Chapter 28BOONE
BOONE
It looks like a goddamn miracle.
The paint is dry. The trim’s clean. Porch runs wide across the front—white rails, the old rocking chair sitting right where I left it last night. There’s nothing left to build, nothing left to measure or sand or second-guess.
Old Faithful is finished.
And I still can’t believe it.
I must’ve stood here a hundred times over the past few months, boots planted in this same gravel, staring at a house that barely had walls, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
I don’t know what made me think I could bring it back to life.
Maybe it wasn’t about that. Maybe it was about proving I could bring myself back.
I thought about throwing a match on it more than once.
Just torching the whole damn thing and saying “Fuck it.” My hands were shredded.
My back ached constantly. Every joint in my body had something to say by the end of the day.
I’d leave covered in sweat and sawdust, worn out, and still show up the next morning, no matter how bad it beat me up.
The work gave me a place to put all of it—every regret, every what-if, every version of her face I remembered from the life we didn’t get to live.
This house is a love letter to Lark .
But not in the language of roses or a string of pretty words. It’s a love etched in early mornings and lingering evenings. It’s the kind that solves problems with calloused hands and a quiet determination. It’s a love that sees, truly sees, the small details that make up a life.
I built it because I didn’t know how else to hold all the things I’ve never said to her. The weight of what I should’ve done differently. The years I missed.
There’s no sentence that makes that right. No apology that lands the way it needs to. But I thought maybe if I built something that could last—something solid, something she could walk into and feel—she’d know that I see her. That I remember every version of her, even the ones she thinks I forgot.
I wired the lights in the living room to dim, because she gets headaches when she’s overwhelmed but never says anything.
There’s a bench beside the front door with storage underneath—because she always kicks off her shoes the second she comes in, and I know it bugs her when they pile up.
There’s a drawer just for her tea, right above the dishwasher.
She always says she likes coffee more, but she drinks tea just as much.
I built the kitchen window a little lower than standard height because she rests her elbows when she’s thinking, and I wanted her to be able to see the view without craning her neck.
It also looks out toward the ridge—it’s not the prettiest part of the property, but it’s the quietest. That’s where the deer come through and I know it’s the view she likes the most. She loves to see the baby deer in the spring.
There’s a full wall of open shelving in the pantry, not because it’s pretty, but because she needs to see everything at once or she forgets what she has in there. The light in there’s automatic—turns on when she walks in, turns off when she walks out. I know her hands are usually full.
I built a hallway closet that goes deeper than anyone needs, just because I know she keeps too many blankets.
I laid the porch extra wide. Not for guests, but for her.
For early mornings and bare feet. For the space to sit cross-legged with a notebook or a novel she’ll swear she doesn’t have time to read, even though she always finishes them in two days .
But the part I’m most excited for her to see is the library.
It used to be the fifth bedroom, but I gutted it—ripped out the closet, started fresh.
Built shelves floor to ceiling on three walls.
Left just enough room for the window on the far end, where the sun comes in soft in the mornings and added a window seat.
I remembered her saying once—back when we were forced to share Springsteen that one day—that she wanted her own library.
So that’s what she got. It’s quiet in there.
Peaceful. Feels like her, even without her in it.
Out of the whole house, it’s the room I’m proudest of. Because that one’s just for her.
There’s nothing in this house she would’ve asked for outright because I know her and I know she would’ve felt like she was asking for too much.
But I didn’t ask, either. I remembered.
This is what I know how to do. When I couldn’t give her words—when I was too young or too stupid or too scared to show up—I remembered everything else. Every look, every laugh, every offhand comment I probably wasn’t supposed to hear. I held onto all of it.
And now it’s in the floors, the walls, the damn cabinet heights.
I built it because love isn’t always found in a soaring speech or a dramatic dance in the rain.
Sometimes it’s in the mundane, the things you almost don’t notice until they’re just…
right. A door that closes without squeaking.
Floors that feel good under your feet first thing in the morning.
It’s in creating a space, brick by quiet brick, where she can finally breathe easy, knowing this place, this home, will be a constant, a steady hand.
