25. Edda
Chapter twenty-five
Edda
The ladder wobbles under my feet, and I grab the shelf bracket, steadying myself before it can tip further.
“I’ve got it,” Bennett says from below. His hands stay firm on the aluminum rails. “Take your time.”
I don’t look down. If I do, I’ll see him standing there in jeans and a sweater that probably costs more than my monthly electric bill, holding my ladder as it matters more than anything else on his schedule.
Three weeks ago, that image would have made me laugh.
Now it settles in my chest, warm and inconvenient, as it has nowhere else to go.
The drill kicks into the wall. I drive in the last screw and press my palm against the bracket.
Solid. The new shelving unit stretches across the expansion wall, empty for now but ready.
Ready for the vintage frames I’ve been storing in the back.
Ready for the parts I’ve kept in cardboard boxes since I was twenty-two.
Ready for everything I’ve been working toward without letting myself call it a future.
“You can let go,” I say. “I’m coming down.”
He doesn’t release the ladder until my boots hit concrete. Even then, his hand lands briefly at the small of my back, steadying me in a way I don’t actually need. I’ve started noticing that about him. The small touches that aren’t about control. Just contact. Just presence.
“Looks good,” he says, stepping back to study the wall. “The spacing is even.”
“Was that a compliment or a site assessment?”
“Both.” The corner of his mouth shifts, almost a smile but not quite. He’s been doing that more lately, too. “You measured twice.”
“I always measure twice.”
“I know.”
The expansion unit still smells like fresh paint and something like possibility.
The wall between my original shop and the adjacent space came down two weeks ago, and every morning I walk through the opening that used to be drywall and feel something I can’t quite name.
More room. More inventory space. More future.
My future. Built with my loan, my plans, my hands.
Bennett drifts toward the front counter where the someday jar sits beside the register. I watch him stop himself from touching it. He’s learned that, too. Which things are allowed to be held, and which ones belong only to me?
“Mrs. Petrova’s grandson is picking up his bike at four,” I say, pulling off my work gloves. “The Schwinn with the bent derailleur.”
“The one you’ve fixed three times this year?” he asks.
"He’s eleven. He rides like he’s training for something apocalyptic."
"At eleven, I was building model planes in my room."
"Of course you were."
He glances back at me over his shoulder. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just that I can see it. Little Bennett Thornhill with precision tools and instruction manuals, making sure every piece went exactly where it belonged."
"They were not cheap models."
"I’m sure they weren’t."
He steps back toward me, close enough that I catch cedar on his skin, clean laundry, and something underneath that is unmistakably him. "You’re mocking me."
"I’m appreciating you. There’s a difference."
His hand settles on my hip. Not guiding. Not claiming. Just there, steady, like he has not quite decided whether he’s allowed to stay. "I can’t tell anymore."
"Good."
Morning light spills through the front windows, catching dust in the air and glinting off the chrome of the vintage Peugeot in the display.
I should have rotated it days ago. I should have done a lot of things.
But the urgency that used to drive everything has loosened, settling into something steadier. A rhythm I’m still learning to trust.
"I have a meeting at eleven," Bennett says. "Henderson wants to go over the quarterly projections."
"Then you should go."
"I will." He still doesn’t move. His thumb traces a slow circle against my hip, absentminded but not careless. "I’ll be back tonight."
"I know."
"Is that a problem?"
I look up at him. The flat blue of his eyes has shifted over these weeks. Not the color, but what’s behind it. Less calculation. More space. Something that lets me in without him seeming to realize it yet.
"When was the last time you asked me that and actually believed I’d say yes?"
He considers it for a beat. “Three weeks ago. Maybe four.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m asking because I want to hear you say it’s not a problem. That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“You tell me.”
I step closer and adjust his collar, though it sits perfectly already. My fingers brush the skin at his neck, warm and steady beneath my touch.
“It’s not a problem,” I say.
He catches my hand before I can pull away. His thumb grazes my knuckles, then he presses a quick kiss there, like he’s testing whether he can afford the habit. It’s gone almost before I register it.
Then he’s already moving, reaching for the jacket he left draped over the counter.
“Four o’clock,” I remind him. “Mrs. Petrova’s grandson.”
