For the first hour they spoke only about wood.
Then Peter said, “Michael was supposed to help me refinish this.”
Adam stopped sanding.
“He told me.”
“He probably told you I was doing it wrong.”
“He definitely did.”
Peter snorted.
They worked another ten minutes.
“I spent months thinking there had to be a moment where if somebody had made a different choice, he would still be here,” Peter said. “Then you gave me one.”
Adam put the sandpaper down.
“I gave myself the same one.”
“I know.”
Peter ran his thumb along the edge of the bench. “That’s why I was cruel. Not because I believed you wanted him hurt. Because I needed the line to stop somewhere, and you were standing in front of me.”
Adam looked at the unfinished wood.
“Sometimes I wish you were right.”
Peter frowned.
“If it was my fault in a simple way, then I could spend my life paying for it. That’s easier than accepting there isn’t a payment that brings him back.”
Peter sat on a stool.
For a long time, neither man worked.
Then Peter said, “He would hate both of us right now.”
Adam let out a breath that became a laugh before he could stop it.
“He’d charge us for wasting Saturday.”
“And eat the good snacks while we were talking.”
That afternoon Mrs. Callahan brought sandwiches to the garage. On the tray was a packet of the same cheap cookies Michael had guarded in the photograph.
She placed them between the men without comment.
Peter opened the packet.
He handed the first cookie to Adam.
Adam almost refused. The instinct rose automatically: do not take what belonged to Michael, do not accept what grief offers, do not enjoy anything that might imply permission.
Then he remembered the letter.
He took it.
