Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Tom
The drill bit catches on the drywall anchor and the bracket shifts half an inch to the left. I exhale through my nose, back the screw out, realign.
"You've been working on that corner for twenty minutes," Wren says from across the shop.
"It's the last bracket. I want it level."
"It's just holding prints, not bricks, Tommy."
I press the drill trigger, sink the screw home, test the bracket with my palm. It’s solid. I stand, brushing dust off my jeans, and step back to check the alignment. The shelf runs straight along the back wall of Wren's new shop. All four brackets installed, no wobble, no gaps.
"There," I say. "Don't put anything heavier than ten pounds on it."
"You already told me that."
"I'm telling you again."
Wren sets down the box she's been unpacking and walks over, surveying the shelf with her arms crossed. "It looks good. Thanks, Tommy."
"No problem."
My phone buzzes on the floor next to my toolbox. I crouch down, pick it up, and the screen lights up with Sam's name and a photo attachment.
A pigeon. With a slice of pizza in its beak, standing on a table directly in front of a sign that reads CITY'S BEST PIZZA. I laugh out loud.
Wren glances over. "What?"
I turn the phone toward her. She squints at the screen, then grins. "Who sent you that?"
"Sam." I pocket the phone, still smiling. "She sends me a picture every morning. The most ridiculous thing she sees on her way to work."
Wren raises an eyebrow. "Every morning?"
I realize what I just admitted. I turn back to the toolbox and reorganize drill bits that are already in perfect rows. "It's a thing we do."
"A thing you do," Wren repeats.
"Don't make it weird."
"Too late."
I pick up the power drill, test the trigger even though I just used it thirty seconds ago. The motor whirs, stops. I set it back in the toolbox. "Okay. The shelf's done. You need anything else before I head out?"
Wren picks up a box labeled FLASH DESIGNS and starts unpacking prints onto the new shelf. "So I'm going to that ink collective thing next weekend. The one at the Powerhouse."
I nod, coiling the extension cord around my forearm. "The botanical blackwork artist, right?"
"Yeah. Her linework is insane. You should see her Instagram—she does these massive floral pieces that look like engravings." Wren pauses, glancing at me. "You want to come?"
"Can't. I'm busy."
"You. Busy?"
I smile. "Says the woman who just asked me to spend nine hours unpacking a tattoo shop on a Saturday."
"Fair." Wren goes back to the box, pulling out print after print—skulls, roses, geometric patterns. "So what's the job?"
"It's not a job." I drop the coiled cord into the toolbox, close the lid. "Sam and I are going to this exhibit at the Met. You know that Monet print I have? Turns out Sam saw the same exhibit years ago. Different day, same show."
Wren looks up. "Huh. Small world."
"Yeah. So there's this new thing at the Met—rooftop exhibit, urban photography at golden hour. She wanted to check it out, and I figured it'd be a good follow-up, you know, since we both—"
I'm still talking when I notice Wren has stopped unpacking. She's watching me, one eyebrow raised, a slow smile spreading across her face.
I stop mid-sentence. "What?"
"You basically just said 'I have plans.'"
I blink. "Yeah?"
"Tommy." Wren sets down the box. "You made plans. Two weeks out. With Sam."
I shrug. "So?"
"So you're the guy who keeps framed prints wrapped in a corner because you 'keep meaning to hang them.' And now you're planning museum dates in advance."
I look away, suddenly very interested in wiping nonexistent dust off the rag. "It's just an exhibit."
Wren crosses her arms, leaning against the counter. "It's a pattern. You're building something with her."
I don't answer. I set the rag on top of the toolbox, taking my time smoothing out the wrinkles.
Wren's voice softens. "So things are going well with Sam?"
My hands still for a second. Then I pick up a screwdriver I don't need, inspect it like I've never seen one before. "For a control freak, she's been surprisingly easy to work with."
Wren's expression doesn't change. "That's not what I was asking."
I exhale. Set down the screwdriver. "I know."
"Tom..."
I look up at her. "It's good. It's... really good."
Wren nods slowly. "And that terrifies you."
I run a hand through my hair, laugh—short, helpless. "Maybe?”
Wren waits. She's good at that—just waiting until I fill the silence. The hum of the tattoo shop's overhead lights fills the space. Someone walks past the front window, shadow cutting across the floor.
Last night, I sat on my couch with Sam tucked against my side, her head on my shoulder. She'd told me about her dad leaving. About being fourteen and watching her mom disappear into work and exhaustion. About learning that people leave.
