And for the first time, maybe ever, I believe her.
That night, I move to the fire pit, fairy lights half-working and flickering like they have a personality of their own. But when I move to make a fire when I stop short at the pile next to the Adirondack chair.
The wood is stacked with clean, even cuts, no splintering. I can picture Sam doing this—shirtless, jaw set, focused, with his backward Mariners hat, sweat glistening as he’s bringing the axe down …
I squeeze my eyes tight as if I can stop seeing the mental image. I shouldn’t be going down this road, not with so much still unresolved.
At the bottom of the woodpile is a small piece of paper. I grab the build note before my brain can spiral any further.
I keep thinking about the things my mom says. And the fact that I never really stopped to hear them. I always took it at face value, just how she talks. But you hear things differently. You think about what people mean, not just what they say. I should have done that. I should have noticed. And I should have shut it down.
I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I promise, I’m listening now.
After I get the fire going, I sit in my perfectly made chair, sipping my Willamette Valley Pinot Noir, and stare into the flames. It’s the first time he has acknowledged how his mother speaks to me. It doesn’t change what she has said, but it could change the future.
It doesn’t fix what’s broken. But it’s the first time it feels like he’s actually trying to.
19
SAM
Isit at the kitchen counter, laptop open, updating the spreadsheet before I head out. I canceled the equipment rental for the week and borrowed an excavator from a guy I’ve worked with for years—cost me a case of beer instead of six hundred bucks. I switched suppliers on lumber too and sold off the extra composite decking I had from a previous job. Even took on a small evening repair gig I would’ve passed on before. Nothing fancy, just labor and cash in hand.
I type in the numbers, watching the total tick down.
$48,913.20
It’s the first time the number feels like it’s moving in the right direction. Not fast enough, not even close.
Today, I plan to finally confront Rick. Determined, I head into my truck and drive to Cascadia Country Club. I’ve been here plenty of times because my parents have a membership and Holly’s always looking for an excuse to stop in since Mandy’s dad owns the place. But right now, I am here for my own business.
I spot Rick in the distance, decked out in an all-whitetennis outfit, nursing a scotch. Not a hair out of place.Did he even break a sweat?
“Hey, Sammy boy!” he calls out, clapping me on the back. “You really need to get a membership. This is where all the bigwigs hang.”
I glance around. He’s not wrong; deals get made in places like this. But the longer I look, the more I realize something: these may be the men who rake in the big money, but I don’t want their lives.
Old guys flirting with cocktail waitresses, their beer bellies out in the sauna as they gossip about stock tips and whisper backdoor deals to keep each other rich.
Is this what I was chasing? Did I really want to make enough money, be successful in my own name, to impress men likethem?
“Nah,” I say. “I’m more of a beer-at-a-sports-bar kind of guy.”
Rick shrugs, not listening, eyes glued to a waitress bending over to collect empty glasses.
“Anyway,” he says, “I wanted to go over the contract with you.”
“This laundry services clause?” I ask, flipping open the papers. “It’s a disaster. They’re charging double the market rate—and there’s no termination clause. That’s predatory.”
Before he can speak, I keep going.
“And why isHollythe only one liable for operational losses? This clause protects you and Mandy but throws her under the bus if anything goes sideways.”
Silence.
“Oh—and I see Yarrows owns the laundry service. You know who that is?”
Rick goes pale. He didn’t expect me to know that.
