Page 46 of Studfinder

“Of course,” I admit. It’s a basic practice in construction to prevent miscalculations before cutting materials.

“Sometimes mistakes still happen.” His rummy eyes search mine before he slowly smiles. “But you’re a measure twice kind of woman, Rita. You’d double-check all your measurements before you’d cut.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask, staring at the elder friend of my father.

“You’ll figure it out.” He pats my shoulder. “And take the directorship, Rita.”

With that, he walks away from me, leaving me with even more to consider.

19

Jake

A weekend without work should have been a godsend, but it was hell. I needed to work. I needed to keep my hands busy to settle my mind. Now, it’s a new workweek and another day without Rita. At night, I find myself out in the garage.

I’d asked Sullivan if I could have some of the scrap pieces of pipe and wire around the building site.

“Are you a junk collector or something?” he mocked. I had waited until I felt a little more confident with Sully before asking permission, but even after the awkward morning he’d nearly caught me with my pants down, I couldn’t resist requesting the materials.

“Something like that,” I stated.

Sullivan had only grunted in response, watching as I made my collection in an empty box. Maybe he thought I was a thief instead of an arsonist, and I was getting my fix by stealing construction castoffs.

As I stand in my garage, the door is open, allowing the warm, early-summer evening air to filter around me. My thoughts return to Rita as I work on another project.

What was she thinking? How was she feeling?

You set the fire that killed the love of my life.

Nothing could have hurt worse. She thought I stripped her of her future. Despite her doubts in me, it hurt to think she’d loved someone else. The love of her life—those were strong words. I didn’t want them to gut me, but they did. My feelings had been so fierce and fast for her. I often worried I’d misread them, mixing them up with the high of being outside the prison and the desire to start a fresh life. In many ways, I guess I had. Rita certainly didn’t feel the same about me, and now, she never would.

The sound of tires pulling into the driveway turns my head, and I freeze with the soldering iron in my hand.

“Rita,” I whisper, struggling to find my voice as she exits her crossover and approaches me in the garage. Today, she wears a summer dress and an old pair of Converse. Her appearance is eclectic, and so her.

“I would have called first.” She shrugs, entering the space. “But I was in the neighborhood.”

Lying isn’t something Rita does well, but I accept this bit of dishonesty and hold my breath.

“What are you really doing here?” I set down the hot iron and take off my gloves.

“I wondered if we could talk.” Her eyes travel around my shoulder as I’ve stepped before my workbench. “What are you working on?”

Slowly, I take a step to the side and allow Rita to see my work. An assortment of galvanized pipes, copper tubing, and electrical wires in a variety of shapes and sizes lay organized along the table.

“Are you . . . making another lamp?”

“It’s called industrial art, but yes, it can be used as a light source.” I rub at the back of my neck, nervous about showing her this side of me. It’s another reminder of where I’ve been.

“Did you . . . make those other ones for me?”

I shrug in response, and her eyes widen behind her red-rimmed glasses. Her head turns back toward the worktable.

“What will this be?” She steps closer to the table and examines what I’ve started.

I shrug again, not having defined it yet. Soft round bulbs will eventually dangle from the coiled metal tubing, giving the lamp an almost octopus appearance.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Rita asks, her voice full of admiration as she bends at the waist to further examine the beginnings of the structure.