Chapter 1 - The Question at the Window
The question hung between us like the low rumble of a jet engine taking off into the rain.
Emma stared at me over the rim of her cardboard cup, her dark eyes reflecting the amber runway lights.
"Are you happy, Ryan?"
I leaned back against the faux-leather booth, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Define happy," I said, trying to summon that easy, sarcastic smirk that had protected my dignity since college. "My carpentry business finally cleared its first debt-free quarter. My dog hasn't chewed through drywall in six months. And your brother hasn't managed to set my workshop on fire since August."
Emma didn't laugh. She set her cup down on the small circular table, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the laminate surface.
"I didn't ask about your balance sheet, Ryan. I asked about you."
There it was again. That quiet, stubborn perception that stripped away every joke I had ever used as armor.
I looked at her hands, drowning inside the sleeves of my oversized canvas jacket.
"I wake up at five. I build custom oak cabinets for people who have more money than taste. I drink bad coffee, watch the evening news, and sleep six hours." I paused, meeting her gaze squarely. "It’s a functional life."
"Functional isn't happy."
"It's safe."
"Since when did Ryan Cole care about being safe?" Emma challenged, tilting her head. "You're the guy who climbed the water tower on senior skip day to paint a graduation date on the tank."
"I was eighteen and immortal," I replied softly. "Life has a way of taking a hammer to that kind of arrogance."
A shadow crossed her face, and I immediately cursed myself.
She knew exactly what hammer I was talking about. Five years ago, when the cancer took my mother in less than four months, my entire world had dissolved into sterile hospital corridors, funeral arrangements, and an empty house in Batavia that felt too big to breathe in.
During those months, Daniel had done what twenty-three-year-old boys did: he bought me beer, dragged me to basketball games, and pretended everything was going to be fine.
Emma was the only one who didn't pretend.
She had come over every Tuesday night with aTupperware container of beef stew, sat on my back porch steps in absolute silence, and handed me paper towels when the crying started.
She had never asked me to be strong.
And when she packed her Honda Civic and moved to Chicago six months later, half of my heart had driven away down Interstate 65 with her.
"Ryan," she began, her voice barely a whisper against the hum of the terminal.
Before she could finish, a loud, booming voice cut through the café.
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"There they are! The two most miserable people in Northern Kentucky!"
Daniel Carter jogged toward our table, shaking off his wet raincoat like a golden retriever, his goofy, familiar grin plastered across his face.
