Chapter 2
Marcus
H ome. This store was home.
The familiar scent of wood shavings and metal filled my nostrils as I moved through the aisles of Wilkins' Hardware. My footsteps echoed softly on the polished wooden floors, each deliberate step grounding me in the routine I'd followed for years.
I paused to take in the sight around me. The high shelves stacked neatly with tools and supplies, the warm glow of the vintage hanging lights casting a comforting hue over everything. This place wasn't just a business; it was a living, breathing memory. Every nook and cranny held a story—like the old cash register my grandfather insisted on keeping, its keys worn smooth from decades of use. I remembered standing on a stool beside him as a kid, his large hands guiding mine as I punched in numbers, his deep laugh echoing whenever I got it wrong.
I paused at a display of wrenches, my hands moving automatically to straighten the tools until they formed a perfect line. The cool metal was soothing under my fingertips. I let out a slow breath, savoring the small sense of control.
"Get it together, Marcus," I muttered to myself. "It's just another day."
But it didn't feel like just another day. The weight of memories pressed down on me, making even the familiar sanctuary of the store feel off-kilter. I ran my hand over a shelf of freshly stocked paint cans, the vibrant colors a stark contrast to the dull ache in my chest.
The blues and greens reminded me of the ocean, of that trip Emily and I had taken to the coast. We'd walked along the beach, our hands entwined, the salty breeze tangling her hair as she laughed at some silly joke I'd made. I shook my head, trying to push the image away, but it clung stubbornly, refusing to fade.
My gaze drifted to the framed photo on the counter—my grandfather smiling proudly in front of the store on opening day. What would he think if he could see me now? Struggling to keep it together over a failed relationship.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the doubts. "This place is more than just a store," I reminded myself firmly. "It's a legacy. Your legacy."
I could almost hear Grandpa's voice, rough but kind, "Chin up, kiddo. Life knocks you down, but you get back up stronger." He'd built this place from the ground up, pouring his heart into every beam and nail. Dad had carried on the tradition, adding his own touches, like the garden section Mom had insisted on. Now it was my turn to keep the legacy alive. I owed it to them—to myself—not to let personal troubles get in the way.
The words rang hollow in the quiet shop. I busied myself straightening more displays, hoping the repetitive motion would quiet my racing thoughts. But images of Emily kept intruding—her laugh, her smile, the look in her eyes when she told me it had all been a lie.
I slammed a hammer down on the counter harder than intended, the sharp crack making me wince.
"Careful there," came a familiar voice from the doorway. "Don't want to break your own merchandise."
I looked up to see Mrs. Henderson, one of our oldest regular customers, peering at me with concern.
"Morning, Mrs. H," I said, forcing a smile. "Just doing some... reorganizing. What can I help you with today?"
Mrs. Henderson had run a small, all-female decorating company, called Henderson’s Hens, for over 30 years, and she always came to me for supplies—just like she’d come to my dad before me.
She gave me a knowing look. "Oh, I think I can find what I need. But are you alright, dear? You seem a bit out of sorts."
I hesitated, weighing how much to reveal. Mrs. Henderson had known me since I was a kid running around the store in diapers. But admitting weakness didn't come easily.
I sighed softly. "Just one of those days, I guess."
She tilted her head, her sharp eyes studying me. "You know, your grandfather used to get that same crease between his brows when something was bothering him."
I chuckled despite myself. "I suppose it runs in the family."
She reached out and patted my hand. "Sometimes talking helps, Marcus. You don't have to carry the weight alone."
I felt a flicker of warmth at her concern. "Thanks, Mrs. H. It's nothing serious, just... life stuff."
She nodded knowingly. "Well, if you ever need a listening ear, you know where to find me. Now, where did you move those paintbrushes to?"
I grinned, grateful for the change of subject. "Aisle three, right where they've always been. Let me show you."
As she wandered off to browse, I took a deep breath, trying to draw strength from her words and the familiar surroundings of the store. One day at a time. That's all I could do for now.
The cheerful jingle of the front doorbell cut through my brooding. I looked up to see Brett striding in, his Small Falls Fire Department shirt crisp and neat. A playful grin lit up his face as he held up two steaming cups of coffee.
"Morning, brother!" he called out. "Thought you could use a caffeine kick."
The sight of my little brother, so full of life and energy, lifted my spirits. A genuine smile spread across my face for the first time that morning.
