Chapter 3
ETHAN
By midmorning, the bathroom was a war zone.
Gone were the designer clothes, the pressed chinos, the polished version of myself I wore Monday through Friday like armor.
I’d dug through my old room and found a pair of faded jeans shoved into the back of the closet, knees already worn thin.
They still fit. A plain white T-shirt clung to my shoulders, already dusted with drywall powder.
Heavy work boots I’d left in the garage years ago — scuffed, solid, familiar — laced tight around my ankles.
I slid on the goggles, pushed my hair back, and turned the radio up.
Classic rock crackled through the speakers. Loud. Imperfect. The way it used to sound blasting out of a garage with the door half open and the neighbors pissed off.
Heaven.
I wrapped my fingers around the crowbar and drove it into the seam where the old tub met the wall. Porcelain protested with a sharp crack, then another. Tile shattered. Dust bloomed into the air.
My arms burned almost immediately.
Good.
Each swing loosened something in me. Each crack felt earned.
I thought about Sage — the way she’d looked at my hands, like she’d already decided something about me. The roughness. The calluses I’d never quite managed to sand away no matter how many spreadsheets I touched.
Next time I see her, I thought, levering another chunk of tile free, I’ll have a few more.
The work was honest. Simple in the best way. Break, clear, measure, rebuild.
No politics.
No posturing.
No pretending.
Sweat rolled down my spine. My palms roughened further, skin already tender where new blisters threatened.
Somewhere behind me, the screen door creaked.
“Ethan,” Ma called, half scolding, half worried. “You’ve been at it for hours. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I said, not turning around. “Almost done with demo.”
She hovered in the doorway for a minute, arms crossed, pretending not to admire the mess.
“You want lunch?” she asked finally. “I can make you—”
“Turkey and mustard,” I said automatically. “On white. Extra pickles.”
She sniffed. “Like you’re still sixteen.”
I grinned.
When she walked away, I heard her phone ring.
Then her voice — lower, conspiratorial, proud.
“Yes, he drove up last night… No, I didn’t ask him to… He just saw what needed doing… He’s fixing the bathroom, can you believe it?”
I paused, crowbar hanging loose in my hand.
“He always was good with his hands,” she went on, laughter threading through her words. “Always taking things apart and putting them back together better.”
My chest tightened.
I went back to work before she could catch me listening.
Five hours in, I finally stepped back.
The tub was gone. Walls stripped to studs. Old plumbing exposed like bones. Dust coated everything — me included.
I popped the tab on a beer, took a long pull, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
Then I set the can down.
Picked up the tape measure.
And dove right back in.
Because this?
This was who I’d always been.
And no matter how far I went, or how polished I became, it was still waiting for me — steady, honest, and strong — every time I came home.
The dust was still in my hair when I stepped out onto the back porch and flipped open my BlackBerry.
The screen glowed blue in the shade.
No missed calls. No emergencies from work yet.
I leaned against the railing, flexed my fingers once — already stiff, already rougher — then typed.
I didn’t explain more than I had to.
I never did.
Subject
Out of Office – Family Medical EmergencyOut of Office – Family Medical Emergency
Jim,
I’m dealing with a medical emergency with my mother and need to take the week.
I don’t anticipate being unreachable, but I will be out of the office starting today. I’ll use vacation time.
I’ll check email intermittently and can be reached on my BlackBerry if something urgent comes up.
Thanks for understanding,
Ethan
I stared at the screen for a second after sending it.
I almost added I’ve never taken a sick day.
Didn’t.
The record spoke for itself.
Jim’s response came less than ten minutes later.
Short. Controlled. Professional.
Of course it did.
Subject
RE: Out of Office – Family Medical EmergencyRE: Out of Office – Family Medical Emergency
Ethan,
Understood. Take the time you need.
Please keep me posted if anything changes.
– Jim
No warmth.
No questions.
But no fight either.
That was Jim’s version of concern.
I exhaled and turned back toward the house, the sound of the radio still humming faintly through the open window.
One more email.
This one mattered more.
I typed with my thumbs, slower now — not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I wanted to get it right.
