The following Saturday, I returned to Diane’s house with a bookshelf in the back of my truck.
I’d spent five evenings building it after finishing my paid orders. It was walnut, four shelves, simple lines, and a hand-rubbed finish that allowed the grain to speak for itself.
I told myself it was a thank-you gift.
That was true.
It was also true that I’d thought about Diane every day that week.
I thought about the way she listened. The way she could laugh without needing everyone in the room to notice. The way she seemed comfortable with silence.
I thought about how strange it felt to be interested in a woman who wasn’t constantly trying to make herself the center of my attention.
Maya opened the door.
When she saw the bookshelf, her mouth fell open.
“Mom!”
Diane appeared from the reading room.
She stopped when she saw what I was carrying.