“I’ll be here by three-thirty.”
“You don’t have to show up for every repair.”
“I know.” He slides into the jacket, settling it across his shoulders as it belongs there. “I still want to.”
The door chimes as he leaves.
I stay where I am, watching through the window until his car pulls away. Even after it disappears, I don’t move right away. The shop feels rearranged in subtle ways, like it’s still adjusting to him not being in it.
The ladder is still propped against the new shelving. The drill sits on the workbench. A jar near the register holds loose change and a single folded bill I’ve never bothered to open.
I already know what it is. I saw him slip it in last Thursday when I was in the back taking inventory. He thought I didn’t notice.
I did.
I notice more than I pretend to. Not because I’m trying to catch him at something, but because I’ve started tracking the shape he leaves behind in my space.
The morning settles back into the rhythm I’ve built over eleven years. Coffee from the pot on the back counter. Inventory across the new shelving. A regular call about a tune-up before next weekend.
I pencil her in for Wednesday and pause when I look at the calendar.
There’s space there now. Not because business is slow, but because I left it open. On purpose.
Around noon, my phone buzzes.
Lina: Lunch?
I wipe my hands on my jeans and text back.
Give me twenty.
She shows up in thirty anyway, carrying a paper bag from the sandwich place on Third and two bottles of sparkling water that cost more than the sandwiches should.
"Fancy," I say, taking the water she hands me.
"I had a good week. Tips were insane." She drops onto the stool I keep behind the counter and looks around the expansion. "This is really happening, Edda."
"It is happening."
"I mean, really happening. Not the someday version." She twists the cap off her water. "Remember when you used to talk about expanding like it was this far-off thing? Like that jar?"
My gaze flicks to it. The twenty is still folded inside, tucked between quarters and a few crumpled bills.
"I remember."
"That isn't someday anymore. That's now."
"I know."
She studies me while I unwrap my sandwich. Turkey and Swiss, extra mustard, same order I’ve had for years. "You look different."
"I look tired. The baby is making sure I know who's in charge."
"No. Not that kind of different. You look…" She hesitates, searching for it. "Settled."
I take a bite before answering. The bread is fresh, the turkey is good, and Lina is watching me like she’s decided I’m about to hear something I probably need.
"You can say it," I tell her.
"Say what?"
"Whatever you've been holding back since you walked in."
She sets her water down. "I talked to Marcus yesterday."
"Bennett's Marcus?"
"How many Marcuses do we know?" She pulls a pickle from her sandwich. "He said Bennett rearranged his entire meeting schedule last week so he could be here for the wall demo."
"I know. He held the ladder."
"Edda, he moved a board meeting. The man who built an empire on never missing a board meeting moved it so he could watch you knock down drywall."
"He didn't just watch. He hauled debris to the dumpster."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
She leans in slightly. "The point is, he's different too. Marcus says he's never seen Bennett like this. That quiet thing he does now, where he just shows up and doesn't try to control everything. Marcus says it's… strange."
"Maybe it's growth."
"It's you. You did that."
I shake my head. "I didn't do anything except refuse to let him manage me."
"That's exactly what you did." She reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. "You held the ladder, just not the way he expected."
After Lina leaves, I spend the afternoon in the back sorting parts into the new bins I ordered.
The work is methodical, steady in a way that settles something inside me.
Derailleur cables in one bin. Brake pads in another.
The small brass fittings my father used to keep in a coffee can are now lined up by size and type, like they finally belong somewhere.
My hands know this work. My body knows this space.
And for the first time in years, my mind isn't running ahead of me, tallying rent, repairs, and how long I can keep everything from slipping.
The expansion loan is structured. The payments are manageable.
The consulting fees from Bennett's project are sitting in an account I haven't touched.
I earned those fees. Every invoice. Every site visit. Every heritage review recommendation that kept his project clear of Cassel's objections. The work was real before anything else became complicated, and I carry that knowledge like something steady I don't have to defend.
At three twenty-five, the door chimes.
Bennett is standing there with a brown paper bag in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other.
"You're early," I say.
"Traffic was lighter than expected." He sets the bag on the counter. "I stopped at that bakery you mentioned. The one with the croissants."
"I mentioned that once. Weeks ago."