Chapter 24 #2
Her shoulders tightened, possession and annoyance flickering in her eyes. She grabbed her box and brushed past me hard enough to make her frustration clear, heels striking the floor too loud as she walked away.
Andrzej clapped once. “Ding dong, the Witch is dead.”
“I doubt it,” I stated. “But she’s gone for a minute. Let’s drink to that.”
I met Julian’s wary gaze. “That’s a good first step.” Julian stole my shot and downed it, tilting his head more than necessary. “Now, tell me, how far are you going to go to win Robyn back?”
“Well, I don’t have a plan yet, but very, very far.”
His eyes glinted. “I can think of a place we should visit then. But first, get some more Scotch, boy.” He clapped my shoulder. “How do you feel about needles near sensitive body parts?”
“Hello, Nate?”
I shake my head. “Yeah, yeah …” Turning my head, I ground myself back on Main Street in Bend. “Anyway, talk soon?” I ask, getting the key out of the ignition.
“Sure, don’t be a stranger.”
The line disconnects, and I take my time walking the few feet to the gear store.
A bell jingles above me as I come in. A tall man in his late twenties is behind the counter, wearing one of those flannel-patterned coats, and he’s speaking loudly into his phone.
He’s got cropped blond hair and doesn’t even lift his eyes up from the clipboard he’s staring at.
“Don’t Zac me, Viv.”
I lift my head at the edge of the voice.
The guy’s half turned away behind the counter, broad shoulders stretched across the display of climbing chalk and carabiners.
His voice sharpens, loud enough to cut through the shop.
“I’m not the one that left the night before we were supposed to get married.
I’m the one who stayed and dealt with guests and caterers. ”
A prickling creeps up the back of my neck. My fingers curl on themselves, knuckles tightening against the glossy edge of a random hiking tool I pretend to examine.
Zac’s jaw flexes, the tendons in his neck shifting. He exhales, shoulders dropping for the first time. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it isn’t going anywhere with Robyn. But it’s still exactly what I need.”
Robyn.
A hollow blooms under my sternum. This is the guy she’s spending her time with. This man with the broken-engagement baggage, the soft voice, and the steady hands. He gets to trail his fingers all over her naked body and kiss her sweetly. Everything I lost the right to do.
I stare at the display of climbing gloves, pretending to compare sizes, and maybe I am comparing because the words cling to me. Exactly what he needs. Is he exactly what Robyn needs?
“There’s a client—I have to go.” A tight shake of his head follows. “No, I don’t know if we’ll talk.”
He ends the call and drops the phone onto the counter with a soft clatter.
I just stand there, pretending to study a pair of crampons while the realization settles like ice along my spine: this is the man she’s chosen.
I juggle the drinks and sandwiches as I head across the site, breath fogging in front of me. Gravel crunches under my boots, the wind’s picking up, colder now that the sun’s ducked behind a cloud.
“Lunch,” I call out, lifting the bag.
That gets them moving. A couple peel off from the framing, gloves already tugged off so they can grab still-warm food.
Derek, the foreman, a guy in his mid-forties with curly hair and a beer gut, zeros in on the tray with his latte. “Please tell me you got the foam right today,” he mutters. He takes one sip, and his face falls. “It deflated.”
“It’s foam, you’ll live,” I shoot back.
Derek grumbles, shaking the cup as if it’ll magically puff back up. “Man, you really don’t get the importance of getting the coffee just right. Architects and their little fantasy-world drawing pencils.”
I laugh under my breath. “Trust me, if it were up to me, the siding would last forever, the framing wouldn’t sag, and the foundation wouldn’t crack. Make the whole house idiot proof. And you’d never complain again.”
A couple of the guys snort. One of the guys elbows Derek, as if to say he’s got you there.
My gaze slides past them, catching on the partially framed southern wall. Even from here, the angle’s off, just a hair but enough for my brain to run numbers on load, drift, and stress. If they don’t lock that bracing, the whole section could twist out of alignment and eat up an entire day.
I narrow my eyes at the frame. “Derek,” I call out, “your foam isn’t the only thing collapsing.”
A few heads lift, and I gesture toward the wall. My fingers itch to trace the lines, to measure the angles with my hands the way I would on a blueprint.
