Page 95 of Knot Her Beta

I peer back toward Grady’s cabin, and my stomach turns over in a slow, sick roll. The desk has been sitting in my shed since before Grady left for Connecticut, the legs sanded smooth, the drawer pulls waiting in a paper bag on the workbench.

The week I finished it, he told me he was going back east, so I decided to hold off on the gift. I didn’t want to give it to him once he announced his departure, because I didn’t want it to appear as if I was trying to bribe him into staying.

Now, he’s chosen Misty Pines, and as Luis and Tony wrestle with the thing, all I can think is that I might have misread the timing again.

It’s a fine line between celebration and pressure. Maybe I should have held on to it for a few more weeks, until after we had our family talk.

Before I can second-guess the decision and tell my guys to load it back up, the front door of Grady’s cabin swings open, and he steps out onto the porch, cane in hand. He’s wearing the burgundy sweater with patches at the elbows that I like.

He stops short when he spots the moving-blanket bundle sitting in front of his cabin, his free hand braced on the railing. “What’s this?”

“Delivery for you.” I pull my hands out of my pockets and gesture at the desk. “Had some wood lying around, so I threw this together.”

His mouth opens, then closes. No words come out.

I take the steps up onto the porch two at a time and hold the door open. “Watch the frame, Tony.”

As the guys tilt the desk vertically, a blanket slides to uncover a corner of walnut. Luis grunts and backs his way into the cabin, his shoulders hitting the door frame, and Tony follows with his end lowered, muttering about his lower back and his wife’s foot rub.

Grady stays on the porch, watching the proceedings with surprised confusion.

They wrestle the desk through the cabin and into the downstairs office. Late afternoon light pours through the glass across the bare floor where Grady’s boxes still sit half-unpacked along the wall.

Good, he hasn’t set up that piece of particle board he calls a desk yet. That saves me from having to move it first.

I direct them on where to place it, and once it’s settled, I pull the moving blankets away before I step back.

The desk sits solid in the center of the room, the walnut oiled to a deep amber glow, the grain rippling across the surface in waves of dark and light. Brass pulls catch the light from the window on the two drawers built into the left side, and the beveled edge on the top ensures a smooth touch.

Grady, who had trailed after us, goes still in the doorway. As he takes in the desk, I watch for any sign that I overstepped. His eyes brighten, and he turns his head to swipe the back of his hand across his face as he pretends to adjust his glasses.

“I built this for you, because I believe this cabin is where you’ll build the next chapter of your life.” I fold the blanket and shove it at Tony. “Whatever shape that takes.”

Grady moves closer and extends his hand toward the desk. His fingertips find the surface and trace the grain, following a dark curl of wood from the edge toward the center. His thumb brushes the bevel, testing the smoothness, and his breath comes out in a quiet exhale that eases my worry about the gift.

When I designed the desk, I made sure there would be generous legroom so his bad knee would never have to sit at an uncomfortable angle. The drawer placement on the left side means he’ll never have to twist his torso to reach them. The broad surface offers enough space for a laptop, with plenty of room for sprawling notes and research.

His fingers stop on the edge of the padded footstool I tucked into the knee space to give him a place to elevate his leg on bad days. The top is upholstered in the same gray flannel I used for the armchair still in my shed. His fingertips trace the fabric, and he can’t hide the tears this time.

“Boss, we heading back?” Luis asks, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness.

I wave them off. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

They file out, their voices carrying down the path toward the four-wheeler, their complaints about the heavy desk fading into the distance.

Grady’s hand stays flat on the desk surface, his fingers spread, and he shifts to his good leg with a slight wince.

“You should sit,” I say.

He doesn’t look at me. “I’m fine, Emily.”

I give him a flat stare.

His lips tighten, then soften into a small, embarrassed smile that squeezes my heart. The cane taps as he crosses to the narrow couch along the office wall and settles onto it with a careful exhale.

I crouch in front of him on the hardwood and take his leg in both hands. His soft jeans are worn thin at the knees where I roll them up to expose the joint. My thumbs find the kneecap and apply slow pressure to the ligaments on either side. The stiffness is there, not too severe, but still more present than I’d like.

“I know you can look after yourself and understand your own limits,” I murmur. “But I want to be there for you when I can. That’s all this is.”