I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Sam, I told you, no more gifts.”
“I know. But you’re not sleeping. I can see it in your eyes. You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but the stress is getting to you. I don’t get to be that for you right now. So … this is the closest I can come.”
He presses the box into my hand. Doesn’t wait for me to open it.
“Take care of yourself,” he insists, reaching over and buckling my seatbelt. “Still the most precious cargo I’ve ever had.”
He kisses the top of my head, like muscle memory, and shuts the door.
I drive off, heart pounding, brain sparking with heat andrage and confusion. How am I supposed to deal with all this?
I crawl into bed that night, still buzzing. Still sleepless. I open the box. Inside: a sleek, silent vibrator. And a note.
If I could take care of you the way I used to, I would. Every damn night. But I haven’t earned that.
Damn him.
13
SAM
The vibration of the sander hums in my hand as I work the grain of the second window desk I’ve built for Becca. The first one sits in the corner, finished—but not perfect. Not for her. Next to it: three bookcases, a porch swing, and four picture frames, all handmade and rejected by me. I can’t bring myself to give her something that isn’t perfect.
The rejected items don’t match the picture I’ve carried in my head for years. An image of her sipping coffee in the morning light on that swing, shelves filled with her dog-eared books, our photos framed on the walls of a life we built together.But I didn’t build any of it when it mattered.
There’s a version of my life I created where she never comes back. Where everything I see when I picture us—this house, our future—is just something I ruined. I’d deserve that since I stole hers. If all I get to do now is build the pieces we were supposed to share, then fine. At least she’ll have something steady to hold onto, even if it’s not me.
I pause the sander and run my hand across the surface. Smooth with no splinters. Becca would never get hurt fromthis. It’s not enough to make up for the pain I already caused, but it’s something I can do now.
“Hello?” Holly’s voice carries through the shop.
“Back here,” I call, brushing sawdust off the desk. She walks in and heads straight to the corner.
“Oh my god, Sam, did you make all these?” Her eyes widen as she takes in the site.
“Yeah,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “These are the rejects.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously? These are incredible.”
I clear my throat. “Not incredible enough for Becca. She deserves perfection. Even if it’s too late.”
Becca showed me a picture once—saved it on her phone, said the desk would be perfect by the window. I knew I wanted to create that for her. At least I finally did, even if it’s too late.
Holly moves toward the porch swing and trails her hand along the curve of the armrest. “She’d love these,” she murmurs.
“She would have—back when she mentioned them. Not months or years later, when she’s already gone.”
She gapes at me. “Wait, you just made all of these since she left? These must have taken hours.”
I shrug. Turns out when your wife leaves you and you can’t sleep, there are a lot of hours to fill. Thankfully, between the salon, cabin, and these projects, I can keep my hands busy as my mind whirls.
Holly is quiet for a moment. “Why didn’t you make them before?”
How do I tell my sister that I spent years putting her needs first? Or the desire to create something away from my Grandad and Dad’s legacy, or that my ego and self-worth were tied up in my wants? That instead of honoringmy wife’s trust, I gave away our time, our money, our future?
She never asked for much. That’s what made it easy to ignore. That’s what makes it even more unforgivable.
“I thought I was being a good brother,” I say finally. “I didn’t set boundaries, I never said no.”
