Chapter 8 #2
“Yes!" Bennet high-fives my wife before continuing. "We break ground tomorrow then. You’ll want to have the flooring purchased by end of next week. Install windows about five days after that. You’ll also need backsplash tile and light fixtures ready by then. Painting can wait ’til the final walkthrough. ”
Becca nods, already entering notes into her phone. “Got it. Thank you for the timeline—and the help. I really appreciate it.”
“No, thank you,” Bennet says. “I got a call from someone saying you recommended me already. I have an appointment right after this. It means a lot having your support. Small town like Cascadia can be difficult to break into the market.”
She smiles. “Of course. I only recommend people who are reliable. You’re making my dreams come true, you’re the one that deserves the thanks."
That one hits like a sucker punch. I was supposed to make her dreams come true.
As Bennet walks off, we’re left in awkward silence. Becca turns back to the vinyl plank samples, running her fingers over the textures, flipping over price tags with a sigh.
“So,” I start, trying not to screw this up, “you reached out to Jones. Going with the tiny house?”
She doesn’t look at me. “This wasn't the plan originally. It just … shifted when I lost seventy-five grand and my free labor.”
I wince. Her voice wavers, but her hands stay steady.
“Becca, I—I’m so sorry. I know I messed up.”
She nods once, sharp. “You did. And sorry doesn’t unfuck what you did. You didn’t only take our money. You funded your sister and Mandy’s dream while tossing mine aside like a backup plan. But honestly? I’m used to being second place with you.”
Anger surges through me. “What the hell does that mean? You’re everything to me.”
She finally looks at me, and her eyes aren’t angry, they’re tired. “Is that so? Why did you ditch me last year? I asked for help hanging some bookshelves. Instead, you took Mandy and Holly to their back-to-back gynecology appointments.”
“They get nervous. Holly’s been through a lot at doctors, and Mandy’s—”
“Always there. Right.” Her voice hardens.
“Okay, let's not make it about 'being there' for Holly.
When I wanted to change the dining room layout so I could work from home more, who shot it down?
Holly. She didn't like what it would do to the space, said it didn't fit with modern trends. And somehow that became the final say.”
“It wasn’t like that. I thought, since I was still paying off the house and both Holly and I are financially invested, it didn’t feel right to make changes without—”
“You’re still paying off the house? Of course, all the payments came out of your own checking account, right? And make changes without what? Your name’s on the deed, so you get veto power?”
Fuck.
“I thought we were building something together, Sam. But it turns out, I was only helping pay off Holly’s house.”
I run a hand over my face. “Baby, I didn’t realize … I was trying to—”
“To what? Keep everyone happy except me?”
She looks back down at the flooring samples. “And let’s not even get into your mom or Mandy’s comments about me re-wearing dresses, or how I’m ‘not quite polished enough’ for you.”
“You know I don’t listen to any of that crap.”
“I know. That’s the problem. You don’t even notice it. And they know they can say it. In front of you, just another way I come second. Wouldn't want to make things awkward for your mom or Mandy.”
I flinch. Today’s lunch flashes in my head—Rick’s smug laugh, Mandy’s boobs in my face, and me … just taking it, not stopping them.
“What hurts the most,” she says softly, “is that they’re secure in their place in your life. And I am realizing now, I wasn't.”
I reach for her. “Becca, please. Tell me how to fix this,” I beg.
"Aren't you the builder? The handyman? Why am I having to tell you how to fix something that is broken?" she scoffs.
“Yeah. And I still managed to wreck the one thing that mattered most.”
She exhales. “Sam, I’m tired.”
“I get it. We can talk later. Want me to drive you back to Bernie’s?”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You know where I’m staying?”
“Shared calendar.” I try to smile. “I finally used it.”
She nods. “Good for you. But no, I’m not tired like that. I’m tired of being the one who plans, who drives everything forward. I’m tired of telling you what needs to be fixed. Of waiting for you to make me the priority.”
I don’t know what to say. She turns back to the display, pulls out her calculator, starts doing math on the cost per square foot. Each shake of her head feels like another door closing and punch to my gut.
I get it. I’ve said too little for too long, and now she’s not even asking me to say anything at all.
“Hey, Jim,” I call as the shop owner returns with my box. “You got any returned vinyl plank in the back? Odds and ends?”
He squints. “Yeah, got a bone yard. Come on back.”
I glance at Becca. “Come with me?”
She hesitates, then follows. I rest my hand lightly at the small of her back. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean in either.
“What are you doing?” she asks quietly.
I shrug. “Sometimes contractors over-order or return stuff that didn’t work out. For smaller projects, like 200 square feet, you can get it cheap.”
She eyes the stack of returned flooring. “This could work.”
I nod. “It’s marked down … decent savings.”
She glances at me. “Thanks, Sam.”
She walks off to pay, and I stand there, a box of hardwood under my arm, watching my wife walk away with her back straight and her future untethered from mine.
But not for long. She built a life around us. It’s my turn.