Subject
RE: Out This WeekOut This Week
Team,
I had a family emergency come up and will be out of the office this week. Hoping to be back by Friday, but I’ll keep you posted.
I have complete confidence in you all to hold things down while I’m gone. Keep pushing on the timelines we discussed, and flag anything that truly can’t wait.
I’ll be checking email periodically, and if something urgent comes up, you can reach me on my BlackBerry.
Thanks,
E
I sent it and closed the device.
Almost immediately, it buzzed in my hand.
Beth.
Just one line.
Take care of your mom. We’ve got this.
I smiled, tucked the BlackBerry into my pocket, and headed back inside.
There was work to do.
Just not the kind that came with meetings or metrics.
This week, my priorities were right in front of me — cracked tile, tired walls, and a woman in the kitchen who’d given me everything she had.
And for once, the office could wait.
I worked thirteen hour days-straight, radio loud enough to rattle the windows. I moved between projects like a machine—bathroom to kitchen, kitchen back to bath—never waiting around for anything to dry.
The work kept my head clear.
While mud cured, I jackhammered tile.
While grout set, I sanded cabinets.
By Monday afternoon, I’d pulled over on my second supply run and hired three guys waiting under the overpass. No questions asked. Just work. They needed it. I knew that look.
By Wednesday night, the house didn’t smell like old grease and lemon cleaner anymore. It smelled like paint and sawdust and something new.
Ma hovered while the cabinets dried, arms crossed, trying not to smile.
“You’re not going back to cleaning offices at night,” I told her again.
She bristled. “Ethan—”
“No,” I said. “That’s done. If you want to work, it’s daytime. When I’m at work.”
She hated it. I could tell.
But by Thursday morning, she was pulling on a cardigan and telling me she was “just going to check something out.”
When she came home, she was glowing.
“The library,” she said. “They need someone part-time. Book returns. Cleaning. Sign-in sheets. They don’t expect me to know the computers.”
She said it like a confession.
I smiled. “That’s perfect.”
She sniffed. “They’re training me on the Dewey Decimal System. Said I could do some of the gardening work too. ”
I was out back cutting lumber when my phone buzzed.
Tony.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and answered.
“Are you sitting down?” he asked.
“I’m covered in sawdust,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Marina security called me,” he said. “We had a visitor on the boat last night. She followed a group in when they punched in the security code at the gate.”
My stomach dropped.
“What kind of visitor?”
“Female. Midnight. Twelve-thirty, maybe.” He paused, enjoying this. “Didn’t touch anything. Took off her shoes. Ran her fingers over the deck like she was looking for something.”
My pulse kicked hard.
“She didn’t break in,” Tony went on. “Just… boarded. Left after a few minutes.”
I closed my eyes.
“When I pulled the footage,” he added, “she looked like Venus herself.”
“Sage,” I said immediately. “It was Sage.”
Tony exhaled. “Yeah. Thought so.”
I leaned against the fence, sweat cooling on my back.
“She’s been back to the bar too,” Tony said. “Same place you met. Two nights in a row. Asked around. You weren’t there.”
Something tight and strange settled in my chest.
“She was looking for you, man.”
I ran a hand through my hair.
“You want me to leave her a note?” Tony asked. “Let her know you didn’t disappear. That you had family stuff.”
I hesitated.
“Do you think she’ll come back again?” I asked.
A beat.
“Well,” he said, “clearly she’s not done looking.”
“I might stay on the boat a few nights,” Tony added lightly. “Just to—”
“Tony,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to, “don’t.”
There was a grin in his voice when he replied. “Relax. I’m fucking with you. I wouldn’t touch her.”
I exhaled.
“Handle your mom,” he said, softer now. “Whatever this is, it’ll wait.”
We hung up.
I stood there for a moment, radio thumping behind me, the smell of fresh-cut wood in the air.
She’d gone back.
To the bar.
To the boat.
Tracing the outline of a night we hadn’t finished.
That meant something.
I picked up the saw again and went back to work.
Because whatever was starting to take shape back in Boston—
I wasn’t done here yet.