unless Knocks has found it and shredded it by now.
I reach for my phone to find the video again, only to remember it’s still dead. “Fuck,” I hiss quietly. Pushing the cart of light bulbs to the side, I walk toward the front counter in search of a charger.
“You doin’ okay?” Logan, my boss, pops into my path at the end of the aisle, concern etched across his face.
The overhead lights glint off his glasses as he tilts his head.
“Heard you say fuck. Did that handle get you again?” He reaches for my hand to examine the scar on my palm.
A sharp piece of metal cut me last week, and he had the first aid kit out in half a second and was dragging the cart away once I was bandaged up.
Logan is known around town as a grump, but he’s been nothing but a softie to me my whole life. When I walked in here a few months ago looking for a job, he had me working twenty minutes later, no questions asked.
“No, I’m fine.” The bell at the front of the store jingles as someone opens the door. “My phone is just—” I start, but my brain-to-mouth wires get tangled when Theo appears around the corner.
He’s wearing navy blue scrubs that look perfectly tailored to his muscular frame.
If there was a trophy for Sexiest Scrubs, those would win, hands-down.
His chestnut hair is a little messier than normal, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and somehow his presence seems to take up so much space in here.
My gaze dips down his frame, and the sight of his wide chest and strong thighs make me irrationally angry.
I hate that I notice any of it.
I hate that I’ve run into him two days in a row now.
I hate that I can still feel the ghost of his palm on my hip from last night.
I hate that every time I see him, my heart picks up the pace and something fluttery happens in my stomach.
But mostly, I hate the fact that I don’t actually hate that feeling at all.
“Fabes, thank goodness you’re here,” he says, stopping beside Logan and letting out a relieved breath.
I’m caught off guard for a moment. He’s here to see me? Why?
“This is where I work. Of course I’m here. What are you doing here?”
Theo looks to Logan, then to me, then back to Logan, before turning and grabbing the nearest item off a shelf. “I was uh . . . looking for these.”
Logan smothers a snort of laughter.
“Do you think I could ask you a few questions about”—Theo peers down at the package in his hands—“magnetic drill adapters?” He widens his eyes and tips his head toward the next aisle, clearing requesting we chat privately.
Logan glances at his watch. “I was about to head over to the coffee shop. Fable, you want your usual?”
“Yes, please.” I bite back my knowing smile. He really thinks I haven’t noticed his frequent trips to visit a certain employee next door. “Is Mabel working today?”
“Not sure,” he says, doing an awful job at pretending he doesn’t have her schedule memorized by now. He rounds the corner, and the bell jingles over the door as he leaves.
“Logan and Mabel, huh?” Theo whispers as we watch Logan through the window, tucking in his shirt and turning toward the coffee shop.
“His coffeepot is ‘on the fritz,’” I explain in my best imitation of Logan’s voice.
“Suspicious.” Theo shoves the drill adapter back onto the shelf. “But cute.”
When his gaze meets mine, an uncomfortable silence stretches between us. I don’t know why he’s here or what he wants from me, but being alone with him is . . . unnerving. There’s a tense feeling beneath my skin when it’s just the two of us, and I’m already too aware of it.
That’s when I notice his cheeks are rosy and he’s breathing heavily. The vet clinic is on the opposite side of town square, which isn’t very far for a man who goes on five-mile runs every morning.
Not that I know about that or anything.
“Did you run here?” I ask, suspicious.
“No, no.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Definitely didn’t run.”
My eyes narrow. “Then what’s wrong with you?” It comes out harsher than I intended, but I don’t take it back. I need answers. Now. Before this uncomfortable feeling has time to sink any deeper into the pit of my stomach.
A smirk plays on his lips. “That’s a great question. How much time do you have?”
A growl sneaks out of my throat before I can control it.
Is it too much to ask that we just get to the point?
I don’t have the time or the patience for his teasing.
Or his annoying grin. Or that mischievous look in his eyes.
“Just let me know when you’re ready to check out,” I grumble, turning back toward the cart of light bulbs.