Chapter 4

The community center smelled like fresh paint and possibility.

I was measuring the west wall when I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy work boots on the concrete floor, the kind of sound that meant someone who actually built things for a living.

"Need help? That wall's tricky."

I turned. The man was maybe late twenties, early thirties, wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tool belt that had actually seen use. Not the kind of tool belt Owen had bought when he decided to "do more hands-on work"—the one that still sat pristine in our garage.

Former garage.

"I can handle it," I said automatically.

He smiled. "I know. But two people are faster."

Something about that stopped me. Not "let me do it for you." Not "you're doing it wrong." Just... two people are faster.

"Okay," I said. "Yeah. Thanks."

A month had passed since I'd left that note on the dining table. Four weeks of living in Mom's guest room, of conference calls with Sharon, of watching Owen's texts pile up on a blocked number list I sometimes scrolled through late at night.

The divorce was moving forward. Owen had agreed to pay back my investment—eighty thousand dollars plus interest, split over two years. Sharon said we'd been lucky. Most divorces took longer, cost more, hurt worse.

I didn't feel lucky. But I felt... lighter.

The community center project had been Sharon's idea, actually. She knew the director, mentioned they were looking for pro bono design work. "Might be good for you," she'd said. "Something to focus on."

She'd been right.

The man with the tool belt extended his hand. "Deacon. I'm doing the carpentry work."

"Harper." I shook his hand. His grip was firm, brief, professional. "You're volunteering too?"

"Yeah. I try to do a few projects a year. Keeps me humble." He looked at the wall I'd been measuring. "So what are we dealing with?"

We worked for three hours. Deacon measured and cut while I marked placement points and checked levels. He didn't talk much, which I appreciated. Just the occasional "Hand me that?" or "What do you think about this angle?"

It was the kind of comfortable quiet I hadn't experienced in years. With Owen, silence had always felt loaded. Like I was supposed to be entertaining him, supporting him, doing something.

With Deacon, silence was just... silence.

At noon, he straightened up, stretched. "Lunch break?"

There was a deli two blocks away. We ordered sandwiches and sat at one of the outdoor tables, watching the neighborhood go by.

"So how long have you been doing design work?" Deacon asked.

"Ten years, give or take. Freelance for the last three." I carefully avoided mentioning why I'd gone freelance, why those three years had been spent working late nights to cover bills while someone else built a dream.

"You're good at it. The layout you did for this place—it's smart. Functional but not institutional, you know?"

I did know. That's exactly what I'd been going for.

"What about you?" I asked. "How'd you get into carpentry?"

"The boring way. Started doing construction in high school, went to work for a big commercial firm after college. Spent five years building office complexes and luxury condos." He took a bite of his sandwich. "Good money. Terrible hours. Even worse purpose."

"So you quit?"

"So I quit." He grinned. "Best decision I ever made. Turns out building things for people who'll actually use them feels better than building things for people who just want to impress other people."

Something in my chest loosened. "Yeah. I get that."

The next day, Deacon showed up with two coffees.

"Wasn't sure how you take it," he said, "but the barista said most designers drink oat milk lattes."

I stared at him. "How did you—"

"Know you drink oat milk? You mentioned it yesterday. Said the deli's dairy milk was giving you a stomachache."

I'd mentioned it in passing. A throwaway comment while we were working. And he'd remembered.

Owen never remembered. I'd told him a hundred times I was lactose intolerant, and he still brought home regular milk, still suggested restaurants with cheese-heavy menus.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"No problem." Deacon handed me the cup, went back to work like it was nothing. Like remembering small things about people was just what you did.

We fell into a rhythm over the next week. He'd arrive with coffee. We'd work through the morning, break for lunch, finish up by late afternoon. Sometimes we talked—about projects, about the neighborhood, about nothing important. Sometimes we didn't.

It was easy. Uncomplicated.

Normal.

On the last day of the project, we stood in the main room together. The walls were painted, the trim installed, the floors refinished. Through the windows, late afternoon sun made everything glow.

"This is going to be great for the neighborhood," Deacon said.

"Yeah." I looked around at what we'd built. "It feels good. Building something that matters."

We stood there for a moment in comfortable silence.

Then Deacon turned to me. "Would you want to grab dinner sometime? Not business. Just... dinner."

My chest tightened. I wasn't ready. Wasn't even close to ready.

"I'm in the middle of a divorce," I said. "I don't think—"

"No pressure." He held up his hands, smiling. "But when you're ready, if you're ever ready... I make a mean lasagna."

I found myself smiling back. Really smiling, the kind that reached my eyes.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Good." He picked up his tool bag. "See you around, Harper."

"See you around."

I packed up my measuring tape, my level, my sketch pad. Took one last look at the room we'd transformed. A month ago, this had been a dingy space with water-stained walls and warped floorboards. Now it was somewhere people could gather, learn, grow.

I'd helped make that happen. Not invisibly, not as someone's wife, not as funding for someone else's vision.

Just me. Harper.

I was still smiling when I got in my car and saw Owen waiting in the parking lot.