Page 170 of Coach
I was sure of it.
Chapter 6
Shane
The plans looked like they’d been pulled straight from a fever dream. Fine-carved panels. Hand-cut joinery. Intricate inlays I could barely sketch, let alone recreate. The client wanted something that “evoked an ancient Chinese curio”—without looking like a replica, of course. He wanted “respectful inspiration,” “period harmony,” and “authenticity with artistic voice.”
Whatever the hell that meant.
It sounded like the guy needed to fly to China and shop for something from the fourteenth century rather than having a new piece made, but work was work. Who was I to argue?
I’d been at it for weeks now. Every line I drew felt like guesswork. Every piece I cut I second-guessed. The base of the cabinet was roughed out. It was solid cherry, already shaped and sanded smooth, but the latticework that would form the upperframe—that delicate, decorative mess of curves and precision angles that hinted at being a dragon but wasn’t—was giving me hell.
I crouched over the layout, pencil behind one ear, glue drying on my knuckles, and cursed under my breath as another strip cracked under the pressure of the jig.
It was too dry and too goddamn fragile.
I tossed the ruined piece aside and scrubbed a hand over my face, immediately regretting it as glue globbed on my eyebrow in a way that might take a surgeon to remove.
I was a master of my craft, but I felt out of my depth. Chinese workmanship, especially that of centuries ago, was beyond human comprehension, much less replication.
But I couldn’t stop.
Something about the challenge hooked me. It always did.
I wasn’t competing for a trophy or ring of leaves on my head. I was battling wood and thoughts and dreams—and ideas of whatcouldbe, if only I applied enough effort and desire.
Maybe it was the level of detail or the delicacy. Those were challenges in themselves, things that drove and inspired my inner creative.
Maybe it was me not knowing if I could pull it off,that I doubted myself, that I had to stretch beyond any skill I’d ever possessed to make this thing work.
Or maybe it was just that no one had ever asked me to build something so otherworldly and beautiful like this before.
That thought echoed a little too loudly in the quiet of my shop.
Then the door banged open behind me.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, rubbing the knee I knew would bruise from how I’d just leaped into my workbench at the sound. “Do people knock anymore?”
“I did knock,” Stevie’s voice rang out. “Then I heard you muttering like a madman, so I assumed you needed rescuing.”
She marched in with a bag in one hand and a drink in the other, wearing her usual uniform of combat boots, a thrift-store army jacket, and enough rings to start her own currency—rings on fingers, ears, stuck through her nose, and in her lip. She was the only person I knew who wore more metal than a hardware store display rack. She never wore color unless eyeliner counted, and if she’d ever owned a pastel shirt, I’d eat one of my chisels.
Stevie didn’t care what anyone thought of her.
She moved through the world like it was lucky to have her, and if you didn’t agree, she’d tell you to gochoke on your own insecurities—with a smile and a ringed middle finger.
Once, she told a rich client their “exposed beam idea sounded like a high-end prison kitchen” and still closed the sale.
She was like me—kept to herself, didn’t do crowds, and believed in silence as a full sentence. Most people thought we were dating, or had dated, or were about to.
We weren’t.
We never would.
Stevie was family.
She was the one who knew when I hadn’t eaten, or when I’d gone too long without sleep, or when I was pretending I didn’t care about something that was eating me alive.
