Page 37

Dad is embracing his self-appointed role as supervisor, parked on the back porch in his favourite chair with an iced tea in hand, offering direction like he’s hosting Grand Designs: Rural Chaos Edition .

"Left a bit, Ryder! You’re as crooked as a politician!

" he yells, cupping his hands around his mouth like a football coach.

Balanced precariously on a ladder, Ryder lets out a long, theatrical sigh. "You trying to get me killed out here?" He shifts, the ladder creaking. "I will haunt you, Brian Hayes. I swear to God."

I can’t help the grin stretching across my face. "You heard the man," I call up, handing him another plank. "Try not to bring down the entire government while you’re at it."

Ryder grabs the wood with exaggerated force. "Ha-ha. Hilarious," he mutters, squinting against the sunlight. "Why don’t you climb up here and risk your life, pretty boy?"

"And miss the show down here?" I shake my head. "Not a chance."

The barn’s bones are old, weathered beams, flaking paint, memories wedged into every creaky board. But it’s solid underneath. It just needs time. Patience. A bit of care.

On the makeshift workbench, an iPad propped against a paint can buzzes to life—I answer the call. Theo’s face fills the screen, sunglasses on, sprawled in a lounge chair under the last of a bright Italian sun. "Oh look," Ryder mutters. "The idle rich."

Theo lifts a lazy hand in greeting, smirking. "You two look like you’re dying."

"Feels like it," I say, wiping my forehead with the hem of my shirt.

"We’ve upgraded from ‘barn disaster’ to ‘mild structural hazard,’ though, so that’s something."

The screen shifts and Luca appears, holding up an obnoxiously large cone of gelato like he’s cradling a newborn. "Tell me you’re jealous," he says, lowering his sunglasses.

Ryder groans. "Mate, I would sell Kieran’s soul for one of those right now."

"Rude," I mutter.

"You’d get over it."

Theo leans closer to the camera, grinning. "You’re rolling around in dirt and calling it productivity."

"It’s called craftsmanship," I deadpan. "Very rustic. Very authentic. Extremely sweaty."

Dad chuckles from the porch, raising his glass in salute. "Don’t let them get to you, boys. They’re just jealous they’re missing out on all this fresh air."

"Careful, Ryder," Theo adds. "That hammer’s not a toy."

Luca nods solemnly. "You’re about as stable as a one-legged stool up there."

Ryder flips them off, hammer still in hand. "You’re lucky there’s an ocean between us."

The laughter that follows is effortless. Easy in the way that only comes with time and love. It settles into my chest, warm and grounding.

I pull out my phone, half to escape the heat, half out of habit. The lightness of the moment dims. Still no reply.

I stare at the screen for a second longer than I mean to.

Come on, Ellie…

I tap out another message.

Just wanna make sure everything’s ok?

I stare at it like it might slap me for being soft. Then hit send anyway and shove the phone back in my pocket like it’s suddenly radioactive.

No big deal. Totally casual. Not like I’ve checked the thread… what, five times today? Six, max.

“She’ll reply,” I tell myself. "She always does."

Then I grab a hammer and try to look like a man who absolutely did not just whisper at his phone like a moron.

"Oi!" Ryder shouts, waving a tape measure like he’s conducting an orchestra.

"Kieran, stop daydreaming, we’ve got a barn to save!"

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, catching the tape mid-air as he tosses it down. "Calm down before you fall and break something."

We work until the light fades, the air cools, and shadows stretch across the overgrown grass.

Hammers thud. Laughter bubbles. Every so often, Dad calls out a suggestion like he’s building the next Taj Mahal.

Eventually, he hauls himself up from his throne with a stretch. "Alright, lads. I think you’ve done enough damage for one day."

"I second that," Ryder says, descending the ladder like a very tired koala. "I need food. And a nap. In that order."

Together, the three of us head toward the house, the scent of Dad’s beef stew curling through the air—rich and savoury, all red wine and rosemary. It drifts out the kitchen window like a homing beacon, tugging us in by the stomach.

I feel the day in my bones. In the dirt under my nails, the bruises on my hands. But I also feel something else. Peace.

Still, as we reach the back steps, I check my phone one last time.

Nothing.

I swallow the disappointment. Tell myself I don’t have the right to feel it.

Not when she’s with someone else. Not when I’m the one standing on the outside, waiting for a door she’s under no obligation to open.

I shake off the thought, but it clings, sticky and stubborn.

I follow the smell of stew inside, the ache of missing her settling into a place I don’t know how to reach.

The kitchen smells like home. Rich and hearty, like every stew Dad’s ever made. The windows are fogged from the heat and the radio hums some low country tune in the background.

Ryder beelines for the fridge like he owns it, grabbing two beers and tossing one my way. "Cheers to surviving manual labour," he says, cracking his open.

I raise mine, clinking the glass necks together before taking a sip. "To functional barns and dysfunctional friendships."

"Oi," he says, but he’s grinning.

Dad ladles stew into mismatched bowls like a man who believes in hearty portions and second helpings before you’ve even finished the first.

We eat around the kitchen table, swapping stories, complaining about sore muscles, tossing out the occasional jab about each other’s so-called ‘construction skills.’

Ryder insists he was the backbone of the operation. Dad says the barn survived in spite of him. I choke on my beer laughing.

But underneath it all, a tiny ache thrums in my chest. Because even in this comfort, even in the quiet, she’s still there.