“I don’t expect this to be simple,” I say. “I just want the chance to do it right.”
She looks at me like I said the stupidest thing in the world.
“No, I’m serious. I can’t go back and unbreak your trust. I wish I could. So, let’s go back to the time when I hadn’t earned it yet, and I will earn it back all over again.”
“It’s not that simple, Sam! You don’t get to rewind us like that,” she exclaims. “You changed something.”
She exhales harshly, trying to collect herself. “Then don’t mess it up again.”
I don’t plan to, not this time.
30
SAM
It has been two days since I last saw Becca, and I hate it. I took for granted how lucky I was to have daily access to my wife, to see her smile, to be in her presence. I won’t do that ever again.
Needing to hear her voice, I pick up the phone.
“Hey, baby. How’s your day going?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate to hear her voice.
“Hey,” she answers distractedly. “I know we were planning to get together tonight, but the cabin just got booked for the first time! A young couple. They said they’ve always dreamed of a water view but could never afford it. But they can here!”
“Congratulations. You worked your ass off for this,” I respond, meaning every word. I’m impressed every damn day by what she’s done on her own.
“Thanks. But I’m slammed. I have to deep-clean everything, pack up all my stuff, and move it to Phoenix’s place.”
My stomach drops. She’s leaving the cabin.
This place has been a holding pattern for us. Safe,homey, and temporary. But Phoenix’s spare room? That feels like a step away from me.
“I’ll be right there—with your favorite burger and fries—and I’ll help you pack.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a small space.” She sounds cautious, but I hear the relief in her voice.
“Chocolate or strawberry shake?”
A beat. Then, softly, “Strawberry.”
“Got it. See you in twenty, babe.” I hang up, a quiet pride curling in my gut at the primal satisfaction of bringing my woman food.
The scent of fries fills my truck as I pull up. She’s out front, scrubbing the siding with a mop. That’s my Becca. Never halfway. Whether it’s marriage or business, when she commits, she commits.And I took that for granted.Never again.
“Becca, what are you doing?” I call gently, flipping open my tailgate as a makeshift table.
“I saw a layer of dust on the cabin. Can you believe that? I’m scrubbing it clean. What if my guests leave a bad review because they touched the outside and it wasn’t perfect?”
She’s serious. I can see it in her eyes.
I hold back a laugh and take the calm approach. “Okay. But when’s the last time you ran your finger along the outside of a house?”
She hesitates, then lowers the mop. “You’re right. I just … I want everything to be perfect. What if someone mentions a smudge or a spot on the window? Reviews are everything. I have to nail this.”
And there it is. The part she hides from everyone else, the anxiety behind perfectionism. Logic won’t help her, not right now. So I walk over, kiss her forehead, lift her easily by the hips, and settle her on the tailgate.
“Okay, boss. You eat, I’ll work. What’s next on the list?”
She sips her milkshake, smiling. “Boss? I could get used to it,” she teases.