And she won’t ever have to carry the weight of the world all by herself again.
This house knows her. Every inch of it.
It says everything I should’ve said twelve years ago.
It says: I loved you so much back then and it scared the shit out of me. It was more than I knew how to carry. I left you because staying felt too big and I felt too small.
It says: I didn’t build this hoping you’d love me for it. I built it so you’d know I love you.
It says: I want to be the one who gets to bring you coffee and breakfast in the morning. I want to be the one you text when the oven breaks or the car won’t start or the day’s been too long and you just need someone to sit next to you and listen.
It says: I know I can’t give you back what I took all those years ago. But I can give you this. This roof. These walls. A soft place to land.
It says: I love you so much it rewired how I think. How I move through the world.
I love you on the good days and the bad ones, and all the in-between ones where nothing big happens
I love you for who you are when no one’s paying attention.
I love the way you are with Hudson. Firm and soft at the same time. I love that you show up for him, for your people, for your life—even on the days when no one shows up for you.
I love you so much it’s not even about wanting something back. It’s just there. Like gravity. Like breath. Like I’ve loved you in every season of my life, even the ones that haven’t happened yet.
And most of all, it says: I’m still yours after all this time. I think I always was.
There’s a fire pit out back because Hudson told me once, almost as a joke, that he wished we had somewhere to make s’mores. So I built it. Flat stones, dug deep enough that the wind won’t kill the flame. Enough room around it for lawn chairs and long sticks and second helpings.
There’s already plenty of land out here, but I leveled a patch near the fence so he’d have a clean spot to throw the baseball around.
Somewhere that felt like his. Not the ranch’s.
Not mine. Just a place where it’s easy to forget who’s watching and he can ask if I’ve got time to practice with him. I always will.
Off the kitchen, I built a deck—big enough for a table, a couple of chairs, a grill, nothing fancy.
I pictured her there, legs stretched across my lap, one hand wrapped around a can of Diet Coke, the other gesturing through a story about her day.
How the soup didn’t turn out right, how Mabel left early again without finishing the pies, how Hudson’s teacher emailed her a reminder about the bake sale she always forgets to sign up for.
The things she always thinks no one wants to hear, but I do.
There’s a lump forming in my throat before I even realize it’s coming.
It’s not lost on me—what I’m standing in front of. It’s a life. Hopefully our life.
If I’m lucky enough. I sure as fuck hope I am.
I hear the low rumble of an ATV coming up the trail behind me—tires crunching over the dirt, engine cutting just a few yards back. I don’t turn right away.
Then I hear her voice, full of surprise and something close to awe.
“Oh my god. Boone Jameson Wilding.”
I turn toward the voice just as the ATV shuts off. Mom swings a leg over and climbs out, boots hitting the gravel with a soft crunch. She’s got a dish towel tossed over one shoulder, her hair pinned back neat, sunglasses pushed up onto her head.
She steps forward a few feet, arms crossing over her chest, eyebrows lifted high. That grin on her face is big and slow and a little stunned—like she can’t quite believe what she’s looking at.
“This…this can’t be Old Faithful,” she says, voice catching somewhere between awe and disbelief.
“It is,” I tell her. “Mostly.”
She takes another few steps, close enough now to run her hand along the post I sanded down and sealed last week. She trails her fingers over the grain, her brows drawn as she looks up toward the second-story windows.
“What are you doing out this way so early?” I ask, watching her take it all in.
“I stopped by Loretta’s to borrow her mixer,” she says, eyes still on the house. “Mine started smoking when I was halfway through mixing the pancake batter. Figured I’d swing out, see if I could grab it while Hudson’s still sleeping.”
She quiets for a moment, the silence hanging there without needing to be filled.
Then she looks up at me. “I wish your dad could’ve seen this.”
My throat tightens, hard and fast. I press the rim of the thermos against my bottom lip, not drinking, just holding onto something.
She nods. “He would’ve been proud, Boone. Real proud.”
I blink once, then again. “Yeah,” I say. “I think so too.”