Tasha:
Duke is the dog, right? Girl. You are using a DOG as an excuse to stay with a man you met 3 days ago. I am calling your mother.
Me:
Don't you dare
Tasha:
Is he fine?
Glancing at Beck, watching a bead of sweat trace his collarbone before disappearing into chest hair.
Me:
He's adequate.
Tasha:
LIAR
Pocketing my phone, I grab both coffee mugs and head inside. Wash them. Dry them. Start pulling out eggs.
By afternoon, something has shifted. Beck's building a new bookshelf to replace the warped one. Didn't announce it. Just started sanding a piece of reclaimed wood he found behind thecabin. His hands move over the grain with precision that makes my stomach tighten. Long fingers. Broad palms. He feels the wood, adjusts the sandpaper, works a knot smooth with his thumb.
"Want help?"
He looks up. Surprised. "You know woodworking?"
"I know how to sand. My granddaddy built furniture in his garage. Made me hold the boards while he planed them."
Something in his expression shifts. That guarded look loosening a quarter turn. He hands me a sheet of sandpaper and nods toward the second plank. We work in silence for twenty minutes. Comfortable silence. The kind I didn't know existed before this mountain.
"Your grandfather built furniture?"
"Tables mostly. Church pews once. He said every piece of wood already knows what it wants to be. You just gotta listen."
Beck stops sanding. Stares at the plank in front of him. "My mentor used to say something similar about buildings. That the structure already exists. You're just helping it show up."
"Sounds like a smart man."
"He was." Quiet. The past tense doing heavy work. "He retired three years before I quit. Called me when everything fell apart. Said 'a building is not its architect. What it becomes after you hand it over is not your fault.'"
The most he's told me. About anything. My hands slow on the sandpaper but I don't stop working. Don't look at him. Because this man is a deer at a salt lick. One wrong move and he bolts.
"Was he right?"
"I don't know yet."
We sand for another hour. Shoulders close. Sawdust on my fingers, on his forearms. When our hands reach for the same plank, his fingers brush mine. Neither of us pulls away.
By evening, something has cracked open. We're on the porch. Sun going down, the sky turning orange then pink then deep purple. Duke asleep between our chairs. Beck has the Rilke book in his lap, lips moving slightly over the words.
"Read it to me."
He looks over. Hesitates. Then his voice, low and rough: "Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage."
My breath catches.
