Chapter 9
Theo
My shift ends at six.
I’m logging the last equipment check when my phone buzzes on the desk. Rachel’s name lights up the screen.
Hey. Random question – are you any good at fixing things? I have a shelf situation.
I stare at the message for three seconds before Cole walks past and glances over my shoulder.
“Rachel?” His voice is careful. Neutral.
“Yeah. Needs help with something.” I pocket my phone without responding to the text. “You heading out?”
“In a bit.” He doesn’t move. Just stands there like he’s waiting for me to say more.
I don’t.
We’ve been doing this dance for two days now, ever since that breakfast with Marco, where he looked at both of us like we were idiots walking into a trap. The air between us feels different. Heavier. Like we’re both aware of something neither of us wants to name.
“Tell her I said hi,” Cole says finally, and walks away.
I wait until he’s out of the station before I text back.
What kind of situation?
Her response comes immediately: The kind where my bedroom shelf collapsed and I’m pretty sure I’m going to injure myself trying to fix it. Jake took Tommy to his friend’s house for a sleepover, and I’m alone with a drill I don’t know how to use.
I’ll be there in fifteen.
You’re a lifesaver. I’ll feed you. It’s the least I can do. She texts back.
I grab my keys and head out before I can overthink it. Before I can think about how empty houses and Rachel’s bedroom are probably a terrible combination. Before I can remember the festival kiss and wonder if showing up alone is crossing some invisible line.
The Morgan house looks quiet when I pull up. One light on in the living room, porch light glowing yellow against the evening dark. I grab my toolbox from the truck bed and head up the walkway.
Rachel opens the door before I can knock.
“You’re fast.” She steps back to let me in. Her hair’s pulled up in a messy knot, and she’s wearing an old Millbrook Falls High T-shirt that’s probably Jake’s and jeans with a hole in one knee. “I was expecting at least twenty minutes.”
“Light traffic.” I set the toolbox down. “Where’s this shelf?”
“Upstairs. My room.” She closes the door. “Fair warning, it’s a disaster. I was trying to organize my books and the whole thing just… gave up on life.”
I follow her up the stairs. The house smells like something baking. Chocolate, maybe. Or cookies. Something sweet that makes my stomach remind me I skipped lunch.
Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. The shelf in question is half-hanging off the wall above her dresser, books and picture frames scattered across the floor.
“Okay, yeah.” I crouch down to examine the damage. “This is definitely a situation.”
“Told you.” She sits on the edge of her bed, tucking one leg under her. “I tried to Google how to fix it, but all the videos assume you know what a wall anchor is.”
“Do you know what a wall anchor is?”
“Not even a little bit.”
I grin despite myself. “Good news is, it’s fixable. Bad news is that whoever installed this originally did a terrible job. These screws are way too short for drywall.”
“So basically, my shelf was doomed from the start.”
“Pretty much.” I open my toolbox and start pulling out what I need. “This is going to take maybe thirty minutes. Forty if I’m being careful.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” She watches me work for a minute, then stands. “I’m going to check on the cookies. Yell if you need anything.”
She disappears downstairs, and I’m left alone in her bedroom with a broken shelf and way too many thoughts.
The room is small. Cozy. The walls are pale blue, and there’s a photo collage above the bed—pictures of Tommy at various ages, a few of her and Jake as kids, and one of her parents. The dresser has a jewelry box and a stack of books. Everything’s neat except for the mess from the collapsed shelf.
It feels personal being in here. More intimate than the lake or the festival. This is her space where she sleeps and gets ready in the morning. Where she probably lies awake at night worrying about job interviews and custody battles and all the things she doesn’t talk about.
I force myself to focus on the shelf.
The original holes are stripped, so I have to drill new ones. Find the studs. Make sure this time it actually holds. The work is methodical. Familiar. I can do this kind of thing in my sleep.
Rachel comes back up twenty minutes later with a glass of water.
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done. Just need to mount the brackets.” I take the water and drain half of it. “Your cookies smell good, by the way.”
“They’re chocolate chip. Tommy’s favorite, but he’s not here to eat them, so you’re getting the benefit.” She sits on the bed again, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you really come? You could’ve told me to call a handyman. Or wait for Jake.”
I set the water down and pick up the drill. “Maybe I wanted an excuse to see you.”
The words hang there. Too honest. Too direct.
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When I glance over, she’s looking at me with this expression I can’t quite read.
“Theo—”
“I know.” I turn back to the wall. “I know this is complicated. I know you’re dealing with a lot.
I know I’m Jake’s friend and that makes this…
whatever this is… a bad idea.” I drill the first bracket into place.
“But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m terrible at pretending I don’t feel things. ”
“You’re not terrible at it. You’re just honest.” Her voice is soft. “I like that about you.”
“Yeah?” I mount the second bracket and test its stability. “What else do you like?”
“You’re fishing for compliments.”
“Maybe.”
She laughs, a slight sound, but real. “You make me feel less alone. Like I’m not just surviving. Like I’m actually allowed to want things again.”
I set the drill down and turn to face her. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know yet.” But the way she’s looking at me suggests she knows exactly what she wants. “I’m still figuring it out.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
I finish the shelf in another ten minutes. Test it three times to make sure it holds. Put all her books and frames back in place exactly how I think they were before.
“There.” I step back. “That should last you another decade. Maybe longer if Tommy doesn’t use it as a climbing wall.”
“He definitely will.” Rachel stands, inspecting my work. “This looks great. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“I’m serious. You didn’t have to come over. You didn’t have to help me.” She turns to face me. “But you did. And that means something.”
We’re standing so close that I notice the small scar on her chin that I never saw before.
“Rachel—”
“Come downstairs,” she says. “Let me give you those cookies before you leave.”
The kitchen smells even better up close. She’s got a plate of cookies cooling on the counter, and she starts packing some into a container without asking if I want them.
“Jake’s going to wonder why there’s only half a batch left,” I point out.
“Jake can make his own cookies.” She seals the container and hands it to me. “Besides, you earned these. Hazard pay for dealing with my disaster of a shelf.”
“It wasn’t a disaster. Just poorly installed.”
“You’re being generous.” She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “But thank you. For everything.”
I should walk out now, take the cookies, and go home because empty houses and Rachel Morgan are a dangerous combination, but I do the opposite and set the container down.
“Can I ask you something now?”
“Sure.”
“Do you ever think about the festival?” I ask before I can stop myself. “About what happened by the lake?”
Her expression shifts. “Yes.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know what to do with it.” She pushes off the counter and moves closer. “I don’t know what to do with any of this. With how I feel when you’re around. With how everything feels different now.”
“Different how?”
“Like maybe I’m allowed to want things again. Like maybe starting over doesn’t have to mean doing it alone.” She stops right in front of me. “You said you believe in fresh starts. That I make you believe it’s possible.”
“You do.”
“You make me believe it, too.”
She kisses me.
Not hesitant. Not asking. Just her mouth on mine and her hands sliding up my chest, and every thought in my head going completely quiet.
I pull her closer, one hand tangling in her hair, the other finding her waist. She tastes like chocolate, and I want to memorize this moment—the way she fits against me, the slight sound she makes when I deepen the kiss, the way her fingers curl into my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“Upstairs,” she whispers against my mouth.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”