Chapter 10
SAM
Iwake up in the guest room. Again. I can't sleep in our bed, not when it still smells like her. Like that damn rose water shampoo she swears by. I used to love it. It always reminded me she was near, soft and steady and mine. Now it just reminds me of what I ruined.
I drag myself into the shower, hoping to scrub off the guilt I haven’t been able to shake since the day she looked at me like a stranger. I reach for my bottle but knock something off the shelf.
Her clip. The one she used on days she didn’t wash her hair. I stare at it for a second too long. Then pick it up like it might break. Becca used to twist her hair up with it when we showered together, laughing when I’d try to distract her, pretending she wasn’t already paying attention to me.
I stop myself from going down that path with my thoughts. I don't even deserve the damn memory of my wife.
I rinse off in silence, shifting the water to cold. If I don’t fix this, my hand and memories of her will be all I’ll ever have. No woman could ever replace her.
With that in mind, I get ready and head out with more clarity than I’ve had in weeks. Time to earn her back. It’s barely 7:00 a.m., but I know he’ll be there at the river lot.
Bennet Jones. Contractor. Smug bastard. Becca’s new best friend, apparently.
I park my truck and step out, watching the crew hammer together the framing of the tiny home. At least they’re making good progress.
“Jones,” I call, voice low.
Jones looks up, all high-vis vest and coffee cup, like he's dressed for a construction catalog rather than an actual job site. “Looking good, guys,” he calls to his crew, then jogs over. “Morning, Hughes. Here to inspect what I’m building for Becca?”
I clench my jaw. “Here to talk. That’s all.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Shame. It would have made for a more interesting morning.”
This motherfucker. I bite my tongue. Becca doesn't need my ego; she needs my support.
“Look, I don’t like you. And I don’t trust you. But Becca does. So I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize what she’s building. I am, however, changing the terms.”
He crosses his arms. “Do tell.”
“You finish framing, plumbing, and electrical. I take over everything else—interior work, custom carpentry, whatever’s left. You drop her monthly payments to $750. Transfer the rest to me. I’ll handle it.”
“And why the hell would I agree to that?”
“You get to put your name on it. You’ll still get the referrals. And she won’t even know I’m involved.”
He whistles low. “Damn. You really fucked up, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“Alright, Hughes. But she’s going to notice a change. What am I supposed to tell her when the invoices drop?”
“Tell her you got a supplier kickback. Say she brought you a bunch of business. Hell, say your crew’s jumping to her next bid, and you’re comping her time.”
Bennet scratches his chin, thinking it through. “Alright. You’ve got a deal. But if you’re not back here tomorrow with tools and plans, I’m out. And I’ll tell her everything.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it. I’m halfway to my truck when he calls out behind me.
“Hope you fix what you broke, Hughes. If not? Some of us wouldn’t mind picking up where you left off,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at me.
Douche.
I keep walking. But his comment burns. And maybe that’s the point. She’d probably hate what I’m doing. Hell, I’m not even sure if it's right. But it’s the only way I know how to start fixing what I broke.
I pull into the salon parking lot and force myself to breathe. I’ll give Rick this—he picked a damn good location. Coffee shops, boutiques, plenty of foot traffic. Perfect for their target clientele.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. How’d Rick land this spot? What did “networking” really mean? What did Mandy do? Or say? And more than that, what kind of strings is he pulling around this place?
I shove the thoughts aside and do what I’m best at: work.
Inside, Mandy’s scrolling TikTok. Holly’s on the phone—supplier call, from the sounds of it. At least one of them is trying. I haul my tool bag over to the unfinished floor and get to it.
The flooring, luxury vinyl plank, was a whole debate. Mandy insisted on real hardwood. I pushed back since it was costly, impractical, and a nightmare with water and chemical exposure. Holly sided with me. Mandy lost the vote.
Rick, as usual, was nowhere in sight.
Speak of the devil.
He strolls in as if he is entering a party fashionably late and claps me on the back. “Sammy boy! Putting in that sweat equity, I see,” he muses.
I straighten up. “Trying to stay on schedule. What about you? Been working on promo?”
He beams. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve been wining and dining potential partners left and right. Building hype, making connections.”
My brows lift. Finally. "That’s good. Got anything I can look at? A website? Early booking push?”
He blinks. Then laughs, loud and fake. “You’re cute, Sam. Leave the spreadsheets and sites to the pros. This kind of growth comes from handshakes and good whiskey, not Google ads.”
And just like that, the optimism dies.
Rick saunters over to Holly and drops a stack of receipts on her lap.
“Need these reimbursed, sweetheart. Couple of long lunches—but worth every penny.”
Holly flips through them, eyes widening. “Rick … this one’s for $327. We’re over budget already.”
Rick waves her off. “Cost of doing business. You’ve gotta spend money to make money. Trust the process.”
“Don’t worry, Hols,” Mandy adds sweetly. “Rick and I have it handled.”
But Holly hesitates, pen hovering. I step in.
“Hey, pause. This isn’t sustainable,” I say, lowering my voice. “You’re going to burn through cash before you even open. You’re not a bottomless checkbook. I’m taking you to my accountant this week. He’ll help you sort this out the right way.”
