Page 31 of Not Made to Last

He sighs, defeated. “You forget I know when you’re lying, Ohana.”

The phone in my hand pings again, and I look down at it, then at Dom.

“Excitement…” he teases, and I feel that exact emotion run through my veins… right before it turns ice cold.

“Maybe one day,” I say, switching off Rhys’s phone completely. “But not today.”

Not Fridge Guy

You ever had your heart broken?

Can’t say that I have. Why?

I was going to ask you how it felt, because I’m pretty sure it’s happening to me right now.

Your heart is breaking right now?

Yes

…

… what?

Hearts can’t break.

?

Hearts are made of cardiac muscle, so they can ache, they can strain, and they can bend, but they can’t break. Not in these bodies. Not in this lifetime.

16

Olivia

For three years I’ve wondered what it would be like to be alone in a room with Rhys Garrett. I just didn’t expect that room to be my garage.

Or maybe I did.

Maybe there was a reason I’d left the garage door open long after it needed to be. Either way, he’s here, and I don’t know how to feel about it. And not knowing how to feel means not knowing what to say, how to act, and so I continue to do the same thing I was doing before he showed up—stripping paint off an old dresser I’d found on the side of the road a few months ago. It’s lived in this garage ever since. And while a lot of my other pieces have come and gone, this dresser has sat, waiting for me to show it some love. But it’s personal now—this relationship between the dresser and me. I know it needs attention, but the moment I give it some, it’ll sell, and I don’t want to let it go. So, I keep it in its miserable state for as long as I can, until eventually, one day, it’ll leave me.

Whoa.

If I had a psychologist, they’d tell me I was projecting my insecurities onto an inanimate object.

Thank God I don’t have a psychologist.

Besides, this—being in a workshop—is my form of therapy. It’s where I spent the most time growing up, watching my grandpa work on old furniture, just like I do now. I was his little helper—his apprentice. Looking back, I hindered more than I helped, but he never once made me feel like a nuisance. I’d sit in my little camp chair for hours, sipping my little juice box, watching him sand and plane and stain, and he would talk to me, his tone gentle at every step. He’d tell me what he was doing as he was doing it, and he’d answer all my questions. Not just about woodwork, but about anything and everything. About life. Love.Heart.

I remember watching him once, thinking how it should’ve been impossible for one man to have a heart as big as my grandpa’s and still be alive.

Maybe that’s what killed him.

The size of his heart.

After every piece he finished, we’d sign our names on the underside as if we were artists. As if I deserved to have my name next to his craftmanship. Now, whenever I finish a piece, I sign both our names…

…because he’s here.

With me.

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