Page 18 of Knot Her Beta

I set the clipboard down and flex my hand until it stops cramping. The crew is on the second floor, hammering away. The echo travels down the unfinished beams, loud enough to feel it in my teeth.

I rub my face, then the heel of my hand finds my stomach, firm beneath layers of canvas and wool. I catch the motion, drop my hand fast, and scan my surroundings to ensure no one is paying attention to me.

The weekend comes back in a rush, Jared’s hands, the clean, familiar sea salt notes of his skin, the two of us never once getting around to the conversation we were supposed to have. We’d meant to, but instead, we spent the weekend in bed, venturing out only to eat.

A flush crawls up my throat before I can stop it, and I turn hard toward the supply bench, putting my back to the crew as I search for a distraction.

As I run through the rest of the morning’s checklist, my phone buzzes on the plywood table.

Reflexively, I pick it up and swipe before the name stops me cold.

Auren.

Even now, the sight of it twists in my gut, and unable to help myself, I open the text.

Auren

hey

didn’t know who else to reach out to

having a rough patch. would help to hear from you, even if you don’t have time

My thumb goes straight to the keyboard. I can see the words before I write them.

Sorry that you’re struggling. I hope you’re staying safe. What do you need from me?

Easy.

But I stop myself from typing out the response. That’s the open door he’s looking for to slither his way back into my life.

With a deep breath, I lock the phone and put it screen-down, where new alerts won’t distract me.

A shout from upstairs breaks the spell. “Wilson! You got a sec?”

“On my way!” I belt back.

I unstick my gloves from the bench, tuck the clipboard under my arm, and hustle up the stairs.

The next twenty minutes are a haze of numbers, tape measurements, marks, and cuts. Clint holds the window unit in the rough opening while I crouch to check the sill with my level. The bubble drifts.

“She’s low on the left,” I say. “Shim it.”

He grunts and digs through his apron. I hold the level steady and keep an eye on the bubble.

He taps the shim in, and I check it again. Dead center. “Good. Nail it off.”

He does, and I mark the sheet before I move to the next opening.

When he heads off for lunch, I double back to the bench, pick up the phone, and stand there, my attention drifting beyond the trees to the water, where gulls wheel on the updraft, and white chop pounds the rocky beach.

It takes two tries to type out the message I send.

Emily

Taking ten. I’ll be at the dock.

I pocket the phone and walk out the open doorway, following the path that crunches with a skin of new frost. My boots leave prints deep enough to last until the next thaw.