Page 40 of After the Rain

"It had problems," Jazz corrected. "Character is exposed brick and original hardwood. Problems are when your refrigerator matches your bathroom fixtures."

Kane laughed. "Remember when we tried to remove that contact paper and it took three hours to get two square feet off?"

"And we discovered that underneath the fake wood grain was actually real wood," Jazz said, shaking her head. "Someone covered up beautiful oak cabinets with sticky-back plastic. It was like finding out someone had painted over a Monet."

"That's when I knew this house and I were meant for each other," I said, loading lumber onto my shoulder. "Both of us had good bones hidden under bad decisions."

We spent the first hour unloading supplies and reviewing the plans I'd drawn up for the bedroom built-ins. The master bedroom was the largest room in the house, with soaring ceilings and original crown molding that I'd spent months carefully restoring. Each piece of trim had been removed, stripped ofdecades of paint, and painstakingly reinstalled to match the Victorian era's attention to detail.

The built-ins would provide storage and display space while maintaining the room's character, but they were also an exercise in hope. Custom shelving suggested books worth collecting, display areas implied objects worth treasuring, and the reading nook with its carefully positioned lighting suggested quiet evenings shared with someone who mattered.

"You know," Kane said as we measured and marked the wall, "for a guy who supposedly bought this place as an investment property, you sure put a lot of thought into the bedroom design."

"It's about resale value," I said automatically, the same excuse I'd been using for three years.

Jazz snorted. "Resale value, my ass. You designed this room like someone's going to be living in it. Actually living, not just existing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look at this place, Wade." Jazz gestured around the room with her tape measure. "Double closets—and not just any closets, custom ones with different hanging heights and built-in shoe storage. Reading area with two chairs positioned so people can sit together but also have their own space. Enough room for a king-size bed plus space to walk around both sides without doing that sideways shuffle thing."

Kane paused in his measuring to give me a look. "She's not wrong. Most single guys would put in a murphy bed and call it good. You've designed a retreat."

"A romantic retreat," Jazz added with a grin. "All that's missing is a fireplace, and knowing you, you've probably considered adding one."

Heat crept up my neck because she was right—I had considered the fireplace. "Maybe I just like having options."

"Options for what?" Jazz pressed, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Or should I ask, options for who?"

The question hung in the air as we worked, all three of us carefully not addressing the elephant in the room. But as I marked measurements for the built-ins, I found myself thinking about the choices I'd made throughout this restoration. Every decision had been made with an imaginary partner in mind—someone who would appreciate the morning light through the east-facing windows, who would use the window seat for reading, who would fill the closet space I'd so carefully designed.

I'd been building a space for love before I'd even understood what kind of love I was hoping for.

For the past year, Kane and Jazz had been gently probing about my personal life, clearly sensing that something had shifted but not sure what.

We worked in comfortable rhythm, installing the framework for the built-ins and discussing finish details. The repetitive nature of construction work had always been meditative for me—measuring, cutting, fitting pieces together until they formed something larger than their individual parts. Today, though, I found myself thinking about other things that needed careful fitting together, relationships that required the same attention to detail and patience as any renovation project.

Around noon, Kane cracked open the first beer and settled onto the sawhorses we'd set up as a makeshift table.

"Okay," he said, taking a long pull from his bottle. "I've been patient, but I have to ask. What's really going on with you lately?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been different these past few weeks," Kane continued. "Distracted. Like you're working through something big. And you keep staring at your phone like you're expecting a call you're not sure you want to receive."

Jazz nodded, accepting a beer from Kane. "Plus there are rumors floating around town about you and Cooper's teacher. Small-town gossip mill is working overtime."

My hand stilled on the drill I'd been adjusting. "What rumors?"

"Nothing too specific yet," Jazz said carefully. "Just people noticing you two talking at school events, some comments about how Cooper lights up when he talks about his teacher. You know how it is—people in this town have nothing better to do than speculate about other people's business."

"Mrs. Garrett's been particularly vocal," Kane added. "Something about inappropriate boundaries and professional concerns. The usual bullshit she spouts when she doesn't like something."

"Jesus," I muttered, sinking onto a stack of lumber. "I was afraid of that."

Kane and Jazz exchanged a look that suggested they'd been discussing this before I arrived.

"Wade," Kane said carefully, "is there something you want to talk about? Because we're your friends, and we're here if you need to work through anything. We've spent three years helping you rebuild this house—we can handle whatever personal renovation project you're working on too."

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