Page 114 of No Contest
We leaned against the workbench, shoulders touching, mugs cradled in both hands. The overhead lights hummed.
"I should work," I said. "Can't sit still."
"Yeah?" He watched me over the rim of his mug.
"Brain won't shut up." I set down my coffee. "You don't have to stay."
"I'm good. Work. I'll watch."
I moved to the cabinet Justin had finished installing. The trim needed final sanding and one more coat of finish. I grabbed my orbital sander and tested the weight.
The first pass was loud enough to kill conversation. I worked in sections, watching the wood change under my hands. Rough to smooth. Unfinished to complete.
My breathing evened out, and my shoulders relaxed.
I'd been doing this work since I was eighteen. Following the grain instead of fighting it. Finding the shape that was already there.
It was a key lesson from Dad.Work with the material, not against it.
The sander slipped. I jerked it back, barely avoiding gouging the trim.
Hog sipped the coffee. "You okay?"
"Yeah." That wasn't entirely true.
I grabbed a hand sanding block instead. Started working on a corner joint. Back and forth. Pressure and release.
"You don't have to watch this," I said.
"I know, but you get this look when you work. Like you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
I paused. "What kind of look?"
"Focused. Calm."
I set down the block and turned to look at the workbench—the main one. Dad's initials carved in the corner.
I'd almost sanded them out when I found them—nearly erased the evidence that he'd been here.
But I hadn't. I'd left them because I hadn't been ready to separate myself from his legacy.
I moved to the workbench and traced the carved letters.
"He carved those his first time here," I said. Hog moved closer, standing behind me. "Five years ago. Walked around for ten minutes, then pulled out his utility knife and marked the bench."
"What did he say?"
"'Good bones. You'll build something here.'" I kept tracing the letters. "I thought he meant the workshop, but he meant I'd build his business. Keep it going."
Hog didn't respond. He waited silently.
"She's right, you know. Mom. She said I stayed because they needed me instead of building something." The bitterness leaked through. "This isn't mine. It's just his work with my hands."
"That's bullshit."
Hog's brows furrowed.
"It's not—"
