“Good call,” he says, stepping up beside me to grab his own order. “Weather’s weird this week. No snow but?—”
“I know. I saw the forecast.” I don’t need him to tell me.
Honestly, this is the part that gets me. Zac’s…nice.The kind of nice that sneaks up on you.
He’d helped me pick out a mountain terrain bike when I admitted I didn’t know what handled best on Bend’s trails. He remembers the small random details I say in passing—brands of boots I like, how I take my coffee, the old kneeinjury I try to ignore. Every time I run into him, and it happens aton, he’s got a fresh pack of gum or a mint ready to press into my hand. As if giving is just second nature to him.
My jaw tenses while he stands beside me at the counter. I’d love to hate the fucking guy. The muscles between my shoulder blades pull tight, waiting—wanting—some edge or flaw I can latch onto. But he stays easy, steady, offering to grab a beer sometime, with a grin that never feels condescending.
There’s nothing for my anger to hook onto. Maybe Robyn hasn’t told him what she and I were, that’s why he can be so freaking nice. Maybe I’m the only one feeling threatened whenever I glance up at Robyn’s window whenever I pass, my stomach tightening in the same spot every time. Her apartment’s been dark for four nights.
More than anything, I’m relieved she listened. Something that feels a lot like treacherous holes blooms between my lungs, thinking maybe there’s some shred of trust in me I didn’t completely annihilate. And Iknowit was my words that did it from a text three days ago.
Julian:Do you have anything to do with Robyn showing up at the hospital for my lunch break?
And an hour later:
Julian:You did it. She fessed up. Thank you, man. It really means a lot.
I push through the café door, balancing the bag and drink tray, the cold air smacking my cheeks. Zac holds the door open, giving me a quick, friendly, uncomplicated nod, then walks unbothered toward his own shop, and I’m left clenching my jaw at the back of a man who hasn’t given me a single reason to hate him.
I’m backon the Hamby Road site, checking on the southwest corner—the section Derek called me about sounding borderline panicked. He’s not wrong to worry. We’re behind. Not catastrophically, just enough that stress is settling on my shoulders.I need a long bike ride.
I duck under a beam as I move along the west side, catching sight of Derek and his second in what will eventually be the back sunroom. They’re bent over a set of blueprints, but even from my angle, I can tell the measurements are wrong—off in a way that’ll snowball into a bigger problem later.
“Hey”—I point at the younger man, Mickey—“you can’t be here without security gear. Go get your hard hat. Now.”
Once he leaves, I frown at my foreman. “Derek, you have to address these things. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
Derek nods, but I can see it doesn’t land. I’m going to have to bring management in.
“We need the timber secured better. Rain warped half of it, and we can’t risk anything slipping off a forklift like that again.”
Derek gives a strained laugh. “Yeah. No argument. Weather’s been killing us. Last thing we need is an incident.”
“We already had one.” I meet his eyes. He avoids mine. I tone it down a bit. “Are you trying to kill me here?”
Derek’s laughs booms. “No way. Don’t want to have to get used to another doodle guy, ya know?”
A forklift whirs nearby. I glance up: a pallet of two by fours is being raised toward the second floor, the straps around them looking a little too loose for my liking. The crew moves—boots thudding, saws whining in short bursts. Everyone’s doing their job.
But inside, a list starts assembling. All the things we need to double-check, secure, realign. And threaded underneath it, quiet but insistent, is the other list. The one made ofeverything I missed even before Robyn ended things. All the things I should’ve held up before they collapsed.
And even now, the blueprint for rebuilding is blurry, unclear. And maybe I’ll never be able to.
Today’s an office day.No idiot foremen insight. Just the winding wooden paths and me. Wheel ruts are still damp from the week of rain, and my tires spit flecks of mud up the back of my calves as I push through the trail. The sky hangs low and bright above the canopy, that washed-out April color that can’t decide if it wants to be blue or white.
If I were still working for a firm in Chicago, there’d be no Tuesday early afternoon bike rides in the woods. Maybe if I’d been able to think outside the box our schedules became—there’s no point. What’s done is done. The only thing I can do is try to build from the ground up.
I’m rounding a bend on the trail when I see two people up ahead—one laughing, one swatting at a bug near her face.
A woman in, maybe, her mid-thirties with honey-blonde hair in a neat braid. She’s talking up a storm, hands flying at a speed that matches her mouth. And next to her. Raven hair half up in a messy bun, azure eyes that catch the sun.Robyn.
It’s been a year since the breakup, or really since Robyn called me out on my bullshit and put me right where I deserved. My stomach still dips at the sight of her, hollowed by her absences. I stop my bike, tires screeching against the ground.
Robyn notices me first and gives a simple nod, easing the tension in my shoulders a notch. They both come up to where I am, but it’s Robyn who stops.
“Hey, Robyn.”
