Chapter 12
Morning at the Stocking feels like a low-budget spy thriller, and everyone in this house is a terrible actor.
Anson won’t meet my eyes over the coffee pot.
Dev has positioned themself directly in front of the kitchen calendar like a Secret Service agent guarding the nuclear football, and the spoon in my cereal bowl sounds about ten times louder than it's supposed to because no one is talking, and the silence is screaming.
I pour coffee, keeping my face neutral, the way a person who doesn’t notice anything suspicious would. “Weather looks decent today.”
Roz’s head snaps up from where she had it buried in the morning paper. “Yes. Weather. Very weather. I saw the forecast on my phone this morning, and it said weather, and that’s what I thought too.”
I take a sip of coffee and stare at her over the rim.
Dev coughs. “Anybody need anything from the store? Because I’m going to the store.
Right now. To get things.” They pivot away from the calendar, which now hangs in plain view, completely unchanged from yesterday.
Still July. Still the 29th. No cryptic notes, no circled dates, no smoking gun except the fact that they’re all standing in a kitchen acting like they’re smuggling uranium.
“Just eggs,” Anson says, too quickly.
I drain my coffee, rinse the mug, and shoulder my work bag. “I’m headed out. Chimney on Birchwood, then the flower shop.”
“Have a good day,” Roz calls after me, voice pitched an octave higher than her normal register.
“Yep.” I pull the door shut behind me and stand on the porch for a second, breathing in the morning air, letting my jaw unclench.
People are bad at secrets. Especially people who share a bathroom schedule with you and know exactly how long you spend on your hair every morning.
Whatever they’re planning, it’ll be obvious by lunch.
The Birchwood chimney takes two hours and leaves me looking like I’ve been working a coal mine.
Soot in my hair, soot in my eyebrows, soot in the creases of my knuckles that I’ll be scrubbing for days.
The homeowner pays cash, which I tuck into my front pocket, and as I’m packing up the rods, a gray-haired woman, one of the garden club regulars, materializes at my elbow and grips my forearm with fingers like garden shears.
“You’re keeping that place alive, you know that? Springs & Bells. Melvin’s too old to run it alone, and Maddie… she’s got her hands full. But you.” She gives my arm a firm squeeze. “You’re keeping it standing.”
I tighten my grip on a rod. “Just helping out where I can.”
She releases me, pats my arm once, like she’s blessing a stubborn mule, and steps back.
The phrase comes out smooth, practiced, the same way it’s come out every time someone’s asked about Maddie and the store for the past three months.
Just helping out. Casual. No big deal. But it sits in my mouth a little differently this time.
Heavier, like I’ve worn a groove in my tongue, and now the groove is aching.
I load the last of the rods and drive down the street to Patrice’s flower shop.
Inside, the back shelving unit has decided to take early retirement, folding onto a tray of potted succulents.
Nobody’s hurt, minimal cactus casualties, but the metal frame is bent in two places, and the whole thing needs rebuilding.
I haul it upright, hammer the supports straight, then reinforce every joint with L-brackets from my truck.
As I’m tightening the last screw, Patrice appears, clutching a small bunch of bright orange dahlias that smell like summer. “These are for the store,” she says, thrusting them at me. “Or, you know. For her.” Her cheeks are pink.
I take them carefully, tucking the stems into the side pocket of my bag. “Thanks. I’ll pass them along.”
“She’s doing good work over there. You both are.”
“Yeah. She is.” I brush a hand over my soot-streaked forehead. “Just helping out where I can.” Patrice nods too eagerly and retreats into the shop.
At the community center, the garden club is wrestling a new trellis display into place on the front lawn, six retirees versus an eight-foot metal structure in direct sunlight. I jump in, take the heavy end, and between grunts and strategic swearing we get it bolted to its concrete pad.
A man in a paint-splattered polo shirt wipes his forehead and squints at me. “You’re Maddie’s right hand now, huh? At the store?”
I open my mouth. The words are right there, queued up and ready, Just helping out. They don’t come. Silence stretches between us, and he must read something in my face because he simply nods and goes back to adjusting the trellis ties.
I pack up my tools, slip Patrice’s dahlias under one arm, their stems cool, damp against my palm, and start down Main Street.
It’d be easier to drive, but I need the air.
I need to walk, or at least that’s what I tell myself.
