She wore a fitted red dress, heavy eyeliner, and the same expression she’d worn during our last argument.
“You’ve been busy,” she said.
I put down the hand plane.
“Tasha.”
She looked around the workshop.
“Nice place. Still smells like sawdust.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard you’ve got yourself a new woman.”
I didn’t answer.
She walked toward the workbench, dragging one red fingernail across the edge.
“An older woman, apparently. Fourteen years older? Really, Ethan?”
“Leave her out of this.”
Tasha laughed.
“Oh, so it’s serious.”
“It’s none of your business.”
She picked up a chisel, examined it, and placed it in the wrong slot.
She knew that would irritate me.
She’d watched me organize those tools a hundred times.
“Remember when we used to come here together?” she asked. “Remember how you used to tell me this place was our future?”
I remembered.
I remembered the nights she’d sat on the workbench while I sanded furniture. I remembered her bringing me coffee during a long project.