I'd promised her I wasn't her dad. That I wasn't leaving.
I meant it. I still mean it.
I lean back against the shelf, crossing my arms. "I told her I'd come back. If I took jobs that required travel—Dubai, Portland, wherever—I told her I'd come back. And I meant it when I said it."
"But?"
"But what if I get there and I realize... I'm not built for this? For coming back?" I look at Wren. "What if I promise her something I can't actually do?"
Wren studies me for a long moment. Then she says, quietly, "Then you tell her that. Before you make promises you're not sure you can keep."
"I want to keep them." My voice tightens. "I just don't know if I can."
Wren pushes off the counter, walks over to me. She puts a hand on my shoulder. "You don't get to punish her for making you want to stay."
I close my eyes. "I'm not—"
"You will. If you're not careful." Wren squeezes my shoulder once, then lets go. "You'll pull back. You'll start making excuses. You'll keep yourself just distant enough. You think it's to protect her. That it won't hurt as much when you leave. But it will hurt. Both of you."
I look at her. "So what do I do?"
"Do you like her?"
"Yes."
"Enough to try to make this work?"
"Yeah, that's what's scaring me. This isn't just about me anymore."
"So then it's pretty simple."
I shake my head. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"
Wren laughs. "If you like Sam enough, you're gonna have to."
I wait.
"No matter how uncomfortable it is, you stay with her. You don't disappear. You tell her when you're scared." Wren picks up the empty box, folds it flat with a sharp crease down the middle. "And you stop treating 'staying' like a trap."
I nod slowly. "That doesn't feel simple, Wren."
I want to believe that it’s possible.
"What you have to do is simple," Wren says, moving the folded boxes closer to the back door. "I didn't say doing it would be simple. But if you really like Sam as much as you say you do, you'll figure it out."
I look at her.
"But first I'm sure you'll screw it up."
I stare at her.
Wren starts laughing. "Sorry, I was trying to lighten the mood. Did I go too far?"
I pretend to smack her with the rag still in my hand.
She ducks, still grinning, and glances at the time on her phone. "I'm starving. You want to grab food before you head out?"
I shake my head. "I should get going. I have some editing to finish before Monday."
"Okay." Wren walks me to the door, unlocks it. "Thanks for the shelf."
"Anytime."
She hugs me—quick, tight. "I'm proud of you, you know."
I pull back, confused. "For installing a shelf?"
"For planning two weeks out." She grins. "Baby steps."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "Yeah. Baby steps."
***
The sandwich tastes like cardboard. I set it down on the coffee table next to my laptop, half-eaten, and lean back against the couch.
I'm supposed to be reviewing the latest round of Harbor images. The folder's open on my screen—forty-three images waiting for final selection. I scroll through the thumbnails without really seeing them.
I open my text thread with Sam instead.
The last message is from this morning—her photo of the pigeon. I'd replied with a laughing emoji and Where do you even find these?
Her response
I have a gift.
I scroll up, reading through the last few days of messages. Her daily schedule shares. My replies. Her questions about image sequencing. My suggestions. Little jokes. Easy back-and-forth.
It's been less than two weeks since I kissed her. Ten days of rituals that have already rewritten my mornings.
I can see it now—the shape of it. The routines. The plans. The 'in a couple weeks' that slipped out so easily. I'm building something with Sam. It feels good.
And permanent.
I close the laptop. Pick up my phone.
The Met exhibit isn't for two weeks. I don't want to wait two weeks.
I should text her. Make plans for this weekend.
Do what Wren said.
I type: Let's do something this weekend.
Delete.
Let's do something this weekend. You free?
I pause, thumb hovering over the send button. Then I force myself to tap it.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Like what?
I pause. I don't have a plan.
I should have a plan. Sam's a planner. She'll want details—time, location, logistics.
I look at the Monet print on the wall above the couch, then back at my phone.
You ok with me making the plans? If you throw out an idea, you're in control.
Fine. But I reserve the right to veto.
That defeats the purpose.
I'm workshopping trust. Baby steps.
I smile at the screen.
Looking forward to it.
Me too.
I set down my phone, lean back against the couch.
There. Plans made.
I pick up my sandwich, take a bite. Still tastes like cardboard.
I'm staying.
I just need to figure out how to keep doing it when the Harbor project ends and there's no deadline holding me here.