"You're a lifesaver," I replied, gratefully accepting the cup. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted up, already working its magic. "Long night?"
Brett shrugged, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Just the usual cat-in-tree rescue. You know, real dangerous, hero stuff."
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh yeah, real tough guy over here. Rescuing kittens and helping little old ladies cross the street."
"Hey, don't knock it," Brett shot back, his grin widening. "Those cats have claws, man. And Mrs. Bradley's walker is a lethal weapon."
We shared another laugh, the easy camaraderie between us evident. These moments with Brett were a lifeline, reminding me I wasn't as alone as I sometimes felt. The tightness in my chest eased a little.
"So," I said, taking a sip of the coffee. "What brings Small Falls' finest to my humble establishment this early?"
Brett settled against the counter, his eyes glinting mischievously as he took a sip of his own coffee. "Funny you should ask. I ran into Jenna the other day. You remember her friend Sarah?"
I felt a knot form in my stomach. I knew where this was going. "Here we go," I groaned, though I couldn't help but smile at my brother's persistence.
"What?" Brett's voice was all innocence, but his grin gave him away. "She's nice, smart, loves the outdoors... Oh, and did I mention she's single now?"
I shook my head, feeling a familiar heaviness settle over me. "I appreciate the thought, Brett, but I'm not really looking to date right now."
Brett raised an eyebrow, his expression softening. "Still? It's been over a year since... Well, you know."
The unfinished sentence hung in the air between us. Images of Emily flashed through my mind, and I had to push them away. "I know," I replied softly, focusing on the grain of the wooden counter. "I just need more time. Plus it’s not like I need a relationship. Not like I’m gonna drop dead because I don’t have a girlfriend."
I could feel the weight of Brett's concern pressing in. He meant well, but he didn't understand. How could he, when I hadn't told him the whole truth? The real reason Emily had left, the part of myself I'd revealed to her that she'd rejected so completely.
Part of me wanted to open up, to explain the mess of emotions I was still sorting through. But another part, the part that had learned to guard itself, held back.
"Look, Marcus," Brett said, his voice gentle. "I'm not trying to push you. I know you’re not gonna drop dead. That’s not the point. But I can see you’re lonely. I can feel it. I hate seeing you like this, you know?"
I nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "I know you mean well. It's just . . . complicated."
More complicated than my brother could know.
I glanced at Brett, his earnest face so open and unburdened. Sometimes I envied his ability to wear his heart on his sleeve, to dive headfirst into life without the constant second-guessing that plagued me. But I'd learned early on that vulnerability could be a weapon turned against you.
I turned away, busying myself with a nearby display of screws. The cool metal between my fingers grounded me but couldn't stop the flood of memories. Emily's laugh, bright and carefree. The plans we'd made, dreams of a future that now felt like a cruel joke.
"You okay?" Brett's voice cut through my thoughts.
"Yeah," I lied, arranging the screws with unnecessary precision. "Just thinking about inventory."
But I wasn't. I was thinking about the night Emily had shattered everything.
"I thought I'd grow into it," she'd said, her voice so casual it felt like a slap. "But it's just not me. I was wrong."
The dismissal of something so deeply personal, so integral to who I was, left me reeling. I'd opened up, shown her the most vulnerable parts of myself, and she'd treated it like trying on a new outfit.
"Marcus?" Brett's hand on my shoulder startled me, brought me back to reality. "You sure you're alright?"
I forced a smile. "Just got lost in thought for a second. No big deal."
I lied to him, just like I’d lied to myself so many times.
It was a big deal. The biggest. The memory of that night still stung, making me question everything. Had I been a fool to believe her? To think someone could truly understand and want that nurturing dynamic I craved?
The longing for a connection where I could let down my guard, where being protective and caring wasn't seen as overbearing or old-fashioned. I'd hoped Emily was that person, someone who understood that my need to take care of others was as much a part of me as the color of my eyes.
"Listen," Brett said, his voice low. "I know things ended rough with Emily. But not everyone's like that."
The thing is, he didn’t know. No one knew what had really happened between Emily and me. I’d told my brother the same thing I’d told everyone—that we’d drifted apart.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. How could I explain the fear that had gripped me? The worry that I'd open myself up again, only to be laughed at, dismissed?
How could I ever explain the person that I was?
"Thanks," I managed finally. "I just . . . I need to focus on the store for now. You know?"
Brett squeezed my shoulder. "I get it. Just don't shut yourself off completely, okay?"
