Page 154 of When It's Us
Throwing the covers off, I get out of bed and leave my room, padding through the house in the dark. In my office, I pull open my desk drawer and pull out the manilla envelope I tucked in there months ago. I never could bring myself to open it. But I know I can’t wait anymore. There’s a physical ache in my hands, and I can’t get the clasp open fast enough.
Flipping on my desk lamp, I peel the envelope open and slide out a thick, printed paper stack.
And my heart nearly stops in my chest.
Floor plans. Detailed renderings. It’s all there. And it’s not just a cabin.
I flip the page, my hands shaking.
A rendering of the outside, a large A Frame, with a wide wraparound porch. I flip the page again.
Tate’s room. Jordan’s. Ginger’s Darkroom.
I blink, my throat thick, flipping through each page, my eyes burning, my heart pounding, and I take in detail after detail.
Even though I know he said he was building it for us…my mind is having trouble catching up to what I’m looking at. Every single detail so meticulously planned out.
I don’t even know when the tears start. But they’re hot, and quiet, and they don’t stop. I press the pages to my chest and stare up at the ceiling in the dim light.
He never once asked me to come back. Not in any of the emails. He’s just been…building. Waiting. Loving me from a thousand miles away without demanding a damn thing in return.
And maybe that’s what ruins me most of all.
Because I want to go.God,I want to go.
I want to scoop up my boys, book the first flight I can find, and show up on that porch like I never left.
But I’m scared.
I blink up at the ceiling, heart pounding and chest splintering wide open, and whisper the only truth I know.
“I love you, too.”
Hutch
December23rd
I’ve been working so long I don’t feel my arms anymore. Just the burn in my shoulders and the ache in my hands—raw palms, calloused and worn, and a scab on the knuckle of my left thumb that keeps reopening.
I keep the music loud, like always. Something old and rough, playing off my phone in the corner. It keeps my mind occupied. The quiet between songs is unwelcome. Thankfully, the chuff and scrape of the metal putty knife against the pan, then the drywall, fills in the blanks.
I turn to grab another glob of mud from the five-gallon bucket at my feet and freeze.
Standing inside the doorway is Ginger.
I swear to Christ, my heart stops. Then pounds so hard it feels like it’ll split my ribs wide open. I drop the drywall knife, the plastic and metal hitting the floor with a dull clatter.
“Fuck, I–” I swallow, my throat tight. “If this is a hallucination, I gotta say, my subconscious is a real bastard.”
She looks tired. Cautious. Like maybe she isn’t here to fall back into my arms.
Her eyes flick around the room, landing on all the dust, tools, and unfinished bits—the walls half mudded, the wires still exposed, and the smell of sawdust and insulation clinging to the air. A mess. My mess. The thing I’ve poured everything into for months, still not done.
“It’s not exactly finished yet,” I say, rubbing a hand down my face, then scratching at my chin. I huff out a quiet laugh. “I guess it’s kind of a clusterfuck.”
When I look back up, there’s something in her eyes—a flicker. Something soft. It’s enough.
“I’m hoping it’ll feel like a home someday.”
