Page 21 of Heartwood and Hardware
Like the one at the convention. The one Riley watched me carve with such genuine interest.
I set down my knife, the magnitude of what I've lost hitting me all at once. One day. Just one day with her, and already the workshop feels emptier without her curious questions, her insightful observations, her laugh that seemed to surprise her every time.
My phone sits silent on the bench. No response from Riley.
I pick it up, staring at our last exchange. I need to try one more time. Not to pressure her, but to make sure she knows the truth.
I type carefully, then delete it all. Start again. Delete again.
How do I explain that while our meeting may have been arranged, everything that followed was real? That I've never connected with anyone the way I connected with her? That the thought of her believing I deceived her is unbearable?
Finally, I type:
Dean
Riley, I just learned about Zaftig from Parker. I swear I had no idea our meeting was arranged. Parker mentioned me to them without my knowledge. I understand if you need space, but please know that everything between us—every conversation, every shared moment—was genuine. At least on my side. The connection I felt with you was real. No matchmaking agency could manufacture that.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then set the phone down. She'll respond when she's ready. If she's ready.
By the time I finish the bear, it's nearly midnight. It sits on my workbench beside the fox, two creatures caught in a moment of connection.
My phone remains silent.
One more try, I decide. One more message, and then I'll respect her silence.
I pick up the fox and bear, positioning them together on a small piece of wood. The fox looks up at the bear, the bear gazes down at the fox—different species finding unexpected common ground.
I take a photo and attach it to a new message.
Dean
I made these tonight, thinking of you. The fox isn't alone anymore. Neither is the bear. Whatever happens, thank you for today. It meant more than I can say.
After sending it, I place the carvings in a small box with a note explaining their significance. Tomorrow, I'll drop it at the convention center's lost and found. If Riley returns for the second day, maybe she'll find it. Maybe she'll understand what I'm trying to say.
Or maybe not. Maybe this connection, so promising and unexpected, was over before it truly began.
The thought sits heavy in my chest as I clean my tools and prepare for bed. Tomorrow, I'll have to return to the convention, set up my booth again, go through the motions of demonstrating and selling my work.
But tonight, I allow myself to feel the loss of something precious—a connection I didn't know I was looking for until I found it.
And lost it.
Morning comes too early, sunlight filtering through my workshop windows. I've slept poorly, dreams filled with fragments of yesterday: Riley's laugh, her focused expression as she helped with my payment app, the way her eyes lit up when she understood my explanation of wood grain.
I check my phone immediately. Still no response.
Sighing, I shower and dress, packing the small box with the fox and bear carvings. Even if Riley never sees them, I need to try. Need to make one last effort to reach her, to explain.
The convention center is already bustling when I arrive. I drop the box at lost and found, providing Riley's name and a brief description. The attendant promises to keep it safe, giving me a sympathetic look that suggests she understands more than I've explained.
Parker is already setting up his booth when I reach our area. He looks up warily as I approach.
"You still speaking to me?"
"Barely," I reply, but there's no real heat in it. My anger has faded overnight, replaced by a dull resignation. "Any sign of her?"
He shakes his head. "Sorry, man."
