Page 182 of That Rush

I sit in the chair across from them with my coffee.

She chose to be here. She worked beside us, took the hour she needed for herself, then came back to read with my daughter without anyone asking. It’s exactly what she said she wanted: a life that was still hers, just with us in it. And it works. It could work every day. The thought arrives so naturally I can already see it: Paige using her key in the morning, her book beside mine on the porch swing. Her quiet hour protected inside the noise of ranch work, and the certainty that they’ll both be here when the day ends.

Josie finishes the page and looks up at Paige.

“Are you always going to come on Fridays now?”

“Only if she wants to,” I tell her.

Paige looks from Josie to me. “Excellent answer.”

“I’ve been trainable all day.”

“Let’s not get reckless.”

Josie sighs over adults making a simple question difficult. “Do you want to?”

“I want to come next Friday,” Paige says. “We’ll decide the Friday after that when it gets here.”

It’s a clear answer. She chooses next week, and I know better than to press for more while she and Josie have a book open between them.

Still, I am already picturing the Friday after that too.

I leave Paige and Josie on the porch debating whether Sprinkle needs her own reading log and walk toward the old ranch office.

The repaired flashing kept last week’s storm out. The electrical work is finished, and the new pine flooring no longer dips beneath the windows. What started as a necessary repair has become a vision so clear the unfinished walls irritate me.

Paige stood here weeks ago, looked at the mountain view, and said the room deserved books.

She was right.

The framework along the far wall is already secured. I settle a precut board onto the brackets I installed yesterday and tap it level. These shelves are low enough that Josie can reach the bottom one and high enough to hold more books than either of them should reasonably need.

Although Paige would argue there is no such number.

I drive the first screw, then the second. Once the shelf is secure, I step back and picture her filling it. She’ll reject arranging anything by color because that system is attractive and useless. Fiction will get one wall. Children’s books will end up lower, even if she insists this is her room, because she’ll want Josie to reach them.

The far corner needs a chair wide enough for Paige to curl up in with her feet tucked beneath her. I add it to the list on my phone, along with a lamp, another outlet, and a narrow cabinet for the things she keeps hauling between the cabin and my house.

She won’t need to pack a book every Friday. She can leave one here.

Or twenty.

I sit at the folding table serving as a workbench and open the calendar beside my supply list. Josie’s school orientation is already written in blue. The library’s end-of-summer celebration is in green because Paige mentioned the date twice; the branch cookout is circled at the bottom of the month.

The riding instructor texted this morning with an opening on Saturday afternoons beginning in September. I reserve it for Josie, then ask whether she can keep a horse available for Paige too. Paige enjoyed riding with me, and if she’s here on Fridays, Saturday lessons make sense.

Thanksgiving will be at Mom and Dad’s. Christmas plans usually begin before Halloween because no one in this family understands moderation. Paige will need warning, breaks, and somewhere quiet when the entire branch crowds into one house.

This room solves part of that.

She can close the door when she has had enough, read for an hour, and come back when she wants. She gets the space she needs without disappearing to the cabin every time the Slades become too much.

I add two more shelves to the order and a wide leather chair to the furniture list. The work feels good because it’s useful. She needs quiet, so I’m building a door to close. She brings a book every time, so I’m building shelves. It’s what I do: I listen, and then I solve it.

I hear the office door open behind me.

“You vanished,” Paige says.