Chapter 13
SAM
The vibration of the sander hums in my hand as I work the grain of the second window desk I’ve built for Becca.
The first one sits in the corner, finished—but not perfect.
Not for her. Next to it: three bookcases, a porch swing, and four picture frames, all handmade and rejected by me.
I can’t bring myself to give her something that isn’t perfect.
The rejected items don’t match the picture I’ve carried in my head for years. An image of her sipping coffee in the morning light on that swing, shelves filled with her dog-eared books, our photos framed on the walls of a life we built together. But I didn’t build any of it when it mattered.
There’s a version of my life I created where she never comes back.
Where everything I see when I picture us—this house, our future—is just something I ruined.
I’d deserve that since I stole hers. If all I get to do now is build the pieces we were supposed to share, then fine.
At least she’ll have something steady to hold onto, even if it’s not me.
I pause the sander and run my hand across the surface. Smooth with no splinters. Becca would never get hurt from this. It’s not enough to make up for the pain I already caused, but it’s something I can do now.
“Hello?” Holly’s voice carries through the shop.
“Back here,” I call, brushing sawdust off the desk. She walks in and heads straight to the corner.
“Oh my god, Sam, did you make all these?” Her eyes widen as she takes in the site.
“Yeah,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “These are the rejects.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously? These are incredible.”
I clear my throat. “Not incredible enough for Becca. She deserves perfection. Even if it’s too late.”
Becca showed me a picture once—saved it on her phone, said the desk would be perfect by the window. I knew I wanted to create that for her. At least I finally did, even if it’s too late.
Holly moves toward the porch swing and trails her hand along the curve of the armrest. “She’d love these,” she murmurs.
“She would have—back when she mentioned them. Not months or years later, when she’s already gone.”
She gapes at me. “Wait, you just made all of these since she left? These must have taken hours.”
I shrug. Turns out when your wife leaves you and you can’t sleep, there are a lot of hours to fill. Thankfully, between the salon, cabin, and these projects, I can keep my hands busy as my mind whirls.
Holly is quiet for a moment. “Why didn’t you make them before?”
How do I tell my sister that I spent years putting her needs first? Or the desire to create something away from my Grandad and Dad’s legacy, or that my ego and self-worth were tied up in my wants? That instead of honoring my wife’s trust, I gave away our time, our money, our future?
She never asked for much. That’s what made it easy to ignore. That’s what makes it even more unforgivable.
“I thought I was being a good brother,” I say finally. “I didn’t set boundaries, I never said no.”
Her voice softens. “Is this my fault?”
“No. It’s mine. You never asked for more than I gave.
I just gave you everything anyway. Becca never said anything; she was always so damn independent.
But that doesn’t mean I should have ever put anyone’s needs before hers.
I should’ve let you figure things out on your own instead of jumping in and helping every time. ”
“I didn’t realize …” She looks around in shame. “God, I’m so sorry.”
I wrap her in a hug. “I’m proud of you, Hols. Always have been. But I should’ve protected Becca too. I didn’t. That’s on me.”
She pulls back, glancing around the shop again, slower this time. “Okay … I have an idea. I’m going to the Cascadia Farmer’s Market tomorrow to promote the salon. We’re doing mini makeovers, handing out samples. It was something I found in a book Becca recommended.”
That knocks the wind out of me. “She’s helping you?”
“She’s giving me advice,” she says quickly. “But I’m doing it on my own. She helped me think through a business plan, pointed me to some resources. I built the website myself, it’s a little clunky, but it’s getting traffic.”
She hesitates, then gestures to the furniture.
“These shouldn’t be sitting here, Sam. People would buy this. We could bring a few pieces to the market from your 'rejected' pile, see what happens,” she offers with a smile.
Of course, Becca helped. With every right to walk away from all of us, she is still showing up. Her heart has always been bigger than she lets others believe.
“That’s who she is,” I say quietly. “She shows up—even when no one showed up for her. Doesn’t mean she should have had to.”
“I know,” Holly quietly responds, averting her eyes.
“You know she’s never gotten the credit she deserves,” I add, throat tightening. “Not from you. Not from our family. Definitely not from me.”
