She sits up. The sawdust is everywhere now. She’s going to be itchy later. She’s not going to care.
“We have a problem,” she says.
“Several,” I agree. “But specifically?”
“I’m supposed to be in Portland in two weeks. And I love you. Those things don’t go together.”
“They don’t have to be mutually exclusive,” I say. “You could love me and still go. People do that. Long distance. It’s a thing.”
“I don’t want long distance,” she says. “And I don’t know if I want to stay, because I’m terrified that I’ll resent you for making me choose something different than what I planned. And I don’t know if I want to go, because I’m terrified that I’ll regret leaving this.” She gestures vaguely at the workshop, at the bench, at me lying next to her covered in sawdust and her own intention.
“Then don’t decide yet,” I say. “You have two weeks.”
The door swings opens.
Jasper walks in like he owns the place, which he kind of does—I’ve basically let him move into the workshop. He takes one look at the two of us on the floor, sawdust-covered and partially clothed, and he approaches with his tail wagging.
“No,” Gabby says, laughing so hard she snorts. “Not the dog. We don’t get to have the dog watching.”
Jasper nudges his way between us and demands pets, which breaks the moment, but funny instead of awkward. Gabby is petting him and laughing and I’m lying on the floor of my workshop with the woman I love and a dog interrupting our intimate moment, and I’m thinking this is what building something with someone looks like. It’s not just the bench. It’s not just the sex. It’s this—the willingness to sit with uncertainty, to let a dog crash the moment, to choose presence even when the future is unclear.
“This dog has the worst timing,” Gabby says. “Second only to Morris that one time with the porch.”
“Jasper’s judging us,” I say.
“He’s helping,” Gabby corrects. “He’s providing perspective. He’s saying: you two are rolling around on a workshop floor on an Alaska morning while there’s a grand opening tomorrow. Maybe get up. Maybe get dressed. Maybe go live your lives so the rest of us can have a normal day.”
I help her up. We dust each other off, which doesn’t work well because there’s still sawdust everywhere and it’s basically embedded in our skin at this point. By the time we’re dressed, we both look like we’ve been in a sawmill.
“I need to go make final preparations,” she says. “The opening is tomorrow and I still need to figure out how to introduce the bench to the space without it looking like you’ve marked your territory.”
“It is my territory,” I say. “I’m marking you with nice furniture.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me while also being weird,” she says.
I walk her to her car. Jasper follows, because Jasper has decided he’s part of all of this now. The sun is coming up over the trees. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Tomorrow is going to be the grand opening and everything is going to change, and I’m standing here covered in sawdust with a woman who loves me and doesn’t know if she’s staying, and I’m okay with that. I can build toward something even if the foundation is temporary. I can love her even if she leaves. I’ve been doing it since before I knew her, building this bench that says: you’re worth building for, even if you don’t stay.
“Come by after the opening,” I tell her. “There’s something I want to do.”
“Is this more sex in unusual locations?” she asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe just this—coming home to you. Figuring out what that means.”
She kisses me in the parking lot of my workshop as the sun is coming up and Jasper is watching us with the wisdom of a dog who knows nothing about human timelines but everything about presence.
“I love you,” she says again.
“I know,” I say. “I built a bench.”
Chapter 17
Gabby
The oven doesn’t catch fire. First victory. 7:30 AM.
I came in at five, like I’ve done every day for the past month, but this morning is different. This morning the bakery is mine in a way it hasn’t been before. Legally it’s complicated. But it’s mine in ways that matter. It’s the space where I make things that people want to buy. It’s the space where I’m building something permanent while living temporarily.
By eight o’clock, I’ve achieved a secondary victory: the salmon croissants are perfect. Golden, flaky, with the filling distributed evenly and the texture exactly right. They’re beautiful. They’re beautiful enough to make me believe something good might actually happen today. I test one. It’s still warm. It’s perfect.