I just don’t know if I should.
10
SAM
Iwake up in the guest room. Again. I can't sleep in our bed, not when it still smells like her. Like that damn rose water shampoo she swears by. I used to love it. It always reminded me she was near, soft and steady and mine. Now it just reminds me of what I ruined.
I drag myself into the shower, hoping to scrub off the guilt I haven’t been able to shake since the day she looked at me like a stranger. I reach for my bottle but knock something off the shelf.
Her clip. The one she used on days she didn’t wash her hair. I stare at it for a second too long. Then pick it up like it might break. Becca used to twist her hair up with it when we showered together, laughing when I’d try to distract her, pretending she wasn’t already paying attention to me.
I stop myself from going down that path with my thoughts. I don't even deserve the damn memory of my wife.
I rinse off in silence, shifting the water to cold. If I don’t fix this, my hand and memories of her will be all I’ll ever have. No woman could ever replace her.
With that in mind, I get ready and head out with more clarity than I’ve had in weeks. Time to earn her back. It’s barely 7:00 a.m., but I know he’ll be there at the river lot.
Bennet Jones. Contractor. Smug bastard. Becca’s new best friend, apparently.
I park my truck and step out, watching the crew hammer together the framing of the tiny home. At least they’re making good progress.
“Jones,” I call, voice low.
Jones looks up, all high-vis vest and coffee cup, like he's dressed for a construction catalog rather than an actual job site. “Looking good, guys,” he calls to his crew, then jogs over. “Morning, Hughes. Here to inspect what I’m building for Becca?”
I clench my jaw. “Here to talk. That’s all.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Shame. It would have made for a more interesting morning.”
This motherfucker. I bite my tongue. Becca doesn't need my ego; she needs my support.
“Look, I don’t like you. And I don’t trust you. But Becca does. So I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize what she’s building. I am, however, changing the terms.”
He crosses his arms. “Do tell.”
“You finish framing, plumbing, and electrical. I take over everything else—interior work, custom carpentry, whatever’s left. You drop her monthly payments to $750. Transfer the rest to me. I’ll handle it.”
“And why the hell would I agree to that?”
“You get to put your name on it. You’ll still get the referrals. And she won’t even know I’m involved.”
He whistles low. “Damn. You really fucked up, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“Alright, Hughes. But she’s going to notice a change. What am I supposed to tell her when the invoices drop?”
“Tell her you got a supplier kickback. Say she brought you a bunch of business. Hell, say your crew’s jumping to her next bid, and you’re comping her time.”
Bennet scratches his chin, thinking it through. “Alright. You’ve got a deal. But if you’re not back here tomorrow with tools and plans, I’m out. And I’ll tell her everything.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it. I’m halfway to my truck when he calls out behind me.
“Hope you fix what you broke, Hughes. If not? Some of us wouldn’t mind picking up where you left off,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at me.
Douche.
