Chapter 137 What We Build

Chapter 137 What We Build
Chapter Thirty-Eight

Charlie

The garage smells like motor oil, old wood, and sawdust.

It’s a scent I’ve always associated with my father.

With childhood Saturdays spent sitting on an overturned bucket while Chase worked on something I barely understood. A broken cabinet hinge. A loose fence post. An engine part spread across the workbench in more pieces than I believed could ever fit back together.

I used to call it helping.

In reality, I mostly got in the way.

I handed him the wrong wrench, lost screws in impossible places, and complained whenever holding the flashlight made my arm tired. Once, when I was eight, I dropped an entire container of nails into the grass and spent the rest of the afternoon crawling around with a magnet while Dad pretended not to be annoyed.

He never sent me inside.

That’s the part I remember most.

No matter how much I slowed him down, he always found something for me to do. He explained what each tool was for, showed me how to measure twice before cutting, and answered every question even when the answer should have been obvious.

Now I stand beside the same scarred workbench, older but not necessarily more useful, running my hand along the curved arm of an antique rocking chair.

The chair belonged to my grandmother.

Dad found it in the back of the garage beneath a faded sheet and three boxes of holiday decorations. The wood is solid, but the finish has dulled with age. One of the rockers is scratched, the joints are loose, and the seat creaks whenever I put pressure on it.

It’s worn.

Still, it’s beautiful.

The back is made of narrow wooden slats, each one curved slightly from years of use. The arms are smooth in places where countless hands have rested. There is a shallow dent near the right side, and Dad says it’s been there since before he was born.

He suggested restoring it for the baby’s room.

Not buying something new.

Not replacing it with a modern chair that swivels, reclines, heats up, and probably connects to a phone.

Restoring this one.

A piece of family history for the next generation.

The idea struck me harder than I expected.

So here we are.

Dad braces the chair against his knee and examines a stubborn joint near the arm.

“Pass me the medium sandpaper.”

I look at the stack beside me.

There are three different sheets.

They all look like sandpaper.

“Which one is medium?”

He glances up. “The one in the middle.”

“That feels intentionally unhelpful.”

“It’s literally in the middle of the stack.”

I lift it. “This?”

“Yes.”

I hand it over. “You could label them.”

“They are labeled.”

I turn one of the sheets over.

A number is printed in the corner.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

I stare at him.

His mouth twitches.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Mom.”

“I was funny before I met Liam.”

“That sounds unlikely.”

Dad snorts and returns to the chair.

He works with practiced efficiency, wrapping the sandpaper around two fingers and smoothing the edge where old finish has begun to flake. I watch the movement, the steady pressure, the way he knows exactly how much force to use without damaging the wood.

I imitate him on the opposite arm.

My technique is less graceful.

Sawdust collects beneath my fingers.

For a while, we work in silence.

It’s not an awkward silence.

We’ve never needed to fill every quiet space.

A radio plays softly from the shelf near the garage door, some old song Dad knows well enough to hum without realizing it. Outside, summer sunlight spills across the driveway. The garage door is open halfway, letting in hot air scented with damp grass and blooming flowers.

Dad tightens one of the screws beneath the seat.

I sand another rough patch.

The rhythm becomes easy.

Sand.

Wipe.

Check the joint.

Replace a screw.

Test the rocker.

Again.

“How’s the crib coming?” Dad asks after a while.

I keep my attention on the chair.

“Assembled.”

He pauses. “Successfully?”

“It’s standing.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It has four sides.”

“Charlie.”

“It’s fine.”

Dad looks at me.

I sigh. “There were two screws left over.”

His eyebrows lift.

“But Cade made me take it apart and do it again.”

“Smart man.”

“I’d already spent four hours on it.”

“Then you had practice.”

“You’re both cruel.”

“Is it safe now?”

“Yes.”

“No extra screws?”

“One.”

Dad’s expression changes.

“Kidding.”

He shakes his head and returns to the loose joint.