I point at the structure. “That south bracing isn’t secure. Let’s tighten it now.”
The foreman groans but waves the guys over. “Alright, alright. Let’s get it done before Nate here starts diagramming it on the gravel.”
We all put our safety gear back on. Derek, one other worker, and I climb the scaffolding. My hands skim the braces, feeling the slight give where the bolts aren’t fully seated.
“Derek, boss, we need to move to the other side to meet the schedule!” someone from below yells.
I barely hear him and lean against the wall as I brace it, fingers pressing against the wood, testing the angles. “Here,” I mutter, repositioning a diagonal support slightly. A bead of sweat runs down my temple from knowing that this wall’s load bearing and a small misstep could cascade.
Derek reaches for the other end to help, and a loose hammer slips from his tool belt, clattering and knocking the precarious holding. My heart lurches as I grab the beam before it bounces off my shoulder, thudding dangerously close to his hard hat.
“Watch it!” I snap, voice sharp.
Derek swears, eyes wide, gripping the railing tighter and securing it.
My pulse thunders in my ears as the third guy helps us with the beam.
Then we all scan the braces, but something’s shifted—they’re waiting for me to give the okay.
The subtle torque I spotted seconds ago, the misaligned angle, was a disaster avoided.
I jab a finger at the diagonal. “That brace? It’s still not secure. If it shifts another inch, someone’s getting flattened.”
Derek swallows hard, jaw tight. If they didn’t adjust anything else, this quick Band-Aid fix would still give the appearance of stability.
It’s an illusion, though, a reminder that the difference between solid and collapse is microscopic.
I know exactly how easy it is for a misplaced emotion to topple everything I’ve tried to hold together.
Because that kiss—the obvious fail—that’s the hammer here. But underneath it? The subtle misalignment, the latent torque? That’s the root that cracked our foundation, that one I was too afraid to confront within myself.
I glance at Derek, his arm flung over the railing, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. The sun flashes off the metal fittings of the climbing frame, but none of it stays with me.
By the time my boots hit the mulch, I’m in another place entirely, mulling over cracked foundations and root causes. Reliving one more conversation I avoided, even after Robyn left, because it would make everything real. I tapped the green button next to Mom.
She answered on the second ring. “Nate? Honey, are you all right?”
Not even close.
“No.” My voice cracked. “I was being really cliquey with Tessa that night. Even before the kiss. I’d been running around helping her move, setting up her place …”
“Say it, Nate.”
My throat burned. My fingers dug into the edge of my kitchen counter.
In front of me was a notebook: words about mistaking usefulness for love, about how it was easier to chase the feeling of being essential than to sit with the truth that you’re loved and not indispensable.
Because I got confused, and I fucked up.
“I cheated,” I whispered. “Not just by letting her kiss me. Not just by kissing her back. But because … because I let her fill needs I didn’t want to admit I had.”
“You’re right,” she said gently. “And what does that mean?”
“It means I’ve become my father.”
“No, it means you have wounds. And follow patterns to avoid pain.” The strength in her tone turned to softness at the end.
I closed my eyes. The sun pressed hot against my lids. There was someone I needed to talk to, someone I needed to look in the eyes and challenge if I was ever going to rebuild myself solidly enough to win Robyn again.
“Mom … I need to talk to Dad.” I pushed away from the counter, pacing a short line across the tile. “See if I’m really him, and if I am, figure out how to not be.”
“And why tell me this?”
My steps slowed. I pressed my thumb into the ridge above my brow. “So you don’t think—so you don’t think I wish I’d had him instead of you.”
Her inhale was quiet but sure, the kind of breath she used to take before telling me the truth. “Talking to your father doesn’t change how you love me. Or how I raised you.”
I leaned my hip against the counter, grounding myself.
“But you need to confront the truth,” she continued. “When he walked out, he left you too. And that did something to you.” Another soft exhale. “I can be a sounding board, but I’m not him. And I’m not you. I don’t know or can’t give you what you need from him.”
The call ended after saying our goodbyes and Mom assuring me I was free to call Dad if I needed. And I needed to. The sounds of the present crash back—the hammering and screeching of metal, the crew’s distant laughter.