I don’t even realize where my feet are taking me until I’m in front of Springs & Bells, standing there like a statue, dahlias in my hand, my tool belt biting into my hip, a smear of soot streaking my shirt.
I just stand there, not moving. Not even sure what comes next.
Just helping out.
The phrase is empty now. Hollowed out, like a dried stem. Maybe it’s been dead for a while, and I’m the last one to realize it, still dragging its bones around like it’ll sprout something new.
I’m not just helping out. Haven’t been in a long time, not since the first time Maddie kissed me out by the creek and made a sound that shorted out my entire nervous system.
Not since I turned down Burlington and, instead of panic, felt lighter.
Not since I stood on Maddie’s porch, holding a hardware store receipt and two scribbled honest sentences, and she pulled me inside and just… held on.
My hands actually go still. No fidgeting, no thumb tapping against the wrench in my pocket, no reaching for my phone to time the walk. For once, it’s just me, the flowers, the sun on the sidewalk, and the realization that whatever I am to Maddie, to this place, it’s not temporary anymore.
So I take a breath, steady as I can, and reach for the door, ready for whatever I find.
I stop short as my hand closes around the doorknob, and I realize Springs & Bells is closed.
I check the hours on the door out of reflex—same hours, same laminated card, same everything—but the sign is flipped, and the lights are on, and through the glass the front display looks like somebody detonated a craft store.
The pegboard is naked, the sale bins are gone and in their place is a corkboard so thick with colored-marker drawings and flyers it’s basically a quilt, something rainbow-flagged pinned up next to what I think is a tile sample, and a banner strung between two nails with one corner hanging loose, the lettering still glossy.
I set the dahlias on the counter and just pause, letting myself take it in.
Once the shock of the change is gone, I start noticing the details.
There’s a giant banner with Maddie’s handwriting looping across it that reads, SUMMER FIX-IT FAIR.
Underneath, the corkboard is crowded with workshop flyers for tile grouting, plumbing basics, and weatherstripping, each one decorated with colored markers.
There’s a “Queer Craft Night” section, a rainbow flag tacked up next to a sample tile.
Prints by local artists are lined up on the end cap, waiting for frames.
The whole place smells sharp and new, like paint and sawdust, with a current of something else I can’t quite place, but I can feel it, humming in my chest.
And there’s Maddie. Perched up on a step stool in a cherry-print dress, balancing a cordless drill nearly the size of her arm.
There’s blue paint smeared on her cheek, a streak drying along her wrist, and her hair is coming loose from its knot, falling into her eyes in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
She doesn’t see me as she focuses on the bracket, whispering to herself, the drill whirring as it bites into old plaster.
I don’t say anything, instead, I just watch, hands at my sides, and watch the way she works. There’s a rhythm to it, her dress catching the light from the window, the movement sure and easy. For once, I’m not fixing anything. I’m just standing here, letting it all wash over me.
She steps down, turns around, and her smile goes off like a lightbulb flipping on.
“Jordan! Hi. You’re here. Perfect timing, I was just—” She waves the drill, nearly scattering a pile of flyers.
“Fix-It Fair! Every other Saturday, starting next week. Tile grouting, basic plumbing…you’d crush that one, but there’s weatherstripping and a whole DIY setup by the windows, too.
And a rotating wall for local artists, plus queer craft night on Thursdays, because why should knitting groups have a monopoly on fun? ”
She’s talking fast and moving faster. Her eyes are bright, her face flushed, and the energy coming off her could run the lights on Main Street. It’s Maddie. She’s not holding steady, but building something new that’s all hers.
I lean on the counter, arms crossed, and just let her go. There’s something about the way her hands move, paint under her nails, every word ringing with conviction. It’s magnetic.
She drops the drill with a clatter. “Oh! The accent wall! Behind the register to add some spark. I’m thinking teal… or dusty mauve.” She points at the paint can like she’s daring anyone to disagree.
I pick it up, blow imaginary dust off the label. “Dusty Mauve?”
She snatches it back, eyes narrowing. “It’s not just dusty. It’s layered. Nuanced. But yeah, I think I like the teal better.”
“You’re putting an accent wall in a hardware store?”
“I’m giving a hardware store a soul,” she fires back, setting the can down with authority. “There’s a big difference.”