“Hey, Archer?”

I set the book I’d been reading down on my lap. “Yes, Mallory?”

“Can I show you something?”

Mallory stood in the space between the dining room and the living room with his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, looking almost self-conscious.

“Of course,” I said, standing.

Most of the time, I still used the crutches to get around, but the doctor and my physiotherapist recommended walking when I could and stretching it regularly.

Unfortunately, the cast on my arm remained, along with the sling.

“Don’t worry, Archer,” the doctor had said. “It’s still healing, just a little slower, and we want to be careful so nothing heals improperly. Better to be safe than sorry.”

Slowly, I walked over to where Mallory stood. He watched me walk, staring at my bright blue socks and then looked to my eyes. Had he been anyone else, that look might’ve meant… something. Had he been anyone else, that look might not have made my body tingle like it had.

“So, what are you going to show me?” I asked.

Since the day of the first bereavement group, almost a week ago, Mallory and I had opened up to each other even more. I’d told him about my parents, and he’d told me about how he found solace in his craft.

“The workshop,” he said simply.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Almost daily, Mallory spent some time in his workshop. It was an unattached second garage on the side of the house that he’d converted. He’d told me once that it was where he felt most at peace in the world.

“Come on,” he said, tipping his head toward the back door.

We pulled on our boots and jackets—Mallory helping me with both—and stepped outside into the cold, late-afternoon air.

Even at this time of year, when it began to get dark early, the smallest shred of sunlight still managed to make the entire world look bright. It was the snow, Mallory told me. When there was so much of it, the sun reflected against it and made everything too bright.

There was a pre-formed pathway through the snow, thankfully, that led across the back deck, down the stairs, and around to the workshop on the side of the house.

He pushed the door open, let me inside, and closed it firmly behind us. When he flicked on the lights, I was completely floored by the number of things covering the space from floor almost to ceiling. There were clocks, tables in all sizes, chairs, lamps, and sculptures everywhere, all made of wood. Against the wall farthest from the door sat a large table with pieces of wood stacked next to it and an array of tools I didn’t recognize. In the corner sat a miter saw with a protective cover over top.

Mallory moved around me and walked to the corner, where he switched on an electric heater. It whirred to life, filling the room with a gentle purr.

“Wow,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah. It’s a mess.”

I walked over to a table he had leaning against the wall, flipped on its side. It was unfinished. Two of the legs were missing, but the wave pattern in the grain of the wood was so magnetizing, I reached out and ran my fingertips against the smooth wood.

“This is where I am most nights,” Mallory said.

“These are amazing.” I studied the fine details on a massive grandfather clock against the wall. The swirls in the finish, the smooth carving of the flourishes on the mantle.

“Thank you.”

“I’d hire you to make me something if I thought I could fit anything into my sardine-can room back at college.”

“You don’t have to hire me. I’ll make you anything you want, Archer.”

Without turning to face him, I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.

Sometimes, words meant nothing. Other times, they meant far, far too much.

From behind me, Mallory chuckled. I turned to look and saw him holding a framed picture.

“Danny,” he said by way of explanation.

I went to him, looked down at the picture, and then began chuckling. It was a photo of Danny when he was only about six years old, dressed up in a mouse costume, midway through tossing Halloween candy up into the air.

He set the picture back down on a small table, which was covered in stacks of paper, invoices, pencils, and folders. Next to it was another picture. Without thinking, I grabbed the frame and brought it closer to look at.

This was a picture of a woman, probably around twenty at the time, in jeans and a huge sweater, standing in front of a backdrop of a lake and beautiful, green mountains. Her hair was a little lighter than Danny’s but their smile was identical. Danny looked just like her.

“Sophia?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“She’s beautiful.”

He sighed. “Yes. She was.”

“Sorry.”

His smile was gentle. “Don’t be.”

I moved on to look at the next piece of furniture along the wall, a simple but perfectly crafted dining room chair with lovely fine details on the arms.

Mallory said, “I’m going to work a bit.”

“Do you mind if I stay?”

“You want to?”

“Yeah,” I replied, looking around. There were two massive windows on either side of the workshop, letting in the natural sunlight. “I like being here.”

“Well, then you’re welcome to stay. I’m not going to be using the electric saw for anything today, so I won’t make you wear goggles.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind anyway. I’m used to wearing protective eyewear.”

“Shooting range?”

“Yep.”

Without another word, Mallory sat down in the chair at his workbench. For the next thirty minutes, I took my time quietly picking up the things that were small enough and examining them or bending down to look at the fine detail and finishes of the furniture.

I hadn’t exaggerated when I said what Mallory created was amazing. Beautiful, intricate details that looked so perfect and yet imperfect at the same time. Everything was unique, even the items that belonged in sets, like two matching stools that were just different enough to make them more special.

Eventually, after I was sure I’d looked over every single thing in the workshop twice, I asked, “Do you mind if I sit on this chair for a while?”

Mallory looked at me over his shoulder, grin on his face. “Sitting? On a chair? Are you crazy?”

I flipped him off, and he winked at me and then continued on with his work. So I sat down on one of the finished dining chairs and leaned my weight against its backing. Mallory flicked on one of the desk lamps. I watched the calm, focused expression on his handsome face, the way he squinted and hunched a little more when working on some small detail of whatever he was carving, and how he continued to run his fingers along the smoothness of the wood, feeling for imperfections.

I watched him into the late hours of the night, my attention on Mallory being the only thing that kept me awake.

---

That was how I began to find myself, night after night, sitting in Mallory’s workshop. I watched him work, often in silence, sometimes with conversation.

One evening, Mallory said, “I’m headed to the store to pick up some things. Need anything?”

I stood in the hallway, looking at him. In one hand, he held his truck keys. The other hand was balled into a fist.

“No. Thanks.”

He smiled weakly, turned, and left.

I