The words land like she dropped a toolbox on my foot. Not cruel, just heavy, and exactly the kind of direct hit that makes my jaw lock tight enough to crack walnuts.
“I’ve got Melvin,” I say, which is true but also not the point, and I know it.
“Melvin’s seventy if he’s a day.”
“Seventy-two, and he’d gut you with a pipe wrench if he heard you say that.”
She doesn’t laugh. Renee’s sense of humor runs on a different operating system than mine…more spreadsheet, less stand-up. She pulls out her phone, taps the screen a few times, and holds it up. A condo, white walls, exposed brick, gleaming countertops. The kind of place that belongs in a magazine about people who own more than one type of serving spoon.
“Two-bedroom near the South End. Walking distance to that gallery you used to love, the one with the weird sculpture garden.”
I stare at the screen. My chest does something complicated, a twist between recognition and resistance. I used to love that neighborhood. Used to know the barista at the corner café, used to walk those streets with my sketchbook under my arm andno particular destination. The memory is warm and specific and exactly the kind of thing I’ve trained myself not to think about.
“I’m touched you found me a place with exposed brick, Renee. Very on-brand. Very ‘Maddie’s Midlife Crisis Starter Kit.’”
She scrolls. Another listing, smaller, cozier. An art studio rental in Somerville, north-facing windows, hardwood floors. The kind of space that makes my painter’s heart actually skip a beat, which is annoying because I am trying very hard to be unmoved.
“This one’s quieter. Good light. The landlord’s a friend of a friend; they’d hold it for you.”
“Renee.” I cross my arms, staring at the row of wrenches hanging behind the counter. “I haven’t decided anything.”
She sets her phone down and meets my gaze with that unblinking, lawyer-trained stare of hers. “I know,” she says softly, as if humoring me. “But you’ve been thinking about it. Your mom mentioned the real- estate agent. And Maddie, look around.” She gestures to the painted shelves and the workbench by the window. “This store was Drew’s dream, and his dad’s before him. It’s a legacy you inherited, not a life you chose. There’s a difference.”
A sharp silence settles between us. My usual defenses—the ready joke, the shrug—freeze up. I just stand there, feeling the truth press against my ribs.
Renee scrolls to a third listing in a quiet river-lined neighborhood, then drops her tone to casual, like she’s talking about the weather: “I just hope you’re not making decisions based on a rebound.”
Rebound. Clinical. Dismissive. I open my mouth for the standard retort— Rebound? Please—but the words won’t come. Instead I say, “Jordan is not a rebound.” My voice is steady, withno buffer of humor or deflection, just that unvarnished truth hovering between us.
Renee lifts an eyebrow, surprised, and then nods once. “Okay.” She tucks her phone away, gathers her tote, and leaves the condo printouts on the counter. “I’m at the B&B tonight. Dinner tomorrow?” she asks over her shoulder.
I nod. She hugs me quickly, the bell above the door jingling as she goes. When the door clicks shut, I’m left alone with the old ledger, the glossy listings, and the hum of the store. My thumb brushes a spot of lavender paint on the counter, tracing it absentmindedly. The words I said echo in my chest—solid, like a foundation I didn’t know I was building. I defended Jordan without a joke or a shrug. It matters. People who aren’t temporary deserve that much.
Later, in the hollow quiet of my kitchen—dishes piled by the sink, a mug of tea gone cold—I wonder what day it is. The evenings have started bleeding together again, which usually means I’m running on autopilot. The condo listings still sit at the end of the table, glossy and insistent. I keep moving them around, afraid to shut down hope too fast.
The microwave clock blinks 8:17 when I hear three quick knocks in that familiar rhythm. I grab a dish towel—probably streaked with paint—and open the door. Jordan stands on the porch, haloed by the porch light. They look tired: hair loose from its bun, flannel wrinkled, a smudge of paint along their jaw. But their eyes find mine, and for a moment we simply hold each other’s gaze, charged like thunder about to strike.
“Hey,” they say.
“Hey.” I step aside and let them in.
They move through the kitchen like it’s theirs—because in a way, it is. They hang up their jacket, pour a glass of water, lean on the counter, arms folded. Trying for casual, which I know is never a sign of ease.
“How was Renee?” they ask.
“Fine. All business.” I nod toward the table. “Condo listings.”
“Boston?” Jordan asks with a half-smile.
“South End, Somerville,” I tell them. “You name it.”
“Solid neighborhoods,” they say, voice neutral, and I flinch. “Those old brick lofts get the best light. You’d paint circles around the rest of us in one of those places.”
Their praise tightens the air. I lean back. “It’s just listings. She’s not pushing.”
“I know your family means well,” Jordan says, setting down their glass. “But they see a widow running a hardware store, not the person holding this town together. The one with the grit to keep going when no one else could.”
That one stings. “And what do you see, then? Sometimes I think you’ve got Sleighbell Springs in a storybook filter. Loving a place doesn’t pay bills or fix roofs. Meanwhile, I burn myself out on someone else’s dream and let my own studio gather dust.”
