But then I left Mom again. I was too much of a coward to wait and see how she was doing.
Besides, I needed a place to hold my damn conference call without worrying she’d wander out the front door again.
So I’m here at the community hall, sterile lights humming above me, laptop open, nodding through an hour-long face-to-face with my boss in Portland. My face is composed, voice even, but inside everything’s a churn of stress and cold and something bitter that tastes like helplessness.
For almost twelve years, Mom held herself together through everything like the definition of grit. Now she’s unraveling in small, devastating pieces, and I don’t know how to hold this version of her without breaking my own damn spine.
The call finally ends. I close my laptop and rub my eyes until I see stars.
“Done?” Ryker’s voice echoes from the far side of the hall.
I look over. He’s wearing his usual work jacket, clipboard tucked under one arm, the picture of calm structural competence.
“Yeah,” I say, voice a little rough. “Thanks for giving me a minute.”
“No problem,” he says as he joins me. “I looked around while you were on your call. Good news—no damage from the party. Decorations are still up, the paint’s intact, nothing collapsed. Though I still think it’d be easier if we knock down these interior walls and start fresh.”
He gestures to the dividing section behind us.
I nod, stepping beside him. “I get the appeal. But seating’s gonna be a pain in the ass. If we build benches, we lose versatility. People use this place for everything from craft fairs to weddings. Removable chairs make more sense.”
He lifts a brow. “You saying permanent benches are a bad idea?”
“In a structure like this? Yeah.”
He gives a small smirk, a half-laugh kind of sound. “Guess that’s why they paired me with you. This place needed an architect. You actually think before swinging a hammer.”
“Most days,” I say. “Not all.”
Because it seems like in my life, all I keep doing is swinging a metaphorical hammer and destroying everything around me.
He marks something on his clipboard. “Speaking of, did you come to the Halloween party last night?”
“I did,” I say.
He nods.
“Everyone seemed happy with how it turned out. Almost everyone was in attendance,” I murmur. “Norah made it look like something out of a movie.”
He glances sideways at me, curious but not pushing.
“Figured you and Jude’d be there,” I add.
“Parties aren’t my thing,” he says. “Jude’s either. He was dealing with family stuff.”
I nod. “Everything okay?”
“Not sure yet,” he says. “But he’ll fill you in.” He taps his clipboard once more. “Alright. I’m heading out. Got a meeting with the mayor. Fingers crossed he hasn’t changed his mind about anything.”
“I’ll stay here and finish measuring the east wall,” I say. “Call if he wants something different.”
Ryker nods, then claps my shoulder lightly. “See you later.”
When he leaves, the hall falls into a kind of hollow stillness. The decorations from last night look like ghosts of a celebration—flowers, draped netting, carved pumpkins that still smell faintly sweet.
I sit on one of the fold-out chairs and pull out my phone, staring at it like it might tell me how the hell to be a good son, a decent man, something other than a collection of jagged nerves and half-buried regrets.
I search:
