13. The Box #2
The studio smells like her. Graphite and coffee and something underneath that I can't name — the particular scent of a person who spends hours alone building things nobody else can see yet.
I have never been inside a space that felt more like a single person.
I turn to check if any of the boards got wet.
As I pivot, my heavy work boot catches the edge of the rug. I overcompensate, shifting my weight backward in the tight space.
My elbow nudges a stack of small, cardboard moving boxes pushed against the back wall.
It isn't a hard hit, but it's enough to make the top box slide.
I reach out to catch it, my reflexes fast, but the cardboard is old, and the lid is loose. The box hits the floor with a dull thud, and the lid pops off.
A few items spill out onto the faded rug.
"Damn it," I mutter under my breath.
I drop to one knee, my large hands reaching out to gather the spilled contents before she comes back. I don't want her thinking I'm a bull in her sanctuary.
My fingers brush against a piece of plastic, and I stop.
I freeze completely, my lungs locking up in my chest as I look at the hospital bracelet lying on the dusty floorboards.
It is tiny. So impossibly small it doesn't even make sense to my brain at first. It's a thin strip of clear plastic with a white insert. It is sized for a wrist smaller than my thumb.
Right next to it is a small, sealed plastic package. Inside are two white, knitted socks. They are no bigger than a pair of cotton balls. The packaging is completely unopened.
My heart stops beating. The silence in my head deafens the sound of the rain outside.
Slowly, my eyes track to the next item. A square piece of thick vellum paper, folded in half. The corner is flipped open just enough for me to see the graphite lines. It's an architectural sketch. A floor plan. My eyes recognize her precise, elegant handwriting making notes in the margins.
Crib placement.
Rocker.
And finally, resting against the lip of the cardboard box, is a photograph. It is face-down. The white back of the photo paper is blank, staring up at me.
I don't touch the photograph. I don't dare turn it over. I have no right to look at what she keeps hidden in a cardboard box. I have no right to touch her grief.
My hands are shaking. I didn't even know my hands could shake.
I reach out, moving with an agonizing slowness to gently pick up the unopened baby socks. I place them carefully into the bottom of the box. I pick up the folded nursery sketch, making sure not to crease the edges, and set it inside.
Finally, I pick up the tiny hospital bracelet. It weighs nothing, but it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I place it gently over the sketch.
I pick up the lid with both hands. I lower it onto the box, sealing the edges perfectly. I pick the entire box up and set it back exactly where it was stacked against the wall.
I don't know what was in that box.
I know exactly what was in that box.
Those are two different things, and right now they are both true.
I push myself up to my feet, stepping back just in time to see Nora standing in the doorway.
I don't know how long she has been there. I don't know if she saw me holding the bracelet. She is standing entirely still, a thick, white terrycloth towel clutched in her hands. Her face is pale, drained of all the fire and fury from the living room. Her blue eyes are fixed on me, wide and hollow.
Neither of us speaks or acknowledges the box.
I'm afraid that if I say a word, she will shatter again. I can see the fault lines running right through the center of her chest.
She walks forward, her steps almost robotic and jerky, before she stops in front of me and holds out the towel.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For the help."
I take the towel from her hands. Our fingers brush, and I can tell that she is ice cold.
"You're welcome," I say roughly.
I wipe the rainwater from my face, scrubbing the rough fabric over my jaw and the back of my neck. I need to pull her away from the edge. I need to anchor her back to the present before the ghosts pull her under.
I drape the towel over my shoulder and look down at her.
"Earlier," I say, keeping my voice steady. "When you were asking me to sell you the parcel."
She blinks, forcing her focus back to my face. "Yes."
"You said you would protect it. You said you'd cherish the land as much as I do." I step a fraction closer, my massive frame casting a shadow over her.
"What did you mean by that, Nora? Why are you so fixated on buying that specific dirt? I have a feeling it goes a hell of a lot deeper than the fact that your family has been vacationing here for years."
I watch as the walls slam back into place.
The hollow vulnerability in her eyes vanishes, replaced instantly by a profound, agonizing sadness. She looks away from me, her jaw tightening. She wraps her arms around herself again, pulling the wet cardigan tight.
She shakes her head slowly.
"I would rather not discuss that," she says quietly.
I look at the top of her head. I want to push. I want to demand that she let me carry whatever crushing weight is in that box. But I know you don't force a locked door.
"Okay," I say simply.
She looks up, slightly surprised that I'm dropping it.
"I can accept that," I tell her. I pull the towel off my shoulder and toss it onto the edge of the desk. "But you hear me on this. If Stanley comes back, or if he sends his suits to knock on your father's door again, you let me know. Immediately. You don't try to handle him alone."
"Jax…"
"I am promising to help you," I interrupt, my voice leaving no room for argument. "Let me help you."
She stares at me, searching my face for the catch and angle. When she doesn't find one, her shoulders drop a fraction.
"Even if you are unwilling to sell the land to me," Nora says, her voice trembling slightly, "promise me something."
"Name it."
"Promise me you will never sell it to Stanley. No matter what he offers you. No matter what kind of pressure his lawyers put on you."
I look at the woman standing in front of me. I look at the fierce, protective desperation radiating out of her small frame.
"That land is my mother's legacy," I say, the words a sacred vow in the quiet studio. "It means more to me than any amount of money a Houston developer could print. I will not sell it to anyone. Much less a piece of shit like Stanley Hargrove. They can offer me the world, Nora. It's not for sale."
She lets out a long, shaky breath, closing her eyes for a brief second. "Thank you."
I'm two feet from a woman whose grief I just held in my hands, and every instinct I own says get closer instead of leave. The conflict sits low in my gut, right next to the anger.
"Lock your doors tonight," I say.
I turn and walk out of the studio, out of the hallway, and push out through the back door. The storm is still raging, the rain washing the heat from the night, but it doesn't touch the fire burning in my gut.