I thought about what Viola had said. About survival versus living. About the difference between building walls and building homes. I thought about the pack. Their coat hook. Their crooked pillows. Their space that already felt like it was waiting for me, if only I could find the courage to claim it.
My fingers trembled as I typed a reply.
To Levi:Still thinking about them too. Couldn't sleep.
To Oliver:I slept a little. Thank you for checking.
To Garrett: Chili sounds amazing. I'll put the kettle on.
To Micah:I would love to but I think I need to take a me night. I am not used to going out so much.
I set down the phone, walked to my linen closet, and opened the door. The towels were exactly where I'd placed them last night, blue on the bottom, white in the middle, gray tucked safely in the back. Margaret's quilt sat on its shelf of honor, soft and faded and smelling faintly of lavender.
I touched it gently, tracing the worn edges with my fingertips.
"I don't know if I can do this," I whispered to no one, to everyone, to the ghost of a woman who had loved me when no one else would. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."
The quilt didn't answer. But somewhere outside, a bird was singing, and the afternoon sun was slanting gold through my windows, and my phone was buzzing with messages from people who wanted to bring me chili and spend time with me.
I closed the closet door, squared my shoulders, and went to put the kettle on. Garrett would be here soon with his chili and I needed to act like nothing was wrong. I took another deep breath and cleared my head.
I could do this….hopefully.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Oliver
The greenhouse was coming along.
I stood in the skeleton of it, surrounded by the bones of what would become something beautiful—steel frames arching overhead like the ribs of some great sleeping beast, glass panels stacked and waiting along the eastern wall, the concrete foundation still curing in the late morning sun. The air smelled like fresh cement and cut metal, with an undertone of the wild honeysuckle that grew along the property's edge.
A week….Then it would be finished, and I could show her.
I ran my hand along one of the support beams, feeling the cool steel beneath my palm. We'd designed it together, the pack and I—though "together" mostly meant me obsessing over blueprints at 2 AM while the others offered occasional input and reminded me to sleep. Garrett had helped with the structural planning, his construction expertise invaluable. Micah had calculated the optimal angle for the roof panels to maximize light exposure throughout the seasons. Levi had contributed exactly one suggestion "make it big enough for a hammock" before wandering off to raid the refrigerator.
But the vision was mine. The dream of what this space could become, what it could mean, who it was for.
Daphne.
Everything, lately, was for Daphne. I pulled out my phone and checked for messages—a habit I'd developed over the past few weeks, a compulsion I couldn't seem to break. Nothing new since this morning, when she'd sent a brief reply to my check-in text.I slept a little. Thank you for checking.Polite. Warm. Giving nothing away.
She'd been quieter than usual since the pottery date. Since Levi had kissed her and come home floating three feet off the ground, grinning like an idiot, unable to stop talking about the way she'd tasted like wine and possibility. I was happy for him, for them, truly. This was how it was supposed to work. Each of us getting to know her, building something individual before it became something shared.
But there was a part of me, a selfish part I wasn't proud of, that ached with the waiting. That wanted to be the one making her laugh, making her blush, making her look at me the way Levi described her looking at him.
Patience. I'd built my whole life on patience. I could manage a little more.
"You're brooding again." I turned to find Garrett leaning against the greenhouse doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, sawdust still clinging to his flannel shirt from whatever project he'd been working on in his workshop. His eyes held that knowing look he got sometimes, the one that said he could see right through whatever mask I was wearing.
"I'm not brooding. I'm thinking." I told him, but I knew he would see through me. They all could.
"You're standing alone in an unfinished building, staring at your phone, with that crease between your eyebrows that means you're overthinking something. That's brooding." He pushedoff the frame and crossed to stand beside me, surveying the construction with an appraising eye. "It's looking good, though. The frame's solid. Should be ready for glass by next week if the weather holds."
"That's the plan." I sighed, trying to push my anxiousness down.
"She's going to love it, you know." Garrett's voice softened. "The greenhouse. Everything we're doing. She's going to love it."
"If she lets herself." The words came out before I could stop them, heavy with the worry I'd been carrying for days. "She's pulling back, Garrett. Can't you feel it? Something shifted after Sunday. After she came to the house."
