I pictured it instantly.
Tony at the bar. Dark hair. Easy confidence. That old-money, Italian thing he never even tried to hide. The way people leaned in when he talked. The way women clocked him before he ever opened his mouth.
I swallowed.
“She’s not… like that,” I said.
Tony laughed. “Every girl’s ‘not like that’ until they are.”
“I didn’t say that,” I muttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
I stared at the shelves of tile, rows and rows of clean, perfect squares, all possibility and labor and distraction.
“She said same place,” Tony went on. “Same time. You don’t want me to at least keep an eye out?”
I did.
God, I did.
But the image of Sage noticing Tony first—of that spark flickering somewhere else—hit me harder than it should have.
“No,” I said finally. “Don’t.”
Tony didn’t push. That was his gift.
“All right,” he said. “Offer stands.”
“I know.”
I hung up and exhaled slowly.
Two days.
Two days was nothing.
I rolled the cart forward again, already planning.
Rip out the tub-shower combo. Old porcelain had to go anyway. New shower pan, tiled walls, proper drainage. Grab bars anchored into studs. A fold-down seat if I had time. Ramp out back—temporary, but sturdy. Angle it right so she wouldn’t have to strain.
I could see it all before I touched a tool.
The work grounded me.
I was loading the last of the cement board into my trunk when someone clapped their hands sharp and loud behind me.
“Holy shit,” a voice said. “Is that you, Ethan?”
I turned.
Ernie.
Same crooked grin. Same dark curls sticking out from under a Red Sox cap. A little thicker around the middle now, but still carrying himself like a guy who knew how to take up space.
We slapped hands, pulled into a quick one-armed hug.
“Look at you,” he said. “Corporate as hell.”
