Page 152 of My Only

My lips curled into a small, tired smile as I drove along the freshly paved wet roads, glimpsing the sidewalks, the parks, and the first completed neighborhoods.

The rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles and a shimmer of dew on trees and partially built homes.

Even with only the builders present, their machinery humming in the air as they worked, the place already felt alive.

The scent of wood, dust, and progress filled my lungs.

Damn, it felt good seeing the vision come to life.

This all started from a doodle in my sketchbook.

I’d visited the area when we broke ground but hadn’t been back since. Returning now felt necessary.

I drove past the parks, the lakefront boardwalk, and a newly developed biking trail, caution tape still wrapped around it.

The houses under construction gave a glimpse of what the village would soon become.

I had a front-row seat to history.

I pulled up to a section of land facing the lake, put the car in park, and just sat there, staring out in front of me.

When I first landed this job and learned about the custom home lot program, I didn’t hesitate to sign up.

When I got the green light, I purchased the land by the lake, envisioning a summer home modeled after the villa Ayla and I stayed in during our honeymoon in Saint Lucia.

For months, I’d been sketching, refining ideas, planning to surprise her.

A dream retreat, right here in New York. A place where we could escape every summer.

I unhooked my seatbelt, grabbed my sketchbook off the passenger seat, and stepped out of my car.

The bottoms of my sneakers pressed into uneven dirt and scattered rocks as I made my way toward the land that was supposed to be ours.

I kneeled, laid the sketchbook down on the damp soil, and flattened my palm against the earth.

Feeling the weight of everything settle into my bones.

What if I’d already lost her?

My chest ached at the thought.

I closed my eyes, pressed my hand deeper into the soil, and prayed.

I’d never really prayed before, but kneeling there—in that moment—it just felt like the right thing to do.

“Dear God,” I whispered. “Please, let me fix this. Let me heal things with Ayla in time for us to enjoy this place together. Please.”

I stayed there, eyes closed, feeling the cool wind sweep across my face, feeling my eyes burn with unshed tears, and hoping God would answer me.

By the time I returned home that night, it was after 8 p.m.

I’d spent hours in Greene Gardens, walking the village, feeling the energy of something great coming to life.

Bryant was right. We’d made serious headway.

Sitting in an office, reviewing project timelines, wasn’t the same as seeing the progress with my own eyes.

The parks were complete. The homes were rising. Business spaces were forming.

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