“Cade has already started decorating the room,” I continue. “Nothing major yet. He keeps moving the furniture around and claiming he’s testing the flow.”

“Is he nesting?”

“He says no.”

“So yes.”

“Definitely.”

I smile as I picture the room.

What used to be a plain guest room is slowly transforming. Cade picked a soft green for the walls, something warm and calm without feeling too childish. The crib sits near the far wall, safely assembled after my second attempt. A small dresser stands beside it, its drawers already filled with clothes so tiny I still struggle to believe an actual person will wear them.

Yesterday, I found Cade sitting in the middle of the floor, sorting socks by size.

He claimed it was practical.

There were only twelve pairs.

It took him forty minutes.

Dad nods, a small smile appearing.

“Your mom is in heaven.”

“That is an understatement.”

“He’s been planning the baby shower since the moment he found out you were having a boy.”

“He sent me five theme ideas before breakfast.”

“Only five?”

“He narrowed them down.”

Dad laughs.

The latest suggestions include woodland animals, clouds and stars, spring gardens, storybooks, and something Liam called “timeless celestial elegance,” which appears to involve an alarming amount of gold.

“I think he’s more excited than we are,” I say.

“Impossible.”

Dad sets the sandpaper down and reaches for an old rag. He wipes the dust from his hands, then runs the cloth along the chair’s arm to inspect the grain beneath.

“No one could be more excited than you two.”

I glance toward him.

His tone is casual, but something in his expression has shifted.

Thoughtful.

Observant.

The way he looked at me the night we told everyone about the baby.

He picks up a screwdriver and turns it in his hand without using it.

“You know,” he says, “when you were younger, I wasn’t always sure how things would turn out.”

My shoulders tense automatically. “Oh?”

Dad looks at me.

I wait for the lecture.

It wouldn’t be entirely undeserved.

I was never the focused one growing up.

Lottie always seemed to know what she wanted. Even when her plans changed, she moved toward them with absolute confidence. I moved sideways. I tried things, lost interest, changed direction, and pretended it was intentional.

After college, the drifting became harder to ignore.

Jobs that went nowhere.

Ideas I never finished.

Plans I talked about but didn't act on.

I told everyone I was keeping my options open.

The truth was that I had no idea what I wanted.

Dad rests the screwdriver on the workbench.

“You had a good heart,” he continues. “You always did.”

I smile faintly. “That sounds like something people say before listing everything wrong with someone.”

“It isn’t.”

“But?”

“But you were unfocused.”

“There it is.”

“You were.”

“I know.”

He leans against the workbench.

“You moved through life like you were waiting for something to happen to you.”

The words land with uncomfortable accuracy.

I look down at the chair.

“I worried you would never find something that mattered enough to make you stay still,” he says.

“That sounds harsh.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“No, I know.”

I run my thumb over a scratch in the wood.

The truth isn’t cruel just because it’s difficult to hear.

Dad’s right.

I kept moving because standing still required making choices. Choices meant closing doors, and I was terrified of choosing the wrong one.

If I never committed, I could never fail.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

“But then something changed,” Dad says.

I glance up.

His eyes meet mine.

“And I think it was Cade.”

My throat tightens. “Dad—”

“No. Let me finish.”

His interruption is gentle.

Not dismissive.

He folds the rag and places it beside the screwdriver.

“I watched you with him before you understood what was happening.”

I look away, suddenly too aware of the sawdust coating my hands.

“The way you paid attention when he spoke,” Dad continues. “The way you noticed when he was tired. You started showing up differently.”

“I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

“That was the point.”

He smiles slightly.

“It wasn’t for attention. You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You cared about him, and caring about him made you more aware of everything around you.”

I swallow.

Dad looks toward the rocking chair.

“You became dependable.”

“That might be overstating it.”

“You rebuilt the crib instead of pretending the extra screws didn’t matter.”

“Cade threatened to inspect it.”

“You rebuilt it.”

I can’t argue with that.