“I know.” Holly winces. “I was … Judgy sometimes. And I let Mandy say things I shouldn’t have let slide. It’s embarrassing to look back and think I looked down on her for tracking all her expenses.”
“You didn’t just let Mandy say things, you followed her lead, never made an effort.”
Holly flinches. It’s the first time I’ve raised my voice at her since we were kids. Probably when I was thirteen, and she kept stealing my Don Mattingly rookie baseball card because she thought he was “cute.”
“I know. I’ve idolized Mandy forever. I basically ran every life decision through a ‘What Would Mandy Do?’ filter.” She gives a bitter laugh. “Turns out, not always the best strategy.”
I stare at her, stunned. That’s probably the most self-aware thing I’ve ever heard her say.
She pushes on. “That’s actually why I came out here. I think we need to talk about Mandy. And Rick.”
Everything in me goes cold. “What about them?”
Holly sits on the edge of my workbench, serious now.
“After Becca got me thinking, I realized something. Right after I told Mandy I wanted to open my own salon, she told me Rick Saunders was interested. She pushed to get you involved. Said you’d love the project.
That it’d be perfect.” She shakes her head.
“It happened fast. Too fast. She said it’d be good for you to help me.
That Rick had this amazing location, and we needed to move now. ”
I clench my jaw. I remember that pitch. I was primed to say yes—because Mandy brought in Rick, whom I wanted to work with, and Holly looked so hopeful.
“What’s your concern?” I ask carefully.
Holly swallows. “Mandy’s been asking me for money. A lot.”
“What?” My voice spikes. “Her dad owns the damn country club!”
“He cut her off. Apparently, she got too cozy with the married golfers.”
Jesus. I drag a hand over my face.
“What about the money from our grandparents’ house? We send it every month in our rent-to-own agreement, which they set up. We get the mega-discounted home, and you get the cash.”
“I gave her some … a lot of it recently. First month’s rent, deposits, and her little emergencies. And, well, on myself too. Purses and shoes aren’t cheap.”
My head spins. Becca and I scraped by for years, pinching pennies, working our asses off to make our dreams come true. And Holly gave this money to someone who’s been manipulating both of us and buying stupid purses?
I open my mouth to respond, but Holly rushes on. “I know. I know how bad it sounds. I’m embarrassed. But there’s more.”
She digs into her bag and pulls out a contract. “The contract that Rick wants us to sign for laundry services. Why did he push it? I was overwhelmed at first, I didn’t think much of it. But as I sat down to look at it, I remembered I was planning to install a washer and dryer and manage ourselves.”
“So why sign a contract for laundry services? Why does he care?”
“Exactly. And look who the service provider is—Yarrows Inc.”
My stomach drops. Yarrows has a reputation in town: shady dealings, predatory leases, whispered rumors of loan sharking.
“I think we’ve been played,” she says. “And I think we need to talk to Dad.”
I nod slowly. He won’t be gentle; he never is. But we need the truth. And he’ll sniff it out faster than we ever could.
“You’re right,” I say, more determined than ever. “It’s time.”
I clean up the shop and tell Holly I’ll meet her at our parents’ house. Before I go, I take a detour to Becca’s garden.
I open the app I recently downloaded, the one that tells you how to care for each plant. This garden’s been her therapy, her creative outlet, and her pride. The least I can do is not let it wither.
I crouch down and gently pull a few ripe radishes and zucchinis.
I brush off the dirt and place them into one of her reusable bags.
She always said vegetables you grow yourself taste better.
I don’t want her missing out this season: on taste, or on something she nurtured with so much care.
I’ll leave them at the cabin. I know she won’t let them go to waste.
I glance around the yard and house, and that hollow ache hits me again. The silence here isn’t peaceful anymore, it’s sharp and aching, an echo of everything I pushed away.
How the hell did I let it get this far?
Wanting to be the hotshot hero, that’s how. Always jumping in, solving problems for everyone but the one person I should have been protecting most. Becca never needed me to fix her life—just to show up for it and not fuck it up so badly.
An idea hits me. I wipe my hands, head inside, and go straight to the guest room where I’ve been sleeping. I pull open the closet, kneel down, and slide out the acid-free archival box tucked in the back. My baseball cards.
Everything carefully stored, logged, and categorized. My childhood in a box. My dad and I didn’t bond over much, but we had this. We'd study stats together, argue over players. He bought me my first Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card when I made All-Stars.