Before I get back in my truck, someone calls my name. A young kid, who looks barely twenty, is jogging up to me, hair flopping with each step.
“How did you do that, mister?”
“Do what, kid?”
He catches his breath. “Looking at the construction site … and just knowing. Dude,” he says. “It was like seeing the future.”
I chuckle. It was a disaster averted for them.
“I can teach you the basics. What’s your name?”
“Mickey, mister.”
Mister. “I’ll call you next time I’m on-site.”
For me, though, the work isn’t done. I still have to prove I can face the consequences, show Robyn I valued us enough to look for answers, to become better.
I’ve stared at the notebooks, read every book, sifted through memory after memory until the words stopped feeling like riddles and started feeling like answers, a direction, a way forward.
It’s time to earn Robyn’s trust back—time to see if she’ll ever care to hear it.
I’m holding a cappuccino with an extra shot as I wait for Robyn to come downstairs.
Walking from the parking lot to my building, I saw her light on and couldn’t help myself, so I buzzed her unit.
There’s something really important she’s not seeing—and I know she’ll regret it.
I won’t just stand by and watch it slip through her fingers.
The door cracks open. “What, Nate?”
She sticks only her head out, the rest of her tucked behind the glass door, keeping herself inside the warmth of her building. No shoes—just fuzzy socks, toes curling on the threshold. Her breath wisps out into the cold.
For a heartbeat, I second-guess what I’m doing. She deserves to know everything about the man she’s spending time with, deserves to walk into things with clear eyes, but that’s not why I’m here. Whoever she chooses, that’s her choice. This is about something bigger than us.
“Are you here to bring me coffee?” Her eyes flick to the Loam & Latte cup in my hand, a quick, almost reflexive glance.
I feel stupid. My fingers tighten around the lid. I used to do this—show up with coffee just because it made her smile. And because it made me feel good to make her smile.
“Actually, no. This one’s mine.” My voice comes out rough. “I mean, you can have it if you want, but … I don’t think me bringing you coffee was ever as important as I made it out to be.”
Her shoulders draw in slightly, and she shifts her weight, one socked foot dragging against the tile. A small crease of discomfort forms between her brows.
Even if I can’t fix us, I need to fix this. Because this friendship of theirs matters more than anything between us. I’m not letting Julian and Robyn drift further apart because of the shit I caused.
“You have to go meet Milo.”
Her eyes widen, breath catching. “Is everything okay?”
“No.” The cold bites through my jacket, or maybe that’s just the truth finally breaking loose. “This isn’t okay. I hurt you, and because of that, you haven’t met your best friend’s son. You have to change this.”
“Nate—”
“No.” I flex my hand at my side, wanting to reach for her but not daring to. “He’s two months old. Soon, he won’t even be a newborn. You can’t come back from not meeting him as a baby. Julian says you promised you wouldn’t miss the important stuff. He deserves that you do this for him.”
Her mouth tightens as she looks down, toes curling against the cold tile. Her eyelids quiver, a tiny tremor she doesn’t manage to hide. “I’ve waited so long at this point … I don’t know how to—”
“You do know how.” I swallow hard. “You don’t need me to list the steps.”
“I’m afraid he’ll see—”
“See what?”
Her gaze drops to the floor, away from me. “How much I’m struggling.”
“Robyn,” I whisper softly. “He’s struggling. You should struggle together. He’s your best friend.”
Her chin lifts a fraction. “You’re right.”
I have to bite my tongue so I don’t offer to buy her the ticket or drive her all the way to Chicago myself. My tongue aches with all the things I can’t let myself say.
“And when you’re there”—I rub a hand over the back of my neck, the cold wind stinging my knuckles—“own that you made a mistake. Julian needs to hear you say it.”
I turn and cross the short path toward my building, pulse banging in my ears, coffee going cold in my hand.
“Nate,” she calls.
I stop but don’t turn. If I look at her now, I’ll give too much away—how much I miss her, how much I blame myself.
“Thank you.”
The words hit between my shoulder blades, warm and heavy, and I stand there long enough for my breath to fog the air, nodding and murmuring a “Good night” I don’t think she’ll hear, before I force myself inside.