Page 7 of She Was Made for Me

Or removing dead animals and rot from a cabin I’d rather not step foot in ever again.

“Fine,” I relent warily. “But you’re not paying me.”

Rich gives a scoff of disagreement. “I most certainly—”

“You can cover the cost of the materials, and obviously you’ll need to pay the crew, but I’m not taking a cent from you.” I have more than enough money to live off for the next couple of months, especially considering I’ll be staying with Rich and his wife, Diana. I can’t take their money after all they’ve done for me.

“Kyle,” Rich protests, but I know I’m going to have to stand firm on this. “Come on—”

“I mean it. If you want me on this renovation, those are my terms.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Alright. Whatever gets you back here.”

3

Kyle

New York is worse than I remember. Four years away from the city dulled my memory of how bad things were when I was last here, but being back instantly makes me edgy. I left Maine at 4 a.m. and spent six hours on the road, but that’s not the worst part; it took me over an hour to crawl through Manhattan to get to the job site in Brooklyn Heights. By the time I park my truck, I’m crabby and irritable, my ears starting to ring in that way they do when I get tense.

I’m meeting Rich to look over the building and talk through his plans, and meet the project manager he’s got lined up. I don’t even know why we need a project manager—I never have them on my renos back home.

Still, this is a much bigger project than anything I’ve done in Maine. If I’m being entirely honest, I’m a little concerned there are aspects beyond my expertise, but when I mentioned that to Rich he wouldn’t hear a word of it.

“You’re the best carpenter I know,” he’d said. I tried to point out that I was theonlycarpenter he knew, but he laughed me off. “You’re who I want as the foreman, Kyle. I won’t take no for an answer.” And when I thought of the way he’d shown up for me when I was at my lowest point, I had no choice but to swallow my hesitations and agree to the project.

Now, as I step out of my truck, my doubts are back.

I wander around to the sidewalk with a sigh. I never used to be like this. When I was at the height of my law career, I had the confidence of a man who could hold the attention of the courtroom, who knew exactly what he was doing. I felt invincible.

I guess that was the problem. I wasn’t invincible. Not even close.

Leaning back against my truck, I let my gaze wander up and down the street. At least Brooklyn Heights isn’t Manhattan. It’s quiet here. No billboards, no taxis crawling by, no tourists shoving past you. Instead, it’s rows of brownstones and townhouses, quiet streets lined with oak and ginkgo trees, their leaves a fresh, vibrant green with the start of summer. A mom pushes a stroller past me, and a block away I can see a tiny coffee shop, but otherwise the neighborhood is still and calm. A gentle breeze carrying the sound of a siren somewhere in the distance is the only reminder that I’m actually in New York.

I relax as I scan the street. For a moment, I can pretend this isn’t the city that filled me with stress and made me question everything about myself. No—this is the neighborhood I grew up in, filled with history. Mine, and the people who came before me.

My gaze lands on the building in front of me: number 14 Fruit Street. It’s a four-story Greek revival-style townhouse, one in a row of three, joined with a continuous redbrick façade and matching details, like the brownstone steps with iron railings. Each entryway is surrounded by tall brownstone pilasters, each with a triangular pediment on top, the doorways set back under a transom window, with sidelights and column details around a wooden door. From the street number 14 looks to be in decent condition; maybe one of the windows needs replacing, and the brick might need some work, but otherwise it doesn’t stand out from any of its neighbors.

Rich assures me it’s a different story inside, though. The previous owners abandoned it mid-restoration when their marriage broke up—or so he says—and it’s a mess.

I glance again at the coffee place down the street. I’m a little early, and a decaf cappuccino would be nice.

The shop—Joe’s Coffee—is busy when I enter, and I order a coffee before scanning the room for a place to sit. The walls are old brick, painted white, and the ceiling appears to be the original pressed tin tiles. I love that they’ve kept these features and not replaced them with something more modern.

I spot an empty table to one side and wander over, ready to claim my seat, when I notice a woman, standing with a to-go coffee cup in her hand, her back to me as she reads something framed on the wall. I don’t make a habit of openly checking women out in public, but my gaze is riveted to her. Long, curvy legs stretch up from wedge sandals, disappearing into denim cutoffs that emphasize her wide hips. She’s wearing a floaty pink blouse tucked loosely into her shorts, her blonde hair falling in delicate waves just past her shoulders.

She steps to her right to examine what else is framed on the wall, but her sandal catches on the uneven floorboard—one of the hazards of these old buildings—and she loses her balance, catching herself just as her coffee slips to the ground, exploding on impact. She leaps back, narrowly missing being scalded.

“Ughhh,” she groans, surveying the dark liquid pooling at her feet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck my life,” she mutters under her breath, which seems like an extreme reaction, even under the circumstances.

“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively, stepping closer.

She turns my way and I get my first real look at her. Big, hazelnut-brown eyes, bangs that frame her heart-shaped face, full, pink lips pressed together as she frowns. She’s younger than I’d usually let myself look at—I’m guessing early thirties—but I can’t help myself. She’s beautiful. If I hadn’t heard her just utter a mouthful of curses, her looks would have me believe she’s soft and sweet, especially with the way her cheeks now blush a delicate pink. I find myself intrigued by the contrast.

“Bad morning?” I try again, attempting to lighten the mood.

“More like a bad week.” She rubs her forehead in agitation. Sympathy tugs at me as she steps over the mess at her feet and glances past me to the counter. There’s something almost familiar about her. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it draws me closer to her.

“Let me get you another. What were you drinking?”

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