Page 79 of The Light We Lost

For her, I would.

She shifted on her feet, and I could tell by the way she bit her lip, she was itching to say something. But Indy had a keen sense, somehow always knowing what I needed. Pulling out the chair, she motioned to my worktable. “Show me more.”

I did as she asked, taking a seat. When she made to give me space, I put my hand on her waist. She glanced over her shoulder, and I widened my legs, patting my knee.

She narrowed those honey-brown eyes into a glare, and I winked. If she wanted more from me, I wanted more too. Either she was truly curious about woodworking or she wanted to play as badly as I did, but she straddled my leg and sat down, facing the table.

Knowing Indy would have no problem wedging a chisel in my eye, I resisted her enticing heat and scooted us closer to the table. I went through my tools and explained their purpose, the difference between carving and whittling. If she was bored when I told her butternut was my favorite wood—but difficult to find—she didn’t let it show, seeming to glow with everything I gave her.

“I never would’ve thought of you doing this.” There was quiet awe in her voice. Before I could tell her it wasn’t that impressive, she spun on my leg, better facing me. “Do you remember during junior year when you bribed Levi with twenty bucks and a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew in exchange for him doing your art final? But your dad found out and grounded you from going to the winter formal with me.”

I tipped my head back in a laugh, remembering the look on Dad’s face when Mrs. Roland called him, claiming his son had a real future in art. He’d beamed with pride . . . up until he’d realized she was talking about me and not his eleven-year-old son.

I smiled at Indy, and when she smiled back, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Losing Dad had been hard, and there were times I’d thought it would kill me. In a way, I still had him. I had our memories, the foundation he’d left. I had my brothers, and for us he still existed. But the more time passed, the more people stopped talking about him at all. I knew it was because they didn’t know how to handle it, and sometimes it was easier to say nothing at all.

But not to Indy. To her, Dad still lived.

Adjusting herself on my leg, Indy slid a hand over my shoulder. Her fingers toyed absentmindedly with my collar, and it was taking everything in me to focus on her words. “Since I haven’t officially asked you... Would you be willing to donate one of your carvings as a raffle prize for the fundraiser? It could be anything you want.”

“Of course,” I told her, not needing to think about it. I wanted to help Indy in any way I could. I knew how much effort she’d put into this. Just last night, she and Lisa had driven to Hillshire to hand out fliers to spread the word about the fundraiser. They’d even gotten twenty more vendors to sign up. But there was one thing I didn’t understand. “Can I ask why you’re doing this? Why try and help the sports program of a school you no longer attend?” And it was no secret this town hadn’t always been kind to her.

Indy shrugged, as though she hadn’t really put much thought into why she was helping. “I like seeing people win.”

I wasn’t surprised her reasoning was as simple as that. She was a natural cheerleader. She might not have sought it out for the right reasons, but there was no doubt Indy would be a fantastic sports agent if she continued down that route. She was always putting everyone’s needs above her own, ready to help them succeed.

Just once, I’d like to see Indy get everything she wanted.

“Okay,” she said before I could continue down that thought, and she turned her attention back to my worktable, surprising me. We’d been here for at least an hour, and every minute I expected her to get bored and leave, but she seemed content. I was eyeing the box on the back corner of my table, considering showing Indy what was inside when she asked, “Now that I know carving and whittling are not the same thing, which one do you prefer?”

“Whittling.” She raised a brow. “It’s simple. I only need some wood and a knife, and I’m good to go. I can do it anywhere. And I don’t know, there’s something kind of freeing to it. When I’m carving, I have a plan I’m trying to follow. But with whittling, I’m usually going in blind and seeing where it leads me.”

She stared at me, like something about my response had caught her off guard. “I don’t think I could do that.” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I like having plans. I like knowing where I’m going.”

A pit in my stomach grew. She hadn’t always been that way. She’d been a dreamer, never afraid of taking risks. But our world had collapsed beneath our feet—I could see how that would change her perspective. Not knowing where her future lay petrified her.

“It takes practice. I might be freehanding, but there’s still a process. I’m not just making cuts for the hell of it and praying for the best.” I reached around her, letting my fingers skim her shoulder before I grabbed a slim block of oak and placed it in her hands. “I’ll visualize an image in my mind. Think of the grain, the texture. How it feels in my hands.” Gently, I folded her hands around the wood, running her fingertips down the surface. “I’ll focus on its weight. How I can mold and shape it. And slowly, I’ll build an image in my mind . . . and then I allow my instincts to lead me there.”

Indy’s brows were furrowed as she stared at the block of wood, like it held all the answers in the world. “Tell me what you do again,” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

I thought Indy might not answer, it was so quiet. Then she said, “Imagine you’re in the dark. So dark you can’t see anything. But sometimes . . . sometimes you want to take a step. But you’re afraid. You don’t know how to trust what you’re feeling. How do you know it’s going to lead to something better?”

The silence was tenfold after that, thick enough to cut with a blade. But I heard her loud and clear, everything she’d asked, and hadn’t asked. What she was too afraid to voice aloud.

Indy huffed a dry laugh, raising the wood block between us. “I guess I’m just having a hard time envisioning how I could ever turn this into a cat.”

I cracked a smile. I knew her hesitancy had nothing to do with actual woodworking, but I’d let it slide. “Close your eyes.” She narrowed her eyes, likely ready to protest, so I added, “I’ll close mine too, peaches.”

She pressed her lips together and shifted just a little closer into my frame before shutting her eyes. Before closing mine, I scanned her, ensuring she was comfortable. Her hair was pulled back, a few unruly curls framing her face. Her skin carried a pink hue, sun-kissed from our afternoon outside. Her breaths were steady, her lips parted as she waited, trusting me.

Savoring that feeling of deep pride, I closed my eyes. The lighting in the shed was faint, casting a low hue beyond my eyelids. If not for the pressure on my leg, the balmy feeling of her skin, I would’ve thought I was alone. The more I sat there, unmoving, unseeing, I felt guilty for putting Indy through this.

I was going to come out of my skin.

“Are your eyes closed?” I asked, resisting the urge to open mine.

“Yes.”

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