Chapter 10 A Time Machine
A TIME MACHINE
A House With No Mirrors by Sasha Alex Logan · The House That Built Me by Miranda Lambert
Natalie
Whoever said patience is a virtue absolutely never had to do everything alone.
They definitely weren’t a single mom whose porch collapsed before breakfast. I’ve been pacing the kitchen all morning, hands shaking every time I catch sight of the splintered wood outside the window—another broken thing waiting for me to magically know how to fix it.
Well, I don’t.
Nick did it all, and yes, I’ve been able to catch up on learning how to do a lot of things, but fixing giant broken porches is not one of them. Thank goodness today’s my day off, and the store is closed.
I’ve already called Jake. Twice. No answer.
Everyone else? “Sorry, Nat, I’ve got work.
” “Can’t today.” “Maybe this weekend.” It’s nobody’s fault, I know that, but it still feels like the universe is screaming: figure it out yourself.
I could figure it out myself, I think. I could find step-by-step instructions online, but my girls only have one parent left.
I don’t take uncalculated risks anymore, and judging how clumsy I am, using power tools I’m unfamiliar with seems like the ultimate risk.
I’m elbow-deep in dishes when my phone lights up, vibrating loudly on the counter. It’s someone calling the shop, and although we’re closed, the few calls we get, I need to be able to answer them. So, call forwarding it is.
“Hello, The Blooming Wine?”
“Mm, hi. Natalie?”
“This is she.” I turn off the faucet. The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“It’s Holden.”
Holden? Why is Holden calling the shop? “Holden?”
“Umm, yeah. We’ve met a couple of times, you—”
“I know who you are,” I interrupt. “I was just wondering why you were calling. Is everything okay?”
“No, well, I mean, yes. I was going to the shop to, um, work, but it’s closed, and I…I don’t know, got worried? I’m not sure. It’s fine. I’ll hang up now.”
I stifle a laugh and put him out of his misery. “We’re closed on Tuesdays, but the sign fell, and I haven’t been able to fix it. One more thing for my list.”
“What’s wrong with it? I happen to be pretty handy; I’m sure I can help next time I stop by.”
What’s wrong with it? It’s exactly what’s wrong with everything else: me not having the time or the funds to get everything done and having to play the prioritization shuffle.
I can’t catch a break.
“Natalie?” he asks, and I let the tears free. He can’t see them silently falling down my cheeks or me falling apart.
“Holden, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“Are you crying? I’m sorry, I didn't mean to spook you. This was the phone number on—”
I hold back a sob that’s ready to let loose. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I don’t even know the last thing he said. I’m using all my energy to not completely lose it right now.
He’s not talking anymore—just silent. His breathing is a steady anchor on the other side of the line, and slowly, I match my cadence to his.
I let out a long sigh, and he says, “Is today a harder day?”
There’s something about the kindness behind his tone, the way he doesn’t tell me he’s sorry or ask if I’m sad because he knows, at a deeper level, that I am. Because he’s not a stranger to grief, and he knows some days are harder than others. All I can do is hum.
“Is there anything that triggered it?” This practical stranger, asking all the right questions at the right time, is making my heart melt. It feels like a hug, one I didn’t know I needed right now.
“My house is falling apart.”
“Do you need help?”
Of course, he goes straight for the jugular—help.
“I told you, I’m not at the store today,” I say. I try to make it sound casual, like I’m not falling apart. Ha, too late for that.
“I know,” he replies. “But I can help with whatever’s going on at home.”
My heart hammering, I lean against the counter and stare at the chaos around me. “Unless you know how to patch a hole in my porch, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I actually do know how. Do you have the materials there?”
I freeze. I do have the materials, but not the skill, the energy, or the emotional capacity. But asking him? Letting him come here? Letting him see how frazzled, how messy, how barely functioning I am today?
“Yes,” I say anyway. “But that’s beside the point. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Good thing you’re not asking,” he says softly. “If you’re comfortable with it, share your address, and I’ll come take a look.”
My breath catches in my throat, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.
My eyes prickle, my vision blurs, and I hate, all of a sudden, how I’m so tired all the damn time.
He must hear the shift in my breathing because he whispers, “Natalie?”
“I—” I swallow hard. “I don’t even know where to start.”
I hear him exhale. “Please send me your address, or I’ll drive every road in Baker Oaks until I find a house with a broken porch.”
It pulls a helpless, watery laugh out of me.
“I’m not joking,” he adds.
Silence stretches. I don’t know whether to let him in or shut him out, whether accepting help makes me weak or exhausted, or if I can let this practical stranger come here.
But he’s not completely a stranger, right?
Yes, I may not know his full name, what he does for a living, his age, or really anything about him.
Other than his dad is not really a dad, that he’s giving him a second chance, and that something behind his eyes seemed hopeful when I met him. And right now, I could use some hope.
“If you truly mean it,” I whisper.
“I do.”
I close my eyes. I’m too tired to argue or pretend. “I’ll text you.”
We hang up, and for a moment, I stand there with my hands braced on the counter and a feeling in my chest that might be relief, or shame, or maybe both at once. I text him the address and wait in the kitchen with whatever this feeling is in my stomach.
What are you doing, Natalie?
