Chapter 4 #2
The place looks like him. Structured, solid, built with intention. Simple lines, wood and stone, glass that catches the whole stretch of sky.
His taste leans darker. All walnut and slate tones, furniture that looks like it was carved for endurance. Mine’s got lighter wood, more clutter.
Once inside, Ryker lights the fire, the glow from the hearth softening the edges of the space.
I remember helping him lay each tile, both of us half-drunk, measuring and re-measuring until it felt right.
Ryker never builds for pretty. He builds to last.
He dumps more wood by the fire, shakes off his coat, and moves through the room with that calm that never leaves him. His boots land heavy against the floorboards.
The shelves near the wall hold his history. Old woodworking books, leather-bound and splattered with glue stains. A few framed photos of the three of us before the accident. Before we started living like ghosts of who we were.
Ryker crouches by the fire, stacking the new logs with careful precision. The flames jump higher, casting that sharp amber light across his face.
He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and heads for the kitchen. The fridge door opens with a creak, two beers clinking as he grabs them.
He tosses me one. I catch it with my left hand.
“Still cold,” he mutters, dropping into the couch. He pops the cap off his beer against the edge of the coffee table, leaving a notch in the wood he’ll later sand out like it never existed.
I sink beside him. The fire snaps, throwing orange reflections across the stone. We drink in silence for a while, both pretending we don’t notice the picture of Claire above the mantel.
He put it there two years ago and hasn’t moved it since. Not once. Every time I walk in here, I brace myself for that smile, the one that still feels like a knife.
I used to think time would make it easier to look at her. It hasn’t.
Ryker flips on the TV, grabs the console controller, and powers up the game we always fall back on. Some old racing thing with graphics that look like they belong in a museum.
We’ve played it enough times to know every track, every shortcut, every glitch.
He hands me a controller. “First to three?”
“You’re on.”
The engines rev as the race starts. Snow keeps falling outside the window, the glass fogging from the fire’s heat. Ryker beats me twice in a row, grinning just once before covering it with a sip of beer.
I call him a cheat. He calls me slow. It’s the same argument we’ve had for a decade. It fills the space where grief used to echo too loud.
Halfway through the next round, my phone buzzes on the table. I glance at it, thumb swiping across the screen. A small smile tugs at my mouth before I set it back down.
“Amber?” Ryker asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “She and Luke just got back from the doctor. Said the baby’s kicking like crazy.”
Ryker chuckles under his breath. “Guess your niece is going to be trouble.”
“Or my nephew,” I counter. “They don’t know yet.”
He takes a pull from his beer. “Amber always said she wanted another girl. Somebody for Maisie to boss around the way Amber used to boss you.”
“Oh, don’t remind me,” I say, laughing. “She used to be so annoying.”
“That’s sisterly love for you.”
He says it easily, but the words hang there a second too long, brushing up against all the quiet spaces between us. Ryker doesn’t have anyone left who calls just to check in. I do. And I don’t take it for granted.
The firelight catches his face, sharp and calm in the same breath. I drink the rest of my beer and lean back against the couch. The heat, the smell of smoke, the faint hum of the game—it all presses together into something that almost feels like peace.
Ryker stands and walks to the kitchen, grabs another beer, and passes one my way. When he sits again, his gaze drifts toward the photo above the fire.
“She’d have loved that hall,” he says finally, voice rough.
“Claire?”
He nods. “She used to talk about fixing it up someday. Thought the town should use it for weddings or festivals. Said the bones were good.”
I remember that. The way she’d sketch out plans on napkins while we sat at the Smokehouse, her pencil smudging everything she touched.
She had a way of seeing what things could be, not just what they were. Ryker’s different. He builds what he can hold. Claire built what she could imagine.
I study him for a beat. “You really think you could work on it? The community hall, I mean. With everything it brings up?”
His jaw flexes. “I can separate my feelings from my work.”
“That’s a lie.”
He doesn’t argue. Just stares at the fire, beer balanced on his knee. The flames crackle, shadows shifting across the stone floor.
“We need this money,” I say after a while. “It’s not small change.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Enough to get through winter and then some.”
He nods again. The silence between us is comfortable in the way long friendship gets when you’ve already broken down once and know you won’t survive doing it again.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’d need the full crew coverage if we take it. Maybe bring back Chase from Corvallis. He’s been begging for work.”
I nod. “And Denzel and Ridge’s designs will probably need structural sign-off. We’ll have to get the inspector from Ashfield to approve any wall removal.”
“You handle that part,” he says. “I’ll manage the foundation.”
“Deal.”
The conversation fades back into the rhythm of the fire. I stretch my legs, crossing my ankles on the rug. “You grilling tonight or am I?”
“You are. You owe me from last time.”
I groan. “You burned the steaks.”
“You distracted me.”
“I asked a question about grout.”
He grins, the first real one of the night. “Exactly.”
I push myself up, heading to the kitchen. The fridge hums softly, full of the basics—beer, eggs, leftover chili, and a tray of steaks he picked up from Mason’s Butcher. I grab them, pull out the cast-iron pan, and get the fire going in the stove.
The smell of searing meat fills the room, blending with the smoke from the hearth. It smells like home. Like winter.
Like something that might almost heal.
Behind me, Ryker lowers the TV volume and flips through the folder of printouts the mayor sent minutes ago. The papers rustle, and I hear the low sigh he makes when something frustrates him.
“They’re over-designing,” he mutters. “All glass and steel in a snow zone. Idiots.”
“You’ll fix it,” I say, flipping the steaks. “You always do.”
He doesn’t answer, but I hear the scrape of his pen as he starts marking up the page. He’s already rewriting the structure in his head, finding the faults, replacing them with something stronger.
When I finish, I plate the food and hand him one. We eat at the coffee table, beer bottles between us, firelight throwing that warm gold over everything.
After a while, I glance again at the picture of us in front of the old house, Claire in the middle, sunlight cutting through her hair.
“She’d want you to take it,” I say quietly. “The project. She’d want you to build it right.”
He doesn’t look up. “Maybe.”
“She would.”
Ryker’s eyes flicker toward the photo again, then back to his plate. “You think we ever stop missing them?”
“No,” I answer. “We just build around it.”
The fire pops, throwing sparks. He nods once, and that’s enough.