Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I take it by the stem, index on the top, like it’s already mine to wield. The weight is right. I set it down.
“Kelly,” he says.
I pass him one without looking.
“Crile.”
“Metz.”
“Mayo.”
The words make a rhythm that’s almost music. That’s the point, to make it a song your hands know when your head is somewhere else.
When we tie knots, I find a groove I didn’t have the day before yesterday. The repetition steadies me more than any pep talk ever could. It’s not that the thoughts of Henry disappear. It’s that something in me stands up under them.
“Good,” Blake says when he passes. “I’ll say it again. You have good hands, Tabitha.”
I nod like his praise doesn’t matter, but of course it does.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t take it out. I line up another set of knots.
At break, I step into the hall. I take my phone out because I can’t not.
Not Henry.
Angie. A photo through a train window. It shows blurred fields, a brown roof, a bit of blue sky.
We’re moving.
I text her back a heart emoji.
The break ends. I slide the phone away. I pick up the number-three handle again. I answer Eli when he asks, “Ready?”
“Ready,” I say, and for the first time in a week, the word doesn’t feel like a lie I’m telling myself to get through the day. It feels like a thread I can hold on to with one hand while the other hand keeps tying what needs tying.
I do not contact Henry.
I let my hands remember how to be steady even when my heart is not. I let the day carry me through the next thing and the next.
Somewhere on the Western Slope, a man sits on a porch with a dog who saved him, the sun on his bandaged head, the breath in his chest a little easier than yesterday. Somewhere his sister watches the countryside whip by her window and decides not to judge me for choosing myself.
If only I could grant myself the same grace.
And if only Henry hadn’t told me we had no future together.
I set my feet. I take the instrument. I begin again.
Sixteen
Henry
I’m not supposed to be here.
The doctor said another week of rest, minimum. My mother echoed it with that sharp tone she uses when she’s not taking no for an answer. But sitting around the ranch house staring at the same set of ceiling beams was driving me out of my mind. My head feels clearer now, the dizziness not quite so sharp, so when Dad offered to drive into town this morning, I grabbed the chance to tag along with him.
The Steel Foundation offices sit on the edge of Grand Junction, an unassuming brick building with wide glass doors.
Dad doesn’t say much as we park. He cuts the engine and looks at me. “I still don’t think you’re ready for this, Henry.”
“I’ll go crazy if I sit around twiddling my thumbs another day,” I tell him. “I need to work. I need to feel useful.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue. He never does when he knows my mind’s made up.
Inside, the familiar hum of printers and voices steadies me. This place has always been more than a job. It’s part of my family’s legacy. Something good in a world that often feels like nothing but bad.
Brad is at the reception desk looking over Bobbie’s—the receptionist’s—shoulder. He glances up, and his eyes widen. “Henry. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too, cuz,” I mutter, heading past him toward my office.
“Wait a second.” He jogs to catch up. “You’re supposed to be in bed. You had brain surgery two weeks ago.”
I wave his concern away without looking at him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He grabs my elbow, and I wince before I can stop myself. The grip isn’t hard, but my nerves are still shot, my head still tender. Brad sees it and swears under his breath. “Jesus, Henry. Go home.”
“I said I’m fine.” I shake him off and keep walking. “Don’t you have work to do?”
He follows me anyway. “Yeah, keeping my idiot cousin from dropping dead in the middle of the hallway.”
“Relax.” I fake a laugh. “I’m not that fragile. Technically I’ve been cleared to drive short distances.”
When I boot up my computer, he finally sighs. “You’re impossible.”
“Thanks.”
The truth is, I don’t feel fine. The screen’s glow burns behind my eyes, and my temples throb before I’ve even finished the first email. But I force myself to keep going. Funding proposals, donor reports, upcoming events. The work is endless, but it’s the kind of endless that gives shape to the day. And right now, I need shape more than anything.
Anything to keep my mind off her.
Hours pass. I get through three proposals, two staff check-ins, and a call with one of our partner clinics. My handwriting wobbles when I sign off on paperwork, but it’s still legible. I pretend the pain behind my forehead isn’t there.