Page 21 of Knot By Design
“I remember.” The roof leaked so bad we had to use buckets between the stalls. “We’d have to start with the beams, probably replace the entire north wall.”
“That’s weeks of work.”
“Yeah.”
He sighs through his nose. “I hate that he dangled the money like that.”
“Maybe he knows we need it.”
Ryker stares out the windshield for a long stretch, jaw tight. The snow thickens, swirling across the lot in white veils.
Finally, he nods toward the road. “Let’s get home before the pass ices over. I got some beer so we can crack those open and think this through.”
As we drive, the radio hums low between us, an old country song about broken fences and stubborn hearts. It fits too well.
Ryker keeps his focus on the road, but I catch the flicker of thought in his expression—something he’s trying not to let me see.
When we reach our place, he parks without cutting the engine. The porch light glows across the yard, spilling over the woodpile stacked by the steps.
He doesn’t move. Just sits there, eyes on the snow. “You think he’ll really send those plans?”
“He will,” I answer. “Brighton never gives up when he’s excited.”
Ryker nods once, the muscle in his jaw shifting. “If we do this, we do it right.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He kills the engine and steps out, snow catching in his beard again. I follow him, wait for him to grab some more firewood before we walk into his house. I slam the door behind me, the cold cutting straight through my coat.
The place looks like him. Structured, solid, built with intention. Simple lines, wood and stone, glass that catches the whole stretch of sky.
His taste leans darker. All walnut and slate tones, furniture that looks like it was carved for endurance. Mine’s got lighter wood, more clutter.
Once inside, Ryker lights the fire, the glow from the hearth softening the edges of the space.
I remember helping him lay each tile, both of us half-drunk, measuring and re-measuring until it felt right.
Ryker never builds for pretty. He builds to last.
He dumps more wood by the fire, shakes off his coat, and moves through the room with that calm that never leaves him. His boots land heavy against the floorboards.
The shelves near the wall hold his history. Old woodworking books, leather-bound and splattered with glue stains. A few framed photos of the three of us before the accident. Before we started living like ghosts of who we were.
Ryker crouches by the fire, stacking the new logs with careful precision. The flames jump higher, casting that sharp amber light across his face.
He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and heads for the kitchen. The fridge door opens with a creak, two beers clinking as he grabs them.
He tosses me one. I catch it with my left hand.
“Still cold,” he mutters, dropping into the couch. He pops the cap off his beer against the edge of the coffee table, leaving a notch in the wood he’ll later sand out like it never existed.
I sink beside him. The fire snaps, throwing orange reflections across the stone. We drink in silence for a while, both pretending we don’t notice the picture of Claire above the mantel.
He put it there two years ago and hasn’t moved it since. Not once. Every time I walk in here, I brace myself for that smile, the one that still feels like a knife.
I used to think time would make it easier to look at her. It hasn’t.
Ryker flips on the TV, grabs the console controller, and powers up the game we always fall back on. Some old racing thing with graphics that look like they belong in a museum.
