13. Elena
— ? —
Elena
The drive takes twenty-seven minutes.
I count because I have nothing else to do except listen to Adrian’s breathing and try to guess where we’re going based on the sounds of traffic and the feeling of turns.
We cross a bridge at some point, I feel the change in road surface, and the city sounds shift from Midtown chaos to something quieter.
“Can I take this off yet?”
“Almost.”
“You said that five minutes ago.”
“And I was right. It was almost five minutes ago.”
The car slows. Stops. I hear him get out, come around to my side, open the door.
“Okay.” His hand finds mine. “Keep the blindfold on until I say.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Humor me.”
He guides me out of the car, onto a sidewalk. The air is cold but not brutal, somewhere in the low thirties, I’d guess, and I can smell exhaust and coffee and something else, something industrial. Paint, maybe, or sawdust.
We walk about thirty feet. A door opens with the sound of new hinges, and suddenly the smell of sawdust is everywhere, rich and sharp, the scent of freshly cut wood.
“Okay.” His voice is soft. “You can look.”
I pull off the blindfold.
For a moment, I can’t process what I’m seeing.
We’re standing in a storefront, a big one, probably two thousand square feet. The walls are exposed brick, the floors polished concrete, the windows floor-to-ceiling with afternoon light streaming through.
And it’s a workshop.
A professional workshop.
I see a table saw in the center of the room, brand new, the kind I’ve drooled over in catalogs but never dreamed of affording. A jointer against the wall. A drum sander. A professional-grade dust collection system running along the ceiling.
Against the far wall, a drafting table sits by the window, positioned perfectly to catch the natural light, and behind it, an entire wall of wood samples. Walnut, cherry, oak, maple. Exotic species I’ve only read about. Organized by grain and color, labeled with origin and characteristics.
“Adrian.” I can barely form words. “What is this?”
“It’s your studio.” He moves to stand beside me, watching my face. “The lease is prepaid for two years, then it transfers to your name. No strings. It’s yours whether you take me back or not.”
“I can’t, this is too much…”
“It’s not enough.” He takes my hand. “Elena, I watched you work in that corner of the laundromat basement, on secondhand tools with terrible lighting, and you still made the most beautiful furniture I’ve ever seen. You deserve a space that matches your talent.”
I walk further into the room, touching the table saw, the drill press, the clamps organized by size on a pegboard. Everything is top of the line. Everything is exactly what I would have chosen if I’d had unlimited resources and unlimited time.
“How did you know?” I ask. “What equipment to get, what wood to stock…”
“I did research. Spent three weeks reading woodworking forums and calling suppliers. I may have also bribed Sophie for information about your wish list.”
“Sophie knew about this?”
“Sophie helped me plan it.”
I’m going to kill her. Right after I hug her.
“And the location, this neighborhood…”
“Walkable from your apartment. Good foot traffic for a future showroom, if you ever want to expand. The building has freight elevator access for moving large pieces.”
He thought of everything. He actually thought of everything.
I turn to face him. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do all this? We’re not even, we’re barely…”
“Because I love you.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Because I spent three months of our marriage ignoring your work, and I spent the month after that watching you build a business with nothing but talent and determination. Because you deserve a space where you can create without worrying about leaky ceilings or basement lighting or whether your landlord is going to raise the rent.”
“But if I don’t take you back…”
“Then you’ll still have a studio. That’s not negotiable.” He moves closer. “I’m not buying my way back into your life, Elena. I’m investing in your future. Those are different things.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him it’s too much, too grand, too much like the kind of gesture you make when you’re trying to impress someone instead of actually doing the work.
But when I look at his face, I don’t see someone trying to impress me. I see someone who spent three weeks researching woodworking equipment because he wanted to get it right.
I see someone trying to do the work.
“There’s one more thing.” He points toward the front window, and I turn to look.
On the glass, in gold lettering:
ELENA VASQUEZ DESIGNS
“My name,” I say. “Not Vale.”
“It’s not my name to put.” He shrugs. “This is your business. Your work. Your legacy. I’m just… the guy who helped with the space.”
I stare at the words on the glass. My name. My company. Something that’s entirely mine, no matter what happens between us.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key, silver, new, attached to a simple keychain. “The alarm code is your birthday. Month, day, year.”
I take the key. It’s warm from his pocket, and heavier than I expected.
“I accept,” I say finally. “On my terms.”
“What terms?”
“I’m not moving back to the manor. I’m keeping my apartment, at least for now. And this…” I gesture at the studio, at everything he’s given me. “This doesn’t mean we’re fixed. It means you’re trying. There’s a difference.”
“I know.” He smiles. “I know the difference.”
“Good.” I pocket the key. “Now drive me home. I’m exhausted, and if I stay here much longer, I’m going to start crying over the table saw.”
“Can’t have that.”
We walk back to the car in comfortable silence.
***
He pulls up to my apartment building just as the sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the studio. For… everything.”
“Thank you for letting me try.”
I should get out of the car. I should go upstairs, make dinner, maybe call Sophie and yell at her for keeping secrets.
Instead, I turn to face him.
“Do you want to come up?”
His hand stills on the gear shift. “Up?”
“For coffee. Or something.”
“Or something?”
“Adrian.”
He looks at me, and I can see the hope in his eyes, fragile, barely contained, terrified of wanting too much.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“No,” I admit. “But I want you to come in anyway.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he turns off the engine and pockets the keys.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
He follows me inside.