Page 22 of Heartwood and Hardware
I nod, unpacking my tools with mechanical efficiency. The bear sculpture from yesterday needs finishing—I still have demonstrations scheduled, obligations to fulfill.
Parker studies me for a moment. "You really like her, don't you?"
The question catches me off guard with its simplicity. Do I like Riley? The word seems inadequate for what I felt yesterday—the instant recognition, the ease of our conversation, the sense that I'd found someone who spoke my language.
"Yeah," I finally say. "I do."
"Then fight for her." Parker's usual bravado returns. "The Dean Evans I know doesn't give up easily."
"She asked for space."
"So give her space. But make sure she knows the truth first." He gestures to my phone. "One more try. What have you got to lose?"
He's right. I've already lost the connection we were building. What's one more attempt to salvage it?
I pull out my phone, considering what to say. Riley values directness, honesty. No games, no manipulation. Just truth.
Taking a deep breath, I type:
Dean
Riley, I understand if you never want to speak to me again. But before you make that decision, please know this: I had no idea about any matchmaking plan. Parker referred me to Zaftig without telling me. I never knew our meeting was arranged. Everything that happened between us, every conversation, every shared moment, was real. At least for me.
I've never connected with anyone the way I connected with you yesterday. The ease of our conversation, the way you understood things about me that most people miss, the comfort I felt in your presence—none of that was manufactured or forced.
I carved that fox for you because something about you called to me. I carved the heart because seeing you understand my work, my process, moved me in a way I can't fully explain.
If you want nothing more to do with me, I'll respect that. But please don't doubt the authenticity of what we shared. Whatever brought us together, what happened after was genuine.
I left something for you at the convention center lost and found. If you're willing, I'll be at my booth all day. If not, I understand.
I read it over once, twice, making sure it says exactly what I need to say. Then I hit send, watching the message status change to "delivered."
Whether she reads it or not is beyond my control now.
"Done?" Parker asks.
I nod, pocketing my phone. "Now we wait."
"And work," he reminds me, gesturing to our half-setup booths. "We've got demonstrations in an hour."
Right. Work. The familiar rhythm of preparation grounds me as I arrange my tools, position the bear for today's carving, set out smaller pieces for sale. The routine is comforting, even as my mind keeps circling back to Riley.
As the morning progresses, I go through the motions—greeting attendees, explaining my process, demonstrating techniques. My hands know what to do even when my heart isn't in it.
Between demonstrations, I check my phone. Still no response.
By mid-afternoon, resignation sets in. She's made her choice. I need to respect it.
I'm packing away tools after my final demonstration when Parker nudges me.
"Don't look now, but I think your fox came back."
My head snaps up, following his gaze to the edge of the demonstration area.
Riley stands there, clutching a small box—the one I left at lost and found. Her expression is guarded, uncertain, but she's here.
She came back.
