15. Fran #3
“I should-” I gesture vaguely toward the farmhouse. “I have calls to make. The Henderson wedding.”
“Of course.” He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to hold me there. Just steps aside and lets me go, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d grabbed my arm and demanded we talk.
I’m halfway to the farmhouse when he calls after me.
“Fran?”
I turn. “What?”
He’s standing where I left him, hands in his pockets, looking almost nervous. “Would you - I mean, if you’re not too tired tonight - there’s supposed to be a meteor shower. Junie mentioned it. I thought maybe we could watch it. Together.”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“I’m asking you to sit on your own porch and look at the sky with me.” His mouth quirks. “But yes. If you want to call it a date.”
I should say no. I should draw a line, maintain my boundaries, protect myself from the hope that keeps trying to bloom in my chest. But the truth is, I’m tired of being alone.
I’m tired of carrying everything myself.
And the idea of sitting on my porch, watching stars with a man who once knew how to make me laugh. It doesn’t sound terrible.
“Ask me again after these calls,” I say. “Once I know I haven’t completely lost control of the Henderson situation.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a no,” I agree.
I turn and walk into the farmhouse before I can say anything else.
The calls take longer than expected, the Hendersons are enthusiastic and indecisive, a combination that requires patience I’m not sure I have today. But I make it through, finalize the order, and pencil in a site visit for next week.
When I come back outside, the sun is starting to set.
Logan is on the porch, sitting on the top step with a piece of wood in his hands.
He’s whittling something. I can see the curls of shavings at his feet, the small knife moving with practiced ease.
His right hand is steady and sure, the tattoos flexing with each movement, and I watch him work for a moment before he notices me.
“What are you making?”
He holds up the piece. It’s small, only a few inches tall, but I can already see what it’s going to be: a woman, mid-stride, one hand cocked on her hip like she’s about to win an argument. Me. He’s carving me.
“It’s not finished,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears going pink. “Faces are the hard part - I keep getting yours wrong. But the rest of you, the way you stand like the ground owes you money, that part I could do with my eyes shut.”
I sit down on the step below him, leaving space between us. “You’re carving me.”
“I’ve been carving you for a while.” He says it to the wood instead of to me. “It’s how I look at something long enough to understand it. I’m slow with people. This helps.”
Out in the yard, Gertrude watches the two of us with open contempt, as though she knows she’s been passed over as a subject. “You know she still hates you,” I say.
“I’m working on her too.” He glances at the goose. “Is there a way to earn a goose’s trust?”
“Time, patience, treats.” I shrug. “Same as earning anyone’s trust, I guess.”
He’s quiet for a moment, shaving a fine curl from the little figure’s shoulder. Then: “I’d like to earn yours. Your trust, I mean. I know I have a long way to go, but - I’d like to try.”
I stare at the sky, which is turning pink and orange at the edges. “You know it’s not that simple, right? You can’t just show up and fix a fence and feed my goose and expect everything to be okay.”
“I know.”
“I spent nineteen months feeling invisible in my own marriage. Feeling like I was competition at best and furniture at worst. That doesn’t just… go away.”
“I know that too.” His voice is soft. “And I’m not expecting it to. I’m just asking for a chance to be different. To show you that I can be the person you needed all along.”
I want to believe him. That’s the terrifying part, after everything, after the coldness and the public humiliation and the fire, I still want to believe he can change. I still want the night man to survive the daylight.
“The meteor shower,” I say finally. “What time does it start?”
“Around nine, according to Junie.” He looks up from his whittling. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a maybe that’s leaning toward probably.” I stand, brushing off my pants. “I’m going to make dinner. You can help if you promise not to burn anything.”
“I make no promises,” he says, but he’s smiling. “But I’ll try.”
We make dinner together in my tiny kitchen, pasta with vegetables from the garden that Junie maintained while I was gone.
Logan follows my instructions without complaint, chopping and stirring and staying out of my way when the space gets too tight.
Gertrude watches from her corner, occasionally honking commentary that neither of us can interpret.
It’s almost normal. Almost like the nights we used to have, before Sloane, before the coldness set in. Almost like the man I married might still be in there somewhere, underneath all the walls he built.
But I’m not ready to tear those walls down. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
After dinner, we sit on the porch and wait for the stars.