“Not really. You have to want to be better, and I didn’t. I wanted out. So, I left for college in another state and then for Nat Geo. I rarely came home, was avoiding the fight. Didn’t need to hear how settled Derek was or how much my mom missed me. For all our issues, my dad is one of the best men to ever exist and I just can’t live up to his expectations.”

“Couldn’t compete with home either,” she offers softly.

“I didn’t even try. I should have tried.”

Her eyes meet mine. “It’s not too late to try.”

She doesn’t elaborate, but I nod, swallowing hard, understanding what isn’t being said. Soon we’re traveling down her long drive and I park in between her house and workshop. I round the back of the truck as she’s getting out and follow as she leads us to a giant barn with a single light on over the door. She unlocks the door and shoves, swinging it open and flicking the lights on.

I walk in and my jaw drops to my chest. Where Shelby’s house is cozy and carefully pieced together, her workshop is all business. State-of-the-art tools, benches, rows of furniture projects, walls of finishes and paint cans. She’s got an entire hardware store in here.

And a small enclosure with a red heat lamp in the corner that’s making a lot of peeps.

“Ah,” I say. “I’ll just be over there with the baby chicks, holding on to the last shreds of my dignity.”

She laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “This is incredible. I’m … fucking intimidated, Springfield. Here I am playing at being a home flipper and you have your own Home Depot in your backyard.”

12

SHELBY

THE GOOD ONES

I’ve dreamed about this. In the years since I moved from L.A., I would practice my craft on old garage-sale dressers and nightstands and imagine Cameron beside me, watching me, proud of what I’ve accomplished.

Looking at me pretty much how he’s looking at me right now.

I laugh again at his outburst. “A dirty and disorganized Ace Hardware, maybe. More of that hometown charm, if you please.”

He spins around, taking in all the angles of my life’s work. “It’s incredible,” he says, making the little hairs on my arms stand up.

“Thank you.”

He moves for one of the aisles of commissioned work. “May I?”

I gesture for him to proceed.

His long fingers trail over each piece and I tell him what they are, who they belong to, the plans I have for them. He listens like I’m the only person in the entire world, asking questions, tugging on drawer pulls, and tracing cracks I intend to fill and smooth over like new.