Page 23 of The Love Comeback
I resist the urge to offer to help with that as well. Instead, I nod toward a large, flat box leaning against the wall. “Is that ourvictim for the evening?”
“That’s the one.” She walks over to it and pats the box. “The instructions claim it’s a two-hour project, which in IKEA time, probably means a minimum of four hours.”
“Good thing I cleared my schedule,” I say, grabbing the box, careful not to bump into anything. The living room may be cluttered, but I can see touches of Ella everywhere—a framed photo of her and Colton on the mantel, a stack of math textbooks on the coffee table, a worn throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch. This place isn’t just a house; she’s making it a home.
“Nice neighborhood,” I comment as I lay the box flat on the floor. “Quiet.”
“That’s why I picked it,” she says, kneeling beside the box but keeping a careful distance from me. “Close to school, safe community, and the rent was … manageable.”
I catch the slight hitch in her voice, the careful way she phrases it. I’ve learned enough about Ella’s situation to know that finances must be tight. Single teacher raising her nephew on her own—I can do the math.
“Smart choice,” I say, not drawing attention to it. “Colton seems to be settling in well.”
“Better than I expected, honestly,” she admits. “But that’s partly thanks to you and the skating lessons.”
I wave away her gratitude as I open the box, but inwardly, her words warm me. “Happy to do it. That kid’s got natural talent.”
Working methodically,I group similar parts together, sort through the hardware, count screws and dowels, and make sure we have everything we need.
“You’re organized,” Ella observes, watching me from her position a few feet away.
I shrug, feeling strangely self-conscious. “Just how my brain works. I like to see what I’m working with before I start.”
“I remember,” she says softly, then clears her throat. “So, what’s first?”
I grab the instructions and quickly scan them. “First, we need to attach these side panels to the base. Can you hold this steady while I get the screws in?”
She nods and moves closer, kneeling across from me. The base piece sits between us like a divider as she holds it in place. I work the screws in one by one, hyper-aware of her presence just inches away. Her hands are smaller than I remember, and there’s a small scar across her right knuckle that I don’t recall.
“Where’d this come from?” I ask, nodding toward the scar, trying to keep the conversation light.
She glances down at her hand. “Oh, that? I broke up a fight between two seventh-graders a couple years ago. One of them had a pencil.”
“Seriously?” I look up, catching her eyes. “You broke up a fight?”
“I’m a teacher,” she says with a small laugh. “We do more than just equations.”
“Clearly,” I mutter, impressed. The Ella I knew in high school would have shied away from confrontation, especially physical confrontation. “So you’re basically a superhero, huh?”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight flush of her cheeks. “Hardly. Just doing my job.”
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the turning of screws and the occasional rustle of the instruction sheet the only sounds.
“Hand me that screwdriver?” I ask, pointing to the tool lying beside her knee. She reaches for it, and as she passes it to me, our fingers brush. It’s brief—the lightest of touches—but it’s like an electric current shooting up my arm. Her eyes meet mine for just a second before she quickly looks away, withdrawing her hand like she’s been burned.
“Thanks,” I mutter, trying to ignore the way my heart is suddenly hammering in my chest.Is it possible she felt that too?Or am I reading too much into a simple moment of contact?
“So,” she says, her pitch slightly higher than before, “how’s the season going? I heard you guys won against Philadelphia last night.”
“Yeah, it was a good game,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “Defense really stepped up, made my job easier.”
“Colton’s been watching your games while I grade papers,” she tells me. “He’s glued to the screen whenever the Glaciers are on.”
Pride swells in my chest, though I try not to show it. “He’s a good kid. Smart,too.”
“Too smart sometimes,” she agrees with a laugh. “Asks questions I don’t always have answers for.”
“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious, as I work on attaching the next panel.