“You started thinking beyond next week,” Dad says. “Beyond yourself.”

His gaze returns to mine. “That’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

I already have an idea.

Still, I need to hear him say it.

“That you had grown up.”

The garage goes quiet.

Even the radio seems too far away to matter.

Dad’s expression softens.

“That you had become the man I always knew you could be. Responsible. Caring. Devoted.”

Emotion rises so quickly that I don’t have time to defend against it.

I blink hard and look toward the open garage door.

The driveway blurs.

“I’m trying,” I say.

My voice comes out rough.

Dad steps closer and rests one hand on my shoulder.

“You’re succeeding.”

I laugh once, though there is no humor in it.

“You should see me when Cade asks what I want for dinner.”

“That has nothing to do with being an adult.”

“It feels like a test.”

“Everything feels like a test when you’re afraid of getting it wrong.”

I look at him.

He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze.

“This baby,” he says. “This family you’re building. That’s the proof.”

The word building draws my attention back to the chair.

Old wood.

Loose joints.

Worn finish.

Something worth repairing carefully rather than replacing.

“You’re not drifting anymore,” Dad continues. “You’re creating something. Something real.”

I look down at my hands.

There is dust under my nails and a small cut near my thumb from catching it against a rough edge. The skin along my palms has grown harder lately from assembling furniture, painting walls, carrying boxes, and trying to learn how to fix things I once would have ignored.

Calluses.

Not many.

Enough to notice.

“I never thought I’d be here,” I admit.

Dad doesn’t interrupt.

“I thought I’d have more time.”

“For what?”

“To figure myself out.”

“That’s what time is for.”

“I thought I’d know more before becoming a father.”

Dad smiles. “No one knows enough.”

“That isn’t comforting.”

“It’s true.”

I shake my head.

“I keep thinking there’s something I should be doing. Reading another book. Taking another class. Buying some piece of equipment we forgot.”

“There will always be something you forgot.”

“Again, not comforting.”

“The baby will not care whether you bought the correct brand of bottle warmer.”

“We didn’t buy a bottle warmer.”

“Exactly.”

My stomach drops. “Do we need one?”

Dad laughs. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we survived without one.”

“That was decades ago.”

“We also survived without an app that tracks diaper changes.”

“There are apps for that?”

“Probably.”

I pull out my phone.

Dad takes it from my hand and places it on the workbench.

“Stop.”

“What if we need it?”

“You don’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Charlie.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

He studies me. “You’re scared.”

It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

The admission comes easier than I expect.

I’m terrified.

Not all the time.

Some mornings, excitement is the first thing I feel. I wake before Cade and lie beside him with my hand resting over the curve of his stomach, imagining the life growing there.

Other mornings, fear arrives first.

Fear that something will go wrong.

Fear that I’ll fail.

Fear that one day my son will look at me and understand that his father has been improvising from the beginning.

“I’m happy,” I say. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

Dad waits.

“And that makes it worse sometimes.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because now I know what I could lose.”

The words settle between us.

Dad’s hand remains on my shoulder.

“I never expected this,” I continue. “Any of it. Cade. The baby. A home that actually feels like mine. I didn’t think I wanted to settle down because I didn’t understand what settling down could feel like.”

“What does it feel like?”

I think about Cade humming in the kitchen.

Jordan shouting down the hallway because someone used his charger.

Tiny clothes folded in the nursery.

Cinnamon and vanilla woven through the blankets.

Someone waiting for me when I come home.

“Like I finally stopped running,” I say.

Dad smiles.

It’s small but full of pride.

“You deserve that.”

“I’m not sure I earned it.”

“Happiness is not something you earn.”

“Cade says things like that.”

“Smart man.”

“He’ll be unbearable if you keep agreeing with him.”

“You’ll survive.”

Dad removes his hand from my shoulder and looks toward the house.

Through the garage wall, I can faintly hear movement from the kitchen. Cade and Jordan are probably finishing dinner. Liam has been inside with them, claiming he needed to make sure they were eating properly.