His truck pulls up fast, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’m already on the porch, lemonade in hand, trying to look composed, like I didn't cry into the sink ten minutes ago with him on the line.
“You didn’t have to come,” I murmur, offering the glass instead of eye contact.
“I wanted to.” His voice is silky, and it contrasts with what I’m feeling right now, like honey sliding over something salty and exploding when it comes in contact with your taste buds.
He steps up, immediately scanning the damage I’ve been pretending not to panic over. When he sees the hole, the warped boards, the missing plank right where Vero had to jump over this morning, I feel embarrassment burn hot across my chest.
“This was smaller this morning,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds. “I tried to fix it. I think I made it worse.”
He doesn’t judge. He takes all the space in, looking around and taking a sip of the lemonade. Somehow, I know he can see more than what’s in front of him, as if the hole in the porch is like the hole in my heart—growing more hollow without proper care.
The redness of my eyes. The exhaustion I’ve been carrying for months. The way my whole life feels like a thousand tiny broken boards I’m supposed to repair alone. Even if I’m surrounded by the best friends a girl could ask for, at the end of the day, that’s what I am: alone.
A single tear betrays me.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, wiping it away. “I didn’t mean to get emotional. You’re just…here, being kind, and I—”
I can’t even finish the sentence. I miss my husband.
“How can I help?” he asks, and he sounds so sincere, it almost breaks me again.
It’s a shared experience, grief, but not the same feeling.
He can’t know exactly what it’s like, nobody can, because my relationship with grieving my husband and his absence is only mine, not anybody else’s.
And that’s one of those incredibly messed-up things about losing someone: you can’t even name the exact thread that was broken in the universal experience of missing someone.
“Unless you have a time machine to go back five years before my life fell apart…”
His brown eyes widen.
Mine do too. “God. Ignore that,” I tell him.
“Hey,” he whispers, his voice so soft, it’s barely audible, but it does what it intended.
It settles my nerves a little. His hand tentatively rests on my shoulder, willing me to look at him.
“I know I have no clue what it’s like. I know I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, and hell, I know we don’t actually know each other much, but I sympathize.
I can’t even say I would try to understand, because I wouldn’t, but what I can do is try to help. ”
I blink rapidly; his hand leaves my shoulder and invades the edges of my cheek as his thumb brushes away a lone tear. “Let me, please.”
I nod, understanding he might need this as much as I do. Maybe he’s one of those people who help for the sake of helping, because it makes them happy or feel fulfilled or whatever. Whatever it is, I’m thankful.
“How do you even know how to fix a porch?” I lead him along the porch, showing the boards I tried to fix, the ones I made worse, all in one long, never-ending, run-on sentence.
He listens. Quietly. “My father used to be a contractor, and after, um, after, it was just us, so I learned.”
I point to the green shed, the one Nick built to match the house, even down to the white siding and shutters.
This house was a fixer-upper we bought when Bella was a toddler. Being teen parents was definitely hard, especially when Nick left a couple of weeks after Bella was born to go to college. It was a decision we made together.
It made sense for him to go and keep his scholarship so we wouldn’t both be swimming in student loan debt.
He worked part-time while I took online classes and took care of Bella.
As soon as he was done with college, he moved back home, and we moved in together.
A few years later, we bought this house.
This house built us more than we built it, but through the years, we were able to make it our own, and having a matching shed was part of it. He kept all his tools there, and it has been untouched ever since.
Holden walks out of it with some things in tow, straight to the front of the wrap-around porch.
“Did you find what you were looking for?
He kneels to start measuring, and something in my chest cracks with relief when he nods his head yes. But that’s quickly erased by the guilt that threatens to swallow me as I linger here.
“I can help,” I say. I should, right? Not that I actually can.
“Go do what you need to do,” he replies without looking up. “I’ve got this.”
I laugh. “I can’t leave you here to fix my porch while I, what?”
“This should only take a couple of hours,” he mutters, his hands already moving to pry up the first loose board. The old nails resist at first, but he wrenches them free, tossing the board to the side.
“Do you need anything else?”
“I should be fine,” he says, peering at me through his dark, thick lashes. “Didn’t you say on the phone you had a bunch of things to do? Go do some of those.”
My cheeks feel hot like the summer afternoon, and I can’t keep my eyes on him, so I look everywhere else. I tuck a flyaway behind my ear. “You have no idea.”
“Then go,” he replies with a reassuring smile, one I try to match. “Go.”
“Are you hungry? I can make something.”
I’ve been so wired, trained to always help or do something, I can’t even fathom going inside to do something while he’s busting his ass out here.
He shakes his head. “I’m good, thanks. You can keep me company and talk to me. I won’t complain.” He smiles my way, making my skin tingle and my breath catch. “Or…you know, go do whatever you need to do inside. I’m sure there’s stuff you have to take care of that I can’t help with.”
“There is.”
“Then go ahead,” he says, looking up. “I’m good. I mean it.”
“Okaaaay. I’ll be back,” I add, my voice trailing off as I take a step back.
“Sounds good,” he replies, watching me disappear through the white and gold front door. As it shuts softly behind me, I take a moment to look around the porch again and smile for the first time since I woke up today.
Did you send this angel to help me, Nick? I whisper to myself. It sure feels heaven-sent.