Page 85 of What Remains of Grace

“I was thinking—” he began, a hesitant edge to his voice, like he was testing the weight of whatever came next.

She cut in gently, eyes dropping back to the inspection paperwork. “I really need to get this organized before the soft open,” she said. “There’s still so much to do.”

“Oh.” He nodded once, the smallest dip of disappointment tightening his jaw. “Yeah. Of course. You’ve got a lot on your plate.” He tried to recover, offering a light half-smile. “I’ll . . . let you get back to it.”

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “And you probably have another roof somewhere demanding your attention.”

“Something like that,” he said.

He wanted to touch her, just a hand on her arm, a quick squeeze to mark this as something more than a contractor-client wrap-up.

But he stayed rooted where he was. She broke eye contact first.

“Goodbye, Cole,” she said, and it echoed heavier than he expected.

“Bye, Jenna.”

She turned toward the back, already reaching for her phone, already shifting into bakery owner mode.

He walked to the door, folder tucked under his arm, heart doing something that felt like dropping straight through him.

The bell chimed softly when he stepped outside.

Behind him, the bakery glowed, the sign hung, permits passed, ready for the world.

Ahead of him stretched his truck, the next job, the familiar life he was supposed to return to. It was everything he’d promised to deliver.

He just wished it didn’t feel so much like leaving something behind.

22

Avoidance

By Tuesday, Cole had convinced himself she was just busy, even though he knew better.

He stared at the text on his phone for the tenth time that morning between jobsite walkthroughs and vendor calls.

COLE: Inspector said your place was one of the cleanest installs he’s seen in a while. You should be proud.

Nothing.

On Wednesday, he tried again.

COLE: How’s Emmie adjusting to school? Tell her that roof can handle anything she throws at it.

Still nothing. No three dots. No quick “thanks.” No little laugh emoji that she used when she didn’t know what else to say.

By Thursday night, he gave up on clever.

COLE: Just checking in. You okay?

The message hung there, blue and unanswered, until his phone screen dimmed and went black.

He told himself not to take it personally. Jenna had a soft opening to plan. A teenager to wrangle. A life to hold together. He’d seen what her days looked like, lists on top of lists, decisions layered over grief. Maybe she’d meant it when she’d said goodbye after the inspection. Maybe that was her line: the job is done; so we are too.

But his heart pushed back against the lie.

By Friday, the silence felt like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise.