Page 67 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Right.” Jack settles against the counter, dollhouse hardware forgotten. “So Grayson’s got his motorcycle out for therapeutic purposes, Brett’s volunteering for carpentry projects that somehow require multiple trips, and I’m here trying to engineer working plumbing for a dollhouse because my stepdaughter believes mermaid houses need functional bathrooms. Anyone see a pattern?”
“Coincidence,” I say.
“Necessity,” Brett adds. “The shelves are structurally required.”
Jack and Brett exchange a look that carries the weight of shared experience. These are men who’ve been through whatever emotional chaos I’m currently experiencing and came out the other side with contentment.
“You know what your problem is?” Jack asks, picking up the measuring tape and tugging it absently. “You’re trying to engineer your way through feelings. Like love is a mechanical problem that needs the right tools and proper technique.”
“That’s not—” I start.
“It absolutely is,” Brett interrupts, and there’s gentle understanding in his voice. “I did the same thing. Thought if I could just build enough shelves and fix enough problems, Amber would see I was worth keeping around.”
“And?” I ask despite myself.
“Turns out women don’t need you to solve them or fix them or prove your professional competence,” Jack says, holding up two identical-looking miniature hinges. “They need you to show up and be honest about what you want.”
“What if I don’t know what I want?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
Jack’s expression softens. “Then you’re lying to yourself. Because from where I’m sitting, you know exactly what you want. You’re just scared to admit it because wanting something means you might not get it.”
My phone buzzes. Michelle’s name on the screen makes my pulse jump.
Michelle: Emergency at the shop. Espresso machine is making concerning noises. Any chance you could take a look?
I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Professional courtesy or transparent excuse to see her?
Jack reads my expression. “Emergency repair call?”
“Espresso machine malfunction.”
“On a Saturday evening. How convenient.” His grin is knowing. “You going?”
“It’s a legitimate mechanical problem.”
“I’m sure it is.” Brett’s voice carries patience. “Just like half the projects Amber comes up with that somehow require my specific expertise.”
Jack holds up the miniature hinges. “Just like Ellen needing a dollhouse with working plumbing.”
“That’s different. Restaurant equipment has specific safety requirements?—”
“Grayson.” Jack’s voice cuts through my protest with the authority of a man who’s successfully navigated these waters. “She asked you to come fix her espresso machine. You’re standing in my dad’s hardware store, holding a socket wrenchyou don’t actually need, because you’ve been riding around town trying to process feelings that don’t require mechanical intervention.”
“Your point?”
“My point is, stop overthinking it.” Brett leans against the counter, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of the man he must have been before he figured out how to be happy. “Go help her with the espresso machine. Stay for coffee. Talk to her like she’s a person you enjoy spending time with instead of a problem you need to solve.”
“What if I mess it up?”
“You will,” Jack says matter-of-factly, but his voice is kind. “Everyone does. The trick is messing it up honestly instead of messing it up while pretending you’re not interested.”
“Reassuring.”
“Better than spending the next month riding around the island in circles trying to convince yourself you don’t care,” Brett adds. “Trust me. That approach doesn’t work.”
The older man behind the counter clears his throat. “Boys, I’m closing in five minutes. You buying anything, or just using my store for group therapy?”
Jack grins at his father, pocketing the miniature hinges. “Dad, meet Grayson Reed. He’s having feelings about Michelle Lawson.”
