Chapter 26
Greyson
A few days have passed since the carnival date, and I’ve seen Clara every single day—and it’s been amazing.
She is amazing.
Today I’m picking her up and taking her to Evan’s Little League game.
And I’m more nervous about that than I was about asking her out.
Thatcher coaches like he always does—arms crossed, jaw tight, barking instructions like these eight-year-olds are one bad inning away from the majors.
But I know him. Underneath the gruff? He’s watching his nephew like a hawk.
The kid’s going through it.
Fucking Mike Stevens.
Every time I think about him packing up a minivan to run away with his yoga instructor girlfriend, Stormee, and just leaving Kelly a note like he’s canceling a dentist appointment, my hands curl into fists.
Kelly and Thatch are good people, and I got their backs.
So, I asked Thatcher a few nights ago, leaning against the sawmill wall while the blades whined in the background, “You want me to have some guys pay him a visit?”
He doesn’t know much about my personal life, but he knows I come from money, and people with money always seem to know those kinds of people.
Thatcher just gave me that look.
The one that says he’s two seconds away from total violence but choosing restraint.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
For now.
So I mind my business.
But I’m here.
And he knows it.
This morning I’m in my workshop, the smell of heated metal and oiled wood thick in the air, going over more sunflower pieces for the show.
The exhibit is in two weeks.
My signature, GCM, is on every piece now. Loud and proud.
But the headlines are gonna call me something else.
The Lumberjack Artist.
And they’re going to highlight the nonprofit where most of the money goes.
Still feels surreal.
But I think it’s time.
To stop hiding.
Stop running.
Stop letting the past dictate my present. My future.
When I do think of the future, I see her in it. Clara.
So sweet and perfect and mine.
But is she? Is she really?
Doubt is such an ugly motherfucker.
And it’s not winning today.
Not when the sun is shining and I’ve got a girl to pick up and a baseball game to watch.
First, I have to finish my work.
On the long table in front of me sits a half-finished bouquet—metal stems forged and curved by hand, the heads carved from wood and inlaid with brass at the centers. Industrial and soft all at once.
Like her.
Against the far wall hangs a stretched panel of hand-tooled leather, sunflowers rising in relief from the surface.
Each petal shaped, pressed, stained by hand.
The texture catches the light differently depending on where you stand.
I’ve been playing with scale again.
Small. Large. Bold. Unapologetic.
It feels different working on these.
Not like I’m hiding.
Not like I’m proving something.
More like I’m saying something.
My mind drifts.
Back to her.
Always to her.
Clara.
She’s at Kelly’s today, working at the small kitchen table, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys.
I can picture it too clearly.
The way she chews her bottom lip when she’s concentrating.
The way she hums under her breath without realizing it.
She told me last night that she started.
She’s outlining a book.
A novel.
My chest had done something stupid and proud at the same time.
On one hand, I’m thrilled she’s writing.
That she feels safe enough here—in this mountain town, in this chaos of wood and sawdust and imperfect people—to chase the thing she’s always wanted.
On the other hand?
Her stay is temporary.
Temporary accommodations.
Temporary room.
Temporary life.
The word claws at me.
I press my palms to the edge of the worktable and exhale.
Don’t do something dumb.
Like ask her to move in.
My eyes flick around the workshop.
Then I think about the old cabin.
It’s small.
Old.
Creaky.
Half the insulation probably predates the internet.
Should’ve torn it down and rebuilt it years ago.
Should’ve redefined the property line.
Cut back some of the trees.
Fixed the access road.
I could still do that.
I mean, would that be so bad?
The thoughts sneak in before I can shut them down.
Making this place more livable.
Waking up with her every morning.
Coffee on the stove.
Her laughter in this place instead of silence.
Company stopping by now and then.
Willow and Thatcher coming over for dinner.
Kelly and Evan coming to fish in the creek behind the workshop.
My chance at having a normal life—a real life.
One where I’m not doomed to be alone forever.
I shake my head.
Slow down.
I just stopped running.
And we haven’t even defined this yet.
I’m a fucking idiot, sitting here imagining forever.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
I check the clock on the wall.
Shit.
I gotta go.
I scrub my hands clean, peel off my gloves, and swap into a clean flannel.
Slightly less musty.
Slightly more presentable.
When I step outside, the air is crisp and bright.
No storm clouds. No warnings.
Just a clear Maine afternoon in late March.
I lock up the workshop and head for the truck.
Today, isn’t about art. Or the past.
It isn’t about galleries. Or my fucking baggage.
It’s about showing up.
For a kid whose dad didn’t.
For a woman who’s learning to believe she can want more.
For myself.
When I pull into Kelly’s driveway, Clara’s already outside, sunglasses perched on her nose, hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
She’s wearing cropped jeans and a soft tee with one of my borrowed flannels wrapped around her waist.
Those ugly yellow Crocs on her feet.
I grin.
I like her in my clothes.
Like her better without them, really.
I have to tell my dick to settle down while I shift into park.
She smiles when she sees me.
And something in my chest loosens.
I hop out of my truck and circle the front till I’m standing right in front of her before I can even think about stopping myself.
“You ready?” I ask.
She grins. “For baseball? Always.”
And before I know it I cup her cheek and pull her face towards me so I can kiss her hello properly.
She moans and kisses me back—and isn’t that a fucking miracle?
This pretty creature is letting me, me, touch her like I have any right.
Like maybe she does belong to me.
And the second I think it, I can’t seem to let that thought go.
Mine.
She tilts her head as we end our kiss. “You look serious.”
“I’m just thinking about logistics,” I lie.
She snorts. “Sure you are.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “So, you write today?”
Her eyes light up.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I did.”
Pride surges through me, unexpected and fierce.
“Good,” I reply. “Keep going.”
She studies me like she’s trying to read what I’m not saying.
Maybe one day I’ll tell her.
That every time she chooses to write, it feels like watching a flower push through concrete.
That every minute she stays, even if she doesn’t put a name on it, it feels like something in me taking root.
For now, I open the passenger door.
And I help her climb in with my hand on her hip.
I give her a gentle squeeze before I go to my side of the truck.
Next, we head toward the Little League field, toward the sound of aluminum bats and kids yelling and a world that feels—just for today—simple.
I don’t know what happens next.
I just know I’m not sitting this one out.