When she doesn’t jump in with ways to fix it or demand I figure out a better way to function, the knot between my shoulder blades eases. “I wanted to apologize again. You deserved better than what I gave you.”
She sets down her brush. “I appreciate the apology.”
No absolution offered. No reassurance. Just acknowledgment of my words, and the honesty of it both stings and soothes at the same time.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want me back,” I admit, returning to my brushwork.
“I said we could do a rain check.” She shrugs. “Didn’t put a time limit on when you could cash it in.”
We fall into our rhythm again, and when we finish the shelf, we move to the more complicated angles of the shoe rack. The work requires concentration, each surface demanding attention to detail.
My brush slips on a corner joint, leaving a thick glob of polyurethane that begins to drip down the side. My muscles tense for the expected criticism to follow.
Emily reaches past me, her arm brushing mine as she grabs a rag. “It’s fixable.” She hands me the cloth. “Clean it up before it sets, then reapply with a lighter touch.”
I stare at the rag in my hand, the simple phrase echoing in my mind. It’s fixable.
How long have I been treating every mistake as evidence of a fundamental flaw? How many times has Carson’s voice in my head transformed recoverable errors into proof of my inadequacy?
My fingers close around the cloth as my perception shifts. Mistakes aren’t permanent indictments. They’re fixable.
I’mfixable.
I clean the dripping polyurethane, the mess disappearing as Emily said it would.
“You said you entered construction through the vocational program, right?” I wait for her confirmation. “How did you come to woodworking? Was that also a program you took?”
A smile spreads over her lips, and her beauty strikes me once again. “I loved being part of the building process, but you can’t take a condominium complex home with you once it’s finished. So I took some classes at the local community college when I could afford it.”
She applies another careful stroke. “I grew up with nothing permanent. But a shelf like this? You can take it anywhere. You design it for a purpose, and when you look at it, you’ll have the memories of the time and care that went into it. And it’s a solid piece you can someday pass on.”
Her words find an echo inside me. “Teaching did the same for me, in a different way. The continuity.”
Emily’s head lifts, and she waits for me to continue.
“Mr. Benson was my inspiration,” I explain, focusing on the smooth finish beneath my brush. “And when I stood in front of my first class, I felt the same continuity. I was building on what he started, and if I’ve been an inspiration to at least one of my students, I’ll be happy.”
“I’m sure it’s more than just one,” Emily says. “Look at how much Quinn trusts and admires you.”
Pleasure warms my cheeks at the compliment. “It’s different, being able to give one student all my attention. Public schools spread teachers so thin that kids slip through the cracks. It’s better at private schools, but there’s no way I could take a class on science adventures every day like I can Quinn. This job has been a complete joy for me. I’m a little sad about handing her over to Ms. Peterson now.”
Emily focuses on her work. “Does Quinn like Ms. Peterson?”
“She does. There was a little tension over Sprinkles at the start, but he’s such a good boy. He won her over, and the kids are respectful that he’s there to work.”
“That’s good. He’s not a small dog.”
“No, he’s not.” I chuckle as I picture the Newfoundland. “I don’t think Quinn’s mom knew what she was adopting when she brought him home as a puppy.”
We return to our task, but the air has shifted between us, my awareness of Emily heightened.
We move around each other with careful coordination as we finish the shoe rack. When our arms brush while reaching for the same can of finish, neither of us pulls back right away. Heat blooms where our skin connects, traveling up my arm and settling somewhere beneath my ribs.
“Almost done,” Emily says, bordering on a purr. “Just the edges left.”
She demonstrates how to apply a thin coat to the narrow surfaces, her fingers steady and sure. When I try to copy her technique, I fumble the paintbrush.
“Here.” She moves behind me. “Like this.”