In reality, he wanted access to Cade’s kitchen and complete control of the menu.

Dad’s expression grows distant.

“I wasn’t always the father I wanted to be.”

I frown. “You were a good dad.”

“I tried.”

“You were.”

He lifts one shoulder.

“I worked too much.”

“You were providing.”

“That’s what I told myself.”

He picks up the rag again but does not use it.

“I thought being a father meant making sure there was food in the house, keeping the lights on, fixing what broke.”

“That matters.”

“It does.”

His eyes move toward the rocking chair.

“But it isn’t everything.”

I stay quiet.

Dad rarely talks about himself this way.

He’s always been steady. Practical. The person everyone else leans on when something goes wrong.

Hearing uncertainty in his voice feels strange.

Not frightening.

Human.

“I was so focused on being strong that I forgot children need to see more than strength,” he says.

I think back to childhood weekends in this garage.

His patience.

The way he always found something for me to do.

“You showed up.”

“Most of the time.”

“All the time that mattered.”

He looks at me.

“You don’t have to protect my feelings.”

“I’m not.”

I set the sandpaper down.

“You taught me how to fix things. You came to every game, even when I barely played. You let me sit out here for hours asking questions while you tried to work.”

“You asked an impressive number of questions.”

“I was curious.”

“You asked why the same screw had two different names.”

“It was confusing.”

“You also asked whether a hammer could get tired.”

“That was a valid scientific question.”

Dad laughs.

The heaviness between us loosens.

“You were a good father,” I repeat. “You still are.”

He nods slowly. “Thank you.”

Then he looks at me with an expression I cannot immediately read.

“But you’re going to be better.”

The words catch me off guard.

“Dad.”

“I mean it.”

He turns fully toward me.

“You already understand things I had to learn the hard way. You listen. You apologize when you’re wrong.”

“Eventually.”

“You let people see when you’re afraid.”

“Not everyone.”

“The people who matter.”

I look toward the house.

He’s right.

Cade has seen every fear I tried to hide.

Instead of using them against me, he holds them carefully.

“You don’t confuse love with control,” Dad says. “You don’t assume providing for someone means deciding everything for them.”

“That sounds specific.”

“It is.”

He rubs his thumb over a faint stain on the rag.

“I made mistakes.”

“So will I.”

“Yes.”

He looks at me.

“But you’ll learn from them.”

I breathe slowly through the pressure building in my chest.

“Thanks, Dad.”

His hand lands on my shoulder again.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

The emotion I have been holding back breaks through.

I lower my head, pretending to inspect the chair while blinking quickly.

Dad pretends not to notice.

That’s another kind of love.

Giving someone enough space to gather himself without making him feel alone.

“More than you’ll ever know,” he adds.

I clear my throat.

“I’m proud of you too.”

He looks surprised.

Then his expression softens.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You raised me.”

“Liam deserves most of the credit.”

“Probably.”

Dad gives me a shove.

I laugh and wipe my face with the back of my wrist.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

We return to the chair.

I hold one of the joints steady while Dad adds wood glue. He replaces a stripped screw, then shows me how to clamp the arm without putting too much pressure on the old frame.

This time, I pay closer attention.

Not because I’m afraid of getting it wrong.

Because I want to remember.

One day, my son might stand beside me in a garage.

He might hand me the wrong tool.

He might ask ridiculous questions.

I want to be patient.

I want him to know that helping doesn’t always mean being useful. Sometimes it means being present. Sometimes it means sharing time with someone until the task becomes secondary.

When the glue has set enough to move the chair, Dad places it upright.

“Try it.”

I grip the arms and lower myself carefully onto the seat.

The wood creaks.

We both freeze.

Nothing breaks.

I rock once.

Then again.

The movement is smooth.

Not perfect yet, but close.

“It works.”

“Of course it works.”

“You sounded nervous when it creaked.”

“I was assessing.”

“You were preparing to blame me.”

“That too.”

I run my palm over the newly sanded arm.

