Page 106 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
The first tendrils of forgiveness curl through me, delicate as new growth after a long winter. Not complete forgiveness, not yet. But the beginning of it, the possibility.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean pretending the hurt never happened, or that it didn’t matter. It means acknowledging the pain, holding space for it, but not letting it define the future. It means choosing to see the whole person, not just their worst mistakes.
And right now, this small possibility feels like enough. It feels like a gift I didn’t expect to receive, a door opening when I thought all the doors were closed. Whatever happens next, I’ll face it with open eyes and an open heart.
38
Chapter 38
Adam
I arrive back at the old farmhouse before dawn, the sky still a deep navy blue with just a hint of lighter blue at the horizon. I couldn’t sleep last night with the image of Caitlin’s tears burned into my mind, her sobs echoing in my ears. I unlock the front door with hands that feel disconnected from my body, like they belong to someone else. The morning air bites at my skin, but I welcome the discomfort. It’s nothing compared to what I deserve.
Inside, everything is exactly as we left it yesterday, the cabinet doors stacked against the wall, tools scattered across the dining room table, empty water bottles collected in a small pile. Caitlin’s presence lingers in the space, in the careful way she labeled each cabinet door, in the notes she left about paint colors and hardware choices.
I flip on the work lights, setting the house aglow in harsh fluorescence that makes the half-finished rooms look even more raw and exposed. I stand for a moment in the kitchen doorway, feeling something tighten in my chest. We were working here together yesterday, before everything fell apart again. Before I made her cry. Again.
My throat constricts, and I swallow hard against the ache. There’s no time for this. I have work to do. This house has to be perfect for her. It’s the only thing I can give her now.
I throw myself into cleaning up the mess I made in the upstairs bathroom. Once that’s done, I move on to cutting and installing the new subfloor. Each precise measurement, each careful cut, each nail driven home is all for her. I work without breaks, without stopping to eat or drink or rest. My body protests, muscles burning, hands blistering, but I push through it. Physical pain is easier to bear than what’s happening inside me.
* * *
A glance at my watch tells me it’s almost time for my shift at Louise’s Table. The thought of going there, of facing Peter, of working in the space that belongs to Caitlin’s family makes my stomach clench. But I won’t run from this. I won’t add cowardice to my list of failures.
I clean up quickly, changing into the clean uniform shirt I brought with me, trying to make myself look presentable. This day will probably be the end of this job. Peter would be well within his rights to fire me on the spot. Hell, if I were him, I’d probably do worse.
Once I arrive, I slip in through the back door, bracing myself for whatever comes next. Peter is at the stove as usual. He looksup and gives me a nod and then goes back to his work. Caitlin is nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” Jenny says, spotting me as I head to the time clock. “Mrs. Bryant is here and demanding to know where you are. You know she only allows you to serve her now.”
I nod, relieved and confused in equal measure. Clocking in, I get to work. The day passes in a blur of customers and orders. Every time I bring a new order up to the pass-through, Peter gives me a thoughtful look, but he doesn’t speak to me beyond what’s necessary for the job. I tell myself this is better than the anger I expected, the confrontation I deserve.
When my shift ends, I clock out, grab my jacket and head for the door, keeping my eyes on the floor. I’m almost there when Peter’s voice stops me.
“Adam.”
I turn, steeling myself. “Yes, sir?”
“You did good work tonight,” he says, his expression unreadable. “Thank you.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and slip out into the evening. The cool air feels good on my flushed face, and I stand there for a moment, trying to make sense of what just happened. Why didn’t he fire me? Why didn’t he even mention yesterday?
The drive back to the farmhouse is automatic, my hands and feet performing the necessary actions while my mind churns. I know I should go back to my apartment, eat and get some rest, but I’ll work a few more hours here instead. There’s always more to do.
I’ve just gotten started when headlights sweep across the yard. Looking out, I see Peter’s familiar truck pull in. My stomach drops as I watch him park and get out. This is it, I think. He waited until we were away from the restaurant to tell me to get gone.
“Adam,” he calls, walking toward me. “Had a feeling I might find you here.”
“Mr. Hughes,” I say, my voice rough from disuse. “Is everything okay?”
He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his face half in shadow. “I came to check on you,” he says simply. “I meant to talk to you at the restaurant, but I didn’t want an audience.”
I nod, confused by his tone. There’s no anger in it, no accusation. “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just wanted to get back to work here. There’s still a lot to do.”
Peter studies me for a long moment, his gaze steady. Then he does something that knocks the air clean out of my lungs. He steps forward and pulls me into a hug. Not a casual, one-armed thing, but a real hug, firm and warm and completely unexpected. I stand frozen, arms at my sides, too shocked to respond.
“You’re not fine,” he says quietly, still holding on. “And that’s okay.”
