Page 214 of That Rush

Hudson carries two bundles of trim beneath one arm and a cardboard tray of coffee in the other. “Your mother sent caffeine. She doesn’t trust you with a power drill before you’ve had coffee.”

“She sent you?”

“She has an optimistic definition of adult.”

He sets the coffee on the table and takes in the missing shelves, revised drawing, and unopened cabinet.

“I thought the little shelves were for Josie.”

“They were.”

“She lose her library privileges?”

“This room isn’t hers.”

Dad’s humor fades. “It’s Paige’s.”

“If she wants it.”

The words scrape against every instinct I have. I want to finish the room, bring Paige here, and know the gesture will be enough. I want a plan with an outcome I can trust.

Understanding my mistake doesn’t mean love owes me certainty.

Dad walks to the new exterior door marked on the plan. “What happens if she doesn’t want it?”

“The office stays empty until we decide what else to do with it.”

“That’s an expensive question.”

“I’ve spent more money on worse decisions.”

“Your truck comes to mind.”

“There is nothing wrong with my truck.”

“It has heated cup holders.”

“They’re useful.”

“For keeping your feelings warm?”

I take one of the coffees and hand him the drill. “You can remove the last shelf.”

He laughs, but his focus snaps back to the plans. “Are you building her an answer, or are you offering her a question?”

A week ago, I would have insisted they were the same thing. I would have finished the room, placed Paige inside it, and treated her happiness as confirmation that every decision leading there had been mine to make.

I look through the uncovered window toward the mountains she loved the first time she walked into this building.

“A question,” I say.

Two days later, Axel braces the final bookcase against the wall while I check it with a level.

“Left side needs to come up,” I say.

“It’s off by half a millimeter.”

“So, you agree it’s off.”