“There’s a client—I have to go.” A tight shake of his head follows. “No, I don’t know if we’ll talk.”
He ends the call and drops the phone onto the counter with a soft clatter.
I just stand there, pretending to study a pair of crampons while the realization settles like ice along my spine: this is the man she’s chosen.
I jugglethe drinks and sandwiches as I head across the site, breath fogging in front of me. Gravel crunches under my boots, the wind’s picking up, colder now that the sun’s ducked behind a cloud.
“Lunch,” I call out, lifting the bag.
That gets them moving. A couple peel off from the framing, gloves already tugged off so they can grab still-warm food.
Derek, the foreman, a guy in his mid-forties with curly hair and a beer gut, zeros in on the tray with his latte. “Please tell me you got the foam right today,” he mutters. He takes one sip, and his face falls. “It deflated.”
“It’s foam, you’ll live,” I shoot back.
Derek grumbles, shaking the cup as if it’ll magically puff back up. “Man, you really don’t get the importance of getting the coffee just right. Architects and their little fantasy-world drawing pencils.”
I laugh under my breath. “Trust me, if it were up to me, the siding would last forever, the framing wouldn’t sag, and the foundation wouldn’t crack. Make the whole house idiot proof. And you’d never complain again.”
A couple of the guys snort. One of the guys elbows Derek, as if to sayhe’s got you there.
My gaze slides past them, catching on the partially framed southern wall. Even from here, the angle’s off, just a hair but enough for my brain to run numbers on load, drift, and stress. If they don’t lock that bracing, the whole section could twist out of alignment and eat up an entire day.
I narrow my eyes at the frame. “Derek,” I call out, “your foam isn’t the only thing collapsing.”
A few heads lift, and I gesture toward the wall. My fingersitch to trace the lines, to measure the angles with my hands the way I would on a blueprint.
I point at the structure. “That south bracing isn’t secure. Let’s tighten it now.”
The foreman groans but waves the guys over. “Alright, alright. Let’s get it done before Nate here starts diagramming it on the gravel.”
We all put our safety gear back on. Derek, one other worker, and I climb the scaffolding. My hands skim the braces, feeling the slight give where the bolts aren’t fully seated.
“Derek, boss, we need to move to the other side to meet the schedule!” someone from below yells.
I barely hear him and lean against the wall as I brace it, fingers pressing against the wood, testing the angles. “Here,” I mutter, repositioning a diagonal support slightly. A bead of sweat runs down my temple from knowing that this wall’s load bearing and a small misstep could cascade.
Derek reaches for the other end to help, and a loose hammer slips from his tool belt, clattering and knocking the precarious holding. My heart lurches as I grab the beam before it bounces off my shoulder, thudding dangerously close to his hard hat.
“Watch it!” I snap, voice sharp.
Derek swears, eyes wide, gripping the railing tighter and securing it. My pulse thunders in my ears as the third guy helps us with the beam. Then we all scan the braces, but something’s shifted—they’re waiting for me to give the okay. The subtle torque I spotted seconds ago, the misaligned angle, was a disaster avoided.
I jab a finger at the diagonal. “That brace? It’s still not secure. If it shifts another inch, someone’s getting flattened.”
Derek swallows hard, jaw tight. If they didn’t adjust anything else, this quick Band-Aid fix would still give the appearance of stability. It’s an illusion, though, a reminderthat the difference between solid and collapse is microscopic. I know exactly how easy it is for a misplaced emotion to topple everything I’ve tried to hold together.
Because that kiss—the obvious fail—that’s the hammer here. But underneath it? The subtle misalignment, the latent torque? That’s the root that cracked our foundation, that one I was too afraid to confront within myself.
I glance at Derek, his arm flung over the railing, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. The sun flashes off the metal fittings of the climbing frame, but none of it stays with me.
By the time my boots hit the mulch, I’m in another place entirely, mulling over cracked foundations and root causes. Reliving one more conversation I avoided, even after Robyn left, because it would make everything real. I tapped the green button next to Mom.
She answered on the second ring.“Nate? Honey, are you all right?”
Not even close.
“No.”My voice cracked.“I was being really cliquey with Tessa that night. Even before the kiss. I’d been running around helping her move, setting up her place…”
