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“You didn’t make it in time?” Owen asks.
I shake my head. “By the time I got there, she was long gone.”
“I’m sure she understands, or will, why you couldn’t leave,” Tripp says thoughtfully. “Still doesn’t mean she isn’t hurt.”
I glance at Lucy. “Is everyone here to emotionally ambush me?”
“I came for the squirrel house,” Owen says.
“And the pizza,” Lucy adds.
Owen nods. “Mostly the pizza.”
Tripp’s expression stays easy, but there’s no teasing in it now. “Coach asking you to stay wasn’t your fault. You didn’t schedule the meeting, and you didn’t know he was naming you alternate. None of that makes you the bad guy.”
The relief that washes across me is palpable. “Thank you.”
“But you knew the taping mattered to her. That’s where you messed up.”
The relief lasts less than three seconds.
“I said I was sorry.”
“Then let that be the sentence,” Tripp says. “No excuses about your why. Just tell her you know you missed something important and you’re sorry she had to do it alone.”
The truth of it settles heavily, but it doesn’t feel like another accusation. Just a fact I need to own.
Tripp pushes away from the bench and picks up the squirrel box. “Now, are we hanging Thomas Estates or did we drive here to admire the craftsmanship?”
“Put that down before you break it.”
He holds it out of my reach. “You said it was sturdy. Have faith in your product, Mr. Snyder.”
Owen puts the pizza box down on the nearest bench. “Where’s the ladder?”
I point toward the back wall.
He grabs it, and Lucy follows him into the yard while Tripp carries the squirrel box as if I’ve hired him for the job.
For reasons I can’t explain, having three people show up uninvited bringing me food, inspecting my woodworking, and telling me exactly where I went wrong makes it slightly easier to breathe.
We carry everything into the backyard. Owen sets the ladder against the maple while Tripp holds the squirrel box, waiting for instructions.
“When does Eva find out if she won the competition?” he asks.
“Soon, like this weekend I think,” Lucy says. “They’re announcing it on the Sunday Breakfast Show. Tune in, you guys.”
“What time?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s a morning show, Liam. I’d start with the morning.”
I make a mental note to look it up as soon as they leave. Even if Eva isn’t speaking to me, I can be there for this part. Quietly. From a safe distance where she can’t accuse me of turning up uninvited with a ladder and three hockey players.
“Hold the ladder,” I tell Owen.
He plants one hand against it while I climb with the box tucked beneath my arm. Tripp stands back to assess the tree as though we’ve asked him to oversee construction.
“You know,” Owen says, “maybe you should make Eva an apology box.”
