Page 70 of Late to Love

“I’m sorry. Truly.”

“No ‘but’?”

Huffing out a laugh, he confirms, “No ‘but.’ I remain concerned?—”

“Dad,” I warn.

“Andit’s only the regular amount of concern a father has about his daughter. Which is a lot. It’s not Anthony-specific.”

I take a fortifying sip of my coffee. “Good.”

“You coming in?”

Blowing out a breath, I answer. “That’s the other reason I’m calling.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Depends on your perspective, I suppose,” I hedge.

“Well, then, spit it out.”

“I’m, um, I’m opening my own shop.” The instant the words are out, I feel lighter.

“In town?” Dad asks, nothing but curiosity in his tone.

“No,” I laugh. “Online.”

“What are you selling?”

Part of me is crushed by the question. The other part of me knows that Dad means it in the nicest, sweetest way. But has the man paid no attention? Or—the thought crashes into me—have I ever bothered telling him?

“Darcy girl?” he prompts.

“Little bit of this and a little bit of that,” I answer. “Tables, dressers, custom pool tables. That sort of thing.”

“Well now, that sounds like a big job. How are you going to fit it in with working here?”

It hits me, then, what a coward I’m being by having this conversation over the phone. But it’s done, so there’s nothing to do but keep going. I reach for the spark of irritation that flared the second he assumed I would fitmydream intohisworld and rip off the metaphorical bandage. “I’m not going to work full-time at the hardware store, Dad. Effective immediately.”

He sucks in a breath, and for several moments, he’s quiet. When he finally speaks, it’s to utter one simple word: “Oh.”

I swallow. “So, that’s that.” I throw the doily over my face and stare at the ceiling through its lacy holes.

We make a little more stilted conversation after that, but I’m antsy and need to do something with my hands, and Dad must sense it, because he lets me go.

I practically run to the garage to find something to do, and after an hour of zoning out to the precision of woodwork, my shoulders finally relax. And a half-hour after that, I’m sitting at the tiny kitchen table, staring at the tiny little button that’ll turn my new website on.

With a click, it’s on, and I exhale, shaking my hands to expel the nervous energy that’s built right back up. But I keep going, navigating over to Instagram to make my first post with shots of Anthony’s pool table, then scheduling reels that show my progression on it, to demonstrate how I work.

What I learned while making the pool table is how hard it is to take something as well-known as a pool table and create something new. That level of creativity and problem-solving was new for me, and Ilovedit. It felt purposeful. As though engaging in the creation of something beautiful was worthwhile. Worthy of my time. And by extension, it mademefeel worthy. Something that I didn’t know I was even looking for.

I thought I was perfectly content working at the hardware store and moonlighting as a carpenter, but renovating Anthony’s loft and making that pool table was nothing short of revolutionary for me. I’ll always be a carpenter, and I’ll always help Dad when he needs it—but this, officially opening myself up to custom orders from people around the world and not relying on the few orders I’ve had by word of mouth?Thisis what I’m meant to do.

Speaking of Anthony.

With a grin, I take a shower and head his way.

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