I met his gaze, seeing the genuine concern there. "I'll try," I promised, meaning it despite the doubt that gnawed at me.
As Brett headed for the door, I called out, "Hey, thanks for the coffee. And . . . you know, for caring."
He grinned. "What are little brothers for?"
Brett paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "Oh, by the way," he said, turning back to me. "I saw Lucy Bennett at The Daily Grind this morning."
My head snapped up, surprise jolting through me. "Lucy? She's back in town?"
"Yep," Brett nodded. "Seems she's here to sort out her dad's place after he passed."
A flood of memories hit me. Lucy, the girl next door with her wild auburn curls and mischievous grin. I hadn't thought about her in years, but suddenly I could picture her clear as day, always with that sketchbook tucked under her arm.
"Damn," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "That's tough. Her dad was a good guy."
Brett leaned against the door frame. "Yeah, she looked pretty overwhelmed. Mentioned something about renovations."
I felt a tug in my chest. The idea of Lucy dealing with all that alone didn't sit right with me. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "Maybe I should stop by. See if she needs any supplies or . . . I don't know, advice on the work."
I was pretty experienced when it came to renovation work and had helped out with a variety of projects around town.
A slow grin spread across Brett's face. "Look at you, jumping at the chance to help a damsel in distress."
I rolled my eyes, feeling heat creep up my neck. "It's not like that. She's probably just looking for a friendly face, is all."
"Uh-huh," Brett smirked. "Well, whatever your reasons, I think it's a great idea. Might do you both some good."
As he left, the bell jingling behind him, I stood there, caught between the urge to help and the fear of putting myself out there again. Lucy's face flashed in my mind, those green eyes filled with a warmth I'd almost forgotten existed.
I thought back to summers spent playing in the fields behind our houses, catching fireflies as dusk settled in. Lucy was always daring me to go on some adventure—climbing the tallest tree, exploring the creek, building forts out of scrap wood from the store. She was fearless, a whirlwind of energy that drew me in and pushed me out of my comfort zone.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. It was just neighborly concern, that's all. Nothing more. But as I turned back to my work, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that something had shifted, ever so slightly, in my carefully ordered world.
I found myself drifting down memory lane, picturing Lucy as she used to be. That bouncy auburn hair, always escaping whatever tie or clip tried to contain it. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about her latest story idea, hands gesturing wildly as if she could paint the scenes in the air.
"Christ," I muttered, realizing I'd been staring at the same wrench display for five solid minutes.
I tried to focus on restocking, but my mind kept circling back. Lucy, sitting on her porch, tongue poking out as she sketched. Lucy, waving at me from her bike, nearly crashing into old Mrs. Peterson's rosebushes 'cause she wasn't watching where she was going.
A protective ache bloomed in my chest. How was she handling all this? Coming back to a house full of ghosts, trying to fix it up on her own. Did she even know which end of a hammer to use?
"She's not a kid anymore," I reminded myself. But the thought of her struggling alone didn't sit right.
I found myself eyeing the gift cards by the register. Maybe I could swing by, just to check in. Offer a friendly ear, some advice on contractors. No pressure, just . . . being a good neighbor.
"Yeah," I said to the empty store. "That's all it is."
I grabbed a gift card and started assembling a basic toolkit. Screwdrivers, a hammer, some sandpaper. My hands moved with practiced ease, but my mind was racing.
"Maybe I should stop by," I said out loud, testing the words. "See if she needs anything for the house. Renovations can be overwhelming."
I kept picturing Lucy struggling with a stuck window or tangled in electrical wires. My protective instincts were in overdrive.
I added safety goggles and work gloves to the pile. Maybe this wasn't just about helping her. Maybe it was a step towards... something. Healing? Moving on?
But then doubt crept in, cold and familiar. Why would a confident young woman want help from someone like me? She'd probably be offended or think I thought she couldn't handle it.
I stared at the items I'd gathered, feeling foolish. With a sigh, I started putting everything back.
"Get a grip, Marcus," I muttered. "You've got work to do."
I buried myself in inventory, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that I was making a mistake.
As the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the store floor, I couldn't shake the restlessness gnawing at me. Maybe reaching out to Lucy wasn't just about helping her—it was about allowing myself to reconnect with someone who once knew me before life got so complicated.
I glanced at the framed photo of Grandpa again. His eyes seemed to hold a hint of amusement, as if encouraging me to take a chance.
"One step at a time," I whispered.