Page 10 of Knot By Design
I glance toward the window again. Outside, snow has started falling, flakes melting against the glass. Fox Hollow always looksdifferent under the first dusting. Softer. Quieter. Like the whole town exhales.
Mick dims the lights, and the glow from the stove deepens the shadows. Jude pushes his chair back. “C’mon. Early start tomorrow. Those beams won’t hang themselves.”
I follow him out, pulling on my jacket. The cold hits fast, biting at my skin. The truck’s parked under the streetlamp, dusted in white already.
Across the lot, the taillights of Wren’s car disappear down Main Street. I stand there longer than I should, watching them fade.
Then I climb into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and sit in the hum of the heater. The town’s holiday lights flicker on along the street, strings of gold and red wrapping the lampposts. I can still smell Norah’s scent clinging faintly to the air.
I grip the wheel tighter, forcing the thought away.
Jude stares at me but says nothing.
Claire’s memory lives in every corner of my life, in every promise I keep. Loving again, wanting again, would mean letting some of that go.
And I’m not sure I can.
The snow falls thicker now, blanketing the road, soft against the windshield. I drive us home through the glow, the tavern lights fading in the rearview mirror, and tell myself the same lie I’ve been telling for years.
That I’m fine. That I’m done. That I don’t miss what I never had.
But Fox Hollow never lets you forget the things you bury.
I wake in a cold sweat, lungs heaving like I’ve run a mile uphill. The dream clings to me, thick and heavy.
Claire’s laughter echoes faintly somewhere in my head, that soft rasp she had after long nights by the fire. She’s standing on the back porch, hair tangled from the wind, her hand stretched toward me.
Jude’s there too, leaning against the railing with that smile that always made her blush. The three of us belong in that picture.
For a breath, it feels real again. Then she fades, the light bleeds away, and I’m left staring at an empty porch.
I curse under my breath and shove the blanket aside. My shirt sticks to my back. The clock on the nightstand blinks red. 6:58 a.m. The storm outside has grown worse, thick flakes of snow tumbling through the dark.
My phone buzzes beside the bed. A message from Jude lights the screen.Heading to meet Elias at the cabins. See you later.
I swipe it away without answering. Jude means well, but I’m barely holding together. My head aches, and the weight of that dream still drags behind my eyes.
I scrub my face hard and swing my legs off the bed. The floorboards chill my feet instantly. I need coffee.
The shower does little to clear the fog in my mind. Hot water steams the mirror, but Claire’s face lingers behind the glass, smiling the way she used to when we’d finish a job and she’d cook enough chili to feed an army.
When I step out, the house feels too still. I towel off, drag on a pair of worn jeans, a gray Henley, and my flannel. The coffee canister on the counter is empty. I curse again, remembering I finished it yesterday.
The place looks like me. Structured, solid, built with intention. Every board and beam reminds me that control is something you make with your hands.
Jude and I designed the house ourselves, twin builds sitting side by side on the edge of Fox Hollow, overlooking the river valley.
We kept them simple—wood, glass, stone. No clutter. Mine leans darker, all walnut and charcoal tones, clean lines that make it feel grounded.
The living room opens up around a wide hearth I laid with my own hands, black slate bordered with oak trim. The furniture is sturdy, leather, and rough fabric, built to last rather than impress.
Shelves line one wall, full of old woodworking books and a few framed photos I can’t bring myself to move. Claire with sawdust on her nose, Jude’s arms around both of us, her eyes bright.
After she died, we sold the old house in town. The one the three of us built before everything went wrong.
Jude needed to start fresh. I needed space to grieve. So we built these two cabins on the ridge, connected by a gravel path and a lifetime of things we never said out loud.
I pull on my boots by the door and grab my coat from the hook. The cold hits hard when I step outside. The snow hasn’t let up.
