Chapter 28
ETHAN
By the time winter edges into the mountains, I’ve relearned the sound of quiet.
Not the city kind.
This quiet is different.
Snow absorbs everything. Pines hold their breath. The house ticks softly at night as the temperature drops — wood contracting, old beams settling into place like bones realigning.
Tony and I bought this place after September broke the world open.
Not as an investment.
Not as a vacation fantasy.
As a way out.
Tony needed distance from the empire waiting for him in Boston — uncles who spoke in balance sheets and bloodlines. He wanted to build something that didn’t come preloaded with expectation.
I needed air.
Sky that didn’t feel crowded.
I’ve been here long enough now that the house smells like sawdust and coffee instead of neglect. Long enough that my palms are split open for real — splinters, drywall dust, calluses earned honestly. Long enough that when a plane cuts overhead, I don’t freeze.
Most days I work until I’m exhausted.
Strip walls down to studs. Replace rot. Square beams that were never true. Tear out what’s compromised and rebuild it the right way.
Wood makes sense.
If it’s weak, you see it.
If it’s warped, you plane it.
If it’s rotten, you cut it out and start over.
People aren’t that simple.
I don’t talk much about the city. Or the morning the sky turned the wrong color. Or how silence after sirens can be louder than the sirens themselves.
Everyone lost someone.
Everyone carries something.
Mine is layered — grief under shame under fear under something I still can’t name.
And then there’s Sage.
I’m not blind anymore.
Summer nights under stars don’t blur the edges now.
The therapist’s office smells like peppermint and old paper.
Neutral on purpose.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch. The space between us is measured. Intentional. Unremarked upon.
Sage sits straight-backed. Ankles crossed. Hands folded in her lap like she’s testifying.
Some weeks she barely speaks.
Some weeks she opens everything.
Abandonment. Control. The way fear makes her do things she swears she doesn’t recognize.
She cries differently now. No storms. No spirals. No blaming.
Just tears she wipes away herself.
“I don’t want to be that person,” she says once, voice steady. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I say less.
I talk about trust like it’s a bank account that’s been emptied too many times.
I talk about love turning from refuge into perimeter.
The therapist asks questions that don’t corner either of us.
After sessions, Sage usually turns to me and asks, “How did that feel for you?”
I never know how to answer.
Sometimes we get coffee afterward.
We sit across from each other like people who used to share a bed and now share careful eye contact.
Sometimes dinner.
Long pauses stitched between safe topics.
She doesn’t drink.
She orders sparkling water and makes sure I notice.
“I’m serious about this,” she says lightly.
I nod.
She wants acknowledgment.
Credit.
Proof that I see the effort.
I don’t give it.
Not because I’m cruel.
Because if I say it out loud — if I validate the progress — it means I might have to believe it.
From the outside, it probably looks like healing.
She doesn’t show up unannounced.
She doesn’t push when I don’t answer.
She asks permission now.
Can I call tonight?
Is it okay if I come up this weekend?
Do you need space?
The words are right.
The tone is right.
And that’s what scares me.
Sage has always known how to be exactly what someone needs when something is at stake.
Especially when she’s afraid.
I watch her the way you watch ice forming on a lake in early winter.
Still. Clear. Beautiful.
You don’t step on it yet.
My mother and sister come up one weekend.
My mom walks through the house like it’s something sacred.
“It’s cozy,” she says, running her hand along the counter I rebuilt. “You did good here.”
Family. Is. Everything.
My sister hugs me in the driveway when they leave.
“You’re doing better,” she says quietly. “I can tell.”
My mom just squeezes my hand. “Call me.”
I promise.
I don’t tell them about therapy.
Or Sage.
Or how close I feel to something I can’t quite name.
They don’t need that weight.
When they drive away, the house feels bigger.
Quieter.
I stand in the kitchen staring at the counter I installed myself — level, solid, exact.
Rot in wood is easy to find.
Soft spots give.
Warping shows.
Cracks widen if you press.
People look fine right up until they collapse.
Some nights I miss her.
Not the chaos.
Not the volatility.
Her laugh.
The way she tucked her feet under her when she was thinking.
How she actually listened when I talked about stupid things.
I miss being wanted with that kind of intensity.
Being the center of someone’s universe.
And then I remember the cost.
How tight my world got.
How small.
How every decision carried unpredictable fallout.
Love shouldn’t feel like a negotiation.
Or a test.
Or a leash.
I know that in my head.
My body is slower to learn.
At night I sit at the kitchen table with paperwork spread out.
Licensing programs.
Trade certifications.
Apprenticeships.
Carpentry. Electrical. Restoration.
I run my thumb along timelines and application deadlines.
It feels good to plan something that doesn’t hinge on someone else’s emotional weather.
Something measurable.
Square footage. Framing angles. Finish work.
Not moods.
Not minefields.
I picture days that start with coffee and end with exhaustion earned honestly.
I picture peace.
And then my phone lights up.
Sage.
I let it ring twice.
Then answer.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she replies, soft. Careful. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
I close my eyes.
This is the danger zone.
Not the fights.
Not the jealousy.
Not the accusations.
This.
The gentleness.
The restraint.
The hope in her voice like she’s already picturing a future I haven’t agreed to.
Snow falls harder outside the window.
The house settles around me.
And I realize something I don’t say out loud:
Chaos is loud.
But control…
control is quiet.