The wood is lighter where we removed the old finish. Beneath years of scratches and dull varnish, the grain has reappeared, warm and detailed.

It feels new.

Not erased.

The marks are still there.

Some are too deep to sand away without damaging the chair.

Dad says we should leave them.

They are part of its history.

Tomorrow, we’ll stain it. After that, seal it and add new cushions. Liam has already chosen the fabric, though he claims everyone had input.

Soon, it will sit in the nursery.

Cade will rock our son in it.

Maybe I will too, late at night when the house is quiet, and everyone else is asleep.

The thought fills me with such sudden tenderness that I grip the armrest more tightly.

Dad watches me.

“You can see it, can’t you?”

“See what?”

“The future.”

I look down at the chair.

“Yeah.”

It’s clearer than it has ever been.

Not perfect.

Not certain.

Real.

Cade standing in the nursery doorway with sleep-mussed hair.

Our son tucked against my chest.

Jordan leaning over the crib, pretending not to be emotional.

Liam arriving with enough food to feed an entire neighborhood.

Lottie giving advice no one asked for.

Dad sitting in this chair years from now, telling my child embarrassing stories about me.

“I can,” I say.

Dad nods. “Good.”

A knock sounds against the door leading into the house.

Liam steps into the garage, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

His gaze moves between us.

“Are you two planning to live out here?”

“We’re working,” Dad says.

“Dinner has been ready for ten minutes.”

“Why didn’t anyone call us?”

“I did.”

We exchange a glance.

Neither of us heard him.

Liam notices my face.

His expression changes immediately.

“Were you crying?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Dad says.

I glare at him. “Traitor.”

Liam steps closer and touches my cheek.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Chase?”

“We talked.”

Liam looks between us again.

His features soften with understanding. b“Oh.”

That single sound somehow contains everything.

He kisses my forehead.

“You smell like sawdust.”

“I’ve been sanding.”

“And motor oil.”

“That’s not me. It’s the garage.”

“Go wash your hands,” Liam says. “Cade’s waiting.”

The mention of Cade draws me toward the house more effectively than anything else could.

I stand and brush the dust from my clothes.

Dad covers the chair with a clean sheet.

“We’ll finish tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I know.”

The certainty in his voice warms me.

Before following Liam inside, I look back.

The rocking chair sits beneath the sheet, its outline familiar even when hidden.

Old.

Worn.

Strong enough to be restored.

We’re not making it new.

We’re caring for what already exists.

Strengthening weak places.

Smoothing what has become rough.

Preserving the marks that belong to its history.

Building doesn’t always mean starting from nothing.

Sometimes it means taking what life gives you and choosing to make it last.

I step into the house.

The scent of dinner replaces the garage’s motor oil and sawdust. Voices drift from the dining room. Jordan is arguing about something. Liam is telling him to sit down. Cade laughs, warm and familiar, and every part of me turns toward the sound.

He looks up when I enter.

His hand rests over the curve of his stomach.

Our son.

Our home.

The life I never expected and now can’t imagine losing.

“You’re covered in dust,” He says.

“Apparently that’s what happens when you sand wood.”

“I thought you were supposed to sand the chair.”

“Very funny.”

He smiles.

There’s an empty seat beside him.

My seat.

I cross the room and sit down, pressing a quick kiss to his temple before reaching beneath the table for his hand.

His fingers lace through mine without hesitation.

I think about what Dad said.

I’m not drifting anymore.

Maybe I’m still learning.

Maybe I’ll always be learning.

But for the first time, not knowing everything doesn’t feel like failure.

It feels like possibility.

Like an unfinished nursery.

Like an old rocking chair waiting for stain.

Like a child I haven’t met but already love.

I squeeze Cade’s hand.

He looks at me. “You okay?”

I glance toward the garage.

Then back at the family gathered around the table.

“Yeah.”

The answer settles easily inside me.

“I’m good.”

And for once, I don’t mean that I am managing.

I mean I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.