These cards hold memories, but Becca's future matters more.
I carry the box out to the truck. After we go over the contract with Dad, it’s time.
I’m finally ready to make a sale instead of a collection.
It won’t fix what I took from her; nothing will.
Becca gave up things for us without ever saying it out loud.
I took that and acted like it was mine to spend; not anymore.
The fifteen-minute drive to my parents’ place isn’t long enough. I pull up, take a breath, and walk inside with the contract in hand.
“Samuel,” my mom says warmly. “It’s so good to see you.” Blouse, earrings, hair done. My mother does not do casual.
“Hey, Mom," I say, colder than usual. “Where’s Dad?”
“In his office. Holly’s already in there. Are you two talking about the salon? I can give Mandy a call—”
“No.” My voice comes out firm. “I don’t want Mandy involved in this.”
She frowns but nods. “All right. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
I know I need to address my mother and her treatment of Becca, but first, I need legal advice. I knock once and open the door to Dad’s office.
“Sam,” he says without looking up, red pen in hand. He’s already marking the contract like it’s a law school exam.
“Hey, Dad. Thanks for taking a look.”
“I can’t believe it took you this long to bring it to me,” he mutters, flipping a page. He taps the top of the document. “This laundry services clause? It's a disaster. They're charging double market rate, and there’s no termination clause. That’s predatory.”
Then he underlines something in bold red.
“And why is only Holly liable for operational loss? This clause protects Mandy and Rick but leaves your sister holding the bag if anything goes south.”
Holly winces. Becca would’ve caught this in five minutes. She always saw the things I didn’t bother to look for.
He glances at me. “Do you even know who Yarrows Inc. is? They’re a shell company.
Their owner’s been sued three times for unethical small business practices.
” He flips another page, slower this time.
“And here’s your real problem.” He taps the clause.
“Personal guarantee. Holly’s on the hook for the full lease term—plus build-out costs—if this deal collapses. ”
Holly goes pale. “That’s … what does that mean?”
“It means if you walk away, you don’t just lose the business,” he says flatly. “You owe them anyway.”
“I … had no idea.”
“Have you signed this?” he asks.
“No,” Holly hurries to answer. “Not yet.”
He nods once. “Good.” Then he taps the page again. “But you’ve already committed, haven’t you? Deposit? Build-out? Marketing?”
Holly hesitates. “… Yes.”
“They’ve structured this so you feel locked in before you ever sign. Rick gets a golden parachute no matter what happens. Holly takes all the risk, Mandy brings in zero equity, and you,”—he taps the margin hard, looking at me— “you’re the free labor.”
Holly's phone begins to ring. "Excuse me, I need to take this call, potential vendor."
Dad shakes his head as he watches Holly exit the room.
“And this,” he says, tapping the contract again, “is why I said no when your mother and Holly came to me about opening a salon. She needed more time. More experience. And you should’ve known that, your grandad had you working years on all aspects of Hughes Construction before you took over. ”
The words land heavier than anything else he’s said. I don’t argue, I can’t. He exhales, slower this time, some of the edge leaving his voice.
“After Holly's accident, I asked you to look out for your sister. I wasn’t around the way I should’ve been.
" He pauses before continuing. "It was hard to see my little girl like that, so I buried myself in work.
I put too much of her care responsibilities on you.
But that doesn't mean sacrificing your own life to watch out for her. "
I nod, swallowing hard. He’s right. He put too much on me.
But that’s not the whole story. I let it happen.
I told myself I was helping. Being a good brother.
Holding everything together. Meanwhile, I was slowly letting my wife stand on her own.
Becca never demanded more. Never complained.
And I used that as an excuse not to give it to her.
He leans back, watching me. Waiting. “Well, what's your next move?"
I look down at the contract, red ink bleeding through every page.
“I’m going to fix this, all of it,” I say finally. I tap the contract. “Rick’s out. Or his terms are. Either way, this deal doesn’t move forward unless it’s clean.”
Holly, from the doorway, goes still.
“No more rushing. No more blind trust. We do this right—or we don’t do it at all.”
I didn’t lose Becca because I helped my sister. I lost her because I didn’t know when helping turned into taking from us.