Chapter 37 Austin
THIRTY-SEVEN
AUSTIN
I officially hated my half of the duplex.
It was quiet in that way that made my ears ring a little—like the silence was trying too hard. I was busy pretending not to miss the sound of bare feet thumping across hardwood or a little girl humming the theme from her cartoons for the thousandth time.
I sat at the small kitchen table, surrounded by the wreckage of a late dinner I barely remembered eating. There was a half-finished container of lo mein, sweet-and-sour sauce smeared across a napkin, and a sweating beer I had taken three sips of and then forgotten.
Across from me, my laptop glowed with an open tab for air-filtration systems. Beside it sat a manila folder filled with bank statements and loan applications for a house I didn’t own yet.
I leaned back in the chair, dragged a hand over my face, and let the silence stretch.
It wasn’t that I regretted giving Selene space.
I had promised I wouldn’t crowd her. I had an insatiable need to show her I could listen—that I could learn. And I meant it.
But fuck, I missed them.
I missed the way Winnie would barrel into me with a fierce hug, all wild ponytails and snack requests. I missed seeing Selene’s face when she’d laugh at something on TV that was genuinely stupid. I missed the feel of them in my life—messy, noisy, beautiful.
Now?
The air felt thin, like something vital had been sucked out of it.
I stared at the condensation dripping down the bottle in my hand. Water pooled at the base, the cardboard take-out bag damp and curling beneath it.
My side of the duplex didn’t feel like home anymore, and maybe it never really had.
At the time, it had felt like enough. Enough space. Enough privacy. Enough for me to pretend I wasn’t still carrying things I hadn’t named yet.
I could never have guessed a chance meeting with Selene in a lonely jazz bar would have turned into me craving everything about domestic life with her.
I let out a breath and pushed the beer away, grabbing the blueprints instead.
Selene didn’t need promises or pressure. Instead, I wanted to give her something real that would show them both how I felt.
I wasn’t trying to win her back. I was trying to prove I’d never left.
Wes’s place sat at the edge of town, just past the split in the road where the woods thickened and the lake breeze grew sharper.
The house was mostly hidden by towering evergreens, the gravel driveway barely visible from the road.
I pulled in slowly, tires crunching under scattered pine needles, and rolled to a stop in front of a house that didn’t look anything like a man trying to disappear.
It was gorgeous.
Clean lines, weathered cedar, long glass windows that caught the trees like paintings. It was a place you built when you had nothing to prove but wanted everything to feel intentional. Of course it was—Wes Vaughn had always been a genius with his hands.
I shut the car door and climbed the steps. No doorbell. Just a knotted iron knocker shaped like a ship’s anchor. I knocked once. Waited. Nothing.
Knocked again—harder this time. “Wes? It’s me, Austin. Brody’s brother. Come on, man. Open up.”
More seconds passed, until I heard the sound of footsteps, shuffling behind the door, slow and uneven.
The door opened, and Wes looked like someone who’d stepped out of a storm and hadn’t decided whether he wanted to come back inside.
He had an unkempt beard, and the shadows under his eyes made the blue look almost metallic. He leaned slightly to one side, a shift you might not notice unless you were looking for it.
“Austin,” he said flatly. “Didn’t know we had a meeting.”
“We don’t,” I said. “Can I come in?”
Wes hesitated. “Your brother send you?”
I shook my head. “No. I, uh, had a construction question for you.”
His eyes narrowed, but he stepped aside with a grunt.
Inside, the house was exactly what you’d expect from one of Wes Vaughn’s designs—clean lines, rich wood tones, everything crafted with purpose. The bones of the house were perfect.
But the rest? It looked like the man had stopped caring.
Take-out containers were stacked on the kitchen island, most of them half closed, a few buzzing faintly with fruit flies. An abandoned broom leaned against a cabinet, the dustpan still half full. The sink was piled with dishes, some of them clearly from last week.
The entire space felt like it had been built for a life that never arrived. Beautiful and functional on the outside, but hollow in all the places that mattered.
I let the door fall shut behind me and glanced over at Wes, who didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care that I did.
He wasn’t embarrassed. Just . . . resigned, like this was the best it was going to get.
The house smelled like old food and coffee gone cold. Every inch of the place looked lived in and left behind all at once.
“You doing okay, man?” I asked, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck.
Wes stared at me until I shifted my gaze. “Did you need something?”
I cleared my throat and reached for the folder in my coat pocket. “It’s about the house on Cherrytree.”
Wes didn’t move.
“I want to buy it,” I said. “The whole thing. What would it take to get you to sell it to me?”
He dropped onto a stool at the kitchen counter and reached for a half-eaten protein bar. “It’s not finished,” he said, voice low and flat. “The house hasn’t been touched in months. Why would I give a shit if you take it off my hands?”
I studied him for a beat. The apathy wasn’t a performance. It hung on him like old clothes, comfortable but too heavy.
“I remember when you started it,” I said, trying to salvage our conversation. “You called it your next masterpiece.”
“Yeah, well.” He gave a dry laugh. “Turns out masterpieces don’t matter when you wake up every day wondering if you still give a damn.”
The words landed between us like dust.
I didn’t pity him—I wouldn’t do that to a man like Wes—but I felt the grief in that sentence like a bruise. Deep and dull and still healing.
I let the quiet stretch until it felt like enough.
“I’ve seen it,” I said. “The porch isn’t done, but the bones are there. I know what it could be.”
Wes didn’t look at me, but his jaw twitched. “Then finish it. Maybe you can make it something.”
I stretched out my hand to him. “Thank you.”
He gripped it fiercely and shook before letting it drop. He turned, depression hovering over his shoulders like a heavy blanket.
“Hey,” I offered. “I think some of the guys from the team are going to go up to the Lantern for a few beers. You should join us.”
His blue eyes pierced through me. His jaw ticced before he shook his head. “No, thanks, man.”
I swallowed hard. He didn’t need pity, but it was clear Wes needed people to show up for him, because he was too deep in it to show up for himself. I made a mental note to call Brody and figure something out.
“Well, then, I’ll see you around,” I called to his back.
Wes didn’t bother turning around or walking me to the door. He simply raised one hand in a dismissive goodbye. I exited his house with a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me.
The drive back was quiet, the sky overcast and low like it hadn’t decided whether to rain or hold off. I rolled the window down halfway, letting the sharp cold bite at my skin while I let the hope settle in.
It scared the hell out of me.
The idea that it might not be enough. That Selene might never let me all the way back in. But that didn’t change a thing.
I was going to build it anyway.
Even if it took the rest of my life.