At that, I catch a flicker between Mandy and Rick. A brief glance, sharp and loaded. Then Mandy speaks up, voice all fake sugar. “Wait … we’ll still get our monthly allowances though, right?”
I stiffen. “This isn’t a trust fund. You’ll get paychecks when we’re profitable. Until then, nobody gets paid.”
Rick chuckles, low and easy. “Look, I get it. Your wife’s upset about the money. That happens.”
Mandy and Rick laugh too loudly.
“Don’t talk about my wife,” I say, quieter than I feel. “She’s done more with less than most people ever will.” And I didn’t listen to a damn word of it when it mattered.
His smile falters for just a second. Then he brightens again, tossing a slim folder onto the counter.
“Speaking of profit. Here’s the vendor contract we talked about for your laundry services. Just give it a quick sign so I can get it filed.” He taps the top page. “No need to overcomplicate it.”
“You don’t want us reading the contract?” Holly asks, voice quiet.
Rick smiles like she asked something obvious. “Of course you can read it. Just don’t get stuck in the weeds. It’s all standard.” He shrugs. “Only thing that hurts you here is waiting too long. These vendors don’t sit around.”
He nudges the folder a little closer to her.
“Time matters more than perfection on something like this.”
Mandy groans softly from behind her phone. “Can we not turn this into a whole thing? I have three brand pitches this week and zero time for contract deep-dives.” She glances up at Holly. “It’s fine. Your name’s on everything anyway, you’ll be the one running it.”
She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a compliment. Holly doesn’t respond.
Mandy keeps going, already half-distracted again. “I’m just handling the vibe, the marketing, all that. You’re the one actually running it.”
Holly’s fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the folder. “I thought …” she hesitates, glancing between them, “I thought you were going to handle more of the business side?”
Mandy barely looks up. “I am. Just not the boring parts,” she says with a quick laugh. “I am. Just not the numbers side—that’s more your thing."
Holly doesn’t laugh.
“I am not going to sign right now. I need to look it over,” she says, softer this time, but steadier.
Rick’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture stills.
“Sure,” he says easily. “No rush.” He pauses for a second before continuing, “But we should keep things moving. The longer this stuff sits, the more complicated it gets.”
He straightens, already stepping back.
“Just let me know.”
He heads for the door, sunglasses already back on like he was never planning to stay. Mandy heads back to her seat, snapping a quick selfie.
“The lighting in here is insane,” she says. “This place is going to look so good online.”
Rick lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah. It will.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
Not a tool touched. Not a question answered.
After a beat, Holly walks over and says quietly, “What can I do to help?”
I hand her a tape measure. “Line up the next row of planks. Measure twice.”
She nods, eager, focused. I see the girl she was before the accident. She dreamed big and pushed herself harder than anyone else. My pride in her swells.
But then it fades, replaced by that familiar shame.
I’m here being a good brother. But I was a shitty husband. And no amount of flooring will fix that.
Holly’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Mandy? Can you grab the next box of planks from the back?”
Mandy doesn’t even look up from her phone. “I didn’t dress for manual labor.”
Holly straightens. “This isn’t what I signed up for either. But if we want to build it, we have to actually, you know, build it.”
Mandy shrugs, waving a dismissive hand. “I bring value in different ways.”
“You haven’t brought anything, Mandy. Not a single dollar.”
Mandy smirks. “Neither have you.” And she flounces out, leaving a silence behind her.
Holly’s shoulders slump. “She’s right …”
“Hey,” I say, quieter this time. “She’s not wrong … but that doesn’t mean you’re out of this.”
Becca would’ve said it cleaner, better. And she would’ve been right. That was the difference. She didn’t just talk about building something, she actually did it.
“You need to understand what you’re building,” I add. “And what it’s going to take to keep it standing.”
She nods, but the light’s dimmed in her eyes.
We finish the floor in silence. But the foundation we laid today—literal and otherwise—feels like a start.
Holly looks around with a big smile on her face. “Thanks for teaching me how to do this, Sam. I really appreciate all you do for me. And I want to be a part of building this, every step of the way.”
I smile at her, give her a big hug and tell her I will see her tomorrow.
I drive home and can’t pull myself together to get inside.
I have always loved this house. I would visit my grandparents whenever I could.
It was different from how my parents' house was.
I was incredibly lucky to grow up in the life my parents created, but this house, this property, felt more real to me.
The garden in the back is cared for by Grandma. The shop, built with Grandad, holds all the “maybe I will use this someday” materials I inherited. I laugh thinking about the time Becca needed more garden markers, so I used a variety of old spoons, tools, and other metal materials.
I bent them in a corresponding pattern and got her a white paint marker. She laughed and said how much she loved them, calling it upcycling. Now I sit on our front porch, smiling at the memory.
As I lean back, I glance to the side of our porch.
That’s where Becca wanted to put a swing.
I didn’t think much of it since I was busy working or helping Holly.
I head to my stockpile of wood in the storage shed and start gathering materials.
I may not have kept my promises before, but I can start doing it now.