Page 197 of Coach
It looked good. Strong and clean. My customer would be pleased with the work—because I was, and I was the hardest critic possible.
Wood was easy to finish and easy to let go. I didn’t miss it when it was gone. The empty space in my shop never lingered, never longed, never wanted for anything but another piece to fill its void.
People weren’t like that. They needed. They wished. They demanded.
I didn’tdohope. I didn’tdomaybe. I didn’t dowhat if.
Because hope had teeth.
It might look good at first—with its soft edges, bright smiles, and a voice that warmed you from the inside out, but the second you let your guard down, it cut deep and took pieces with it.
I’d learned that the hard way. It was a lesson I swore never to learn again.
So I kept things simple.
I built things that couldn’t leave—wouldn’tleave.
I worked with materials that did what they were told, that didn’t lie, didn’t change their minds, didn’t make promises they couldn’t keep.
Wood was honest. It cracked where it was weak. It showed you where to reinforce it.
People didn’t do that.
People were hard. They were confusing. They were complicated.
Like the chairs before me, my life was simple, clean, and easy. That’s how I liked it. It’s how I wanted it to stay.
But Mateo . . .
Mateo Ricci was a mess in the making.
He was loud, bright, and warm in ways I didn’t know how to hold.
Worse—he made mewantto hold them.
His damned smile flashed every time I closed my eyes, all bright and chipper and inviting, surrounded by those perfect lips, just plump enough to need kissing and sucking and . . .
Damn it.
I shook my head and turned toward the stereo in the corner, flipping it on and punching in a playlist like it owed me money.
Journey.
Always Journey.
Something about the way Steve Perry sang felt safe, like someone else was willing to carry whatever I couldn’t say. The songs knew how to bleed, but they didn’t ask me to. They filled the space just enough to drown the thoughts while demanding nothing in return.
“Don’t Stop Believin’” kicked in with its bright piano and crisp rhythm. Usually that opening was enough. It got me back into my body.
But not that day.
In those moments, the melody felt thin, the drums hit too sharp, the lyrics rang hollow, like they belonged to someone younger, softer, someone who still believed in things likenew beginningsandhappy endings.
It wasn’t Journey’s fault. They just weren’t built to save a man from himself.
I leaned against the workbench and let the chorus hit.
“Streetlights, people. Livin’ just to find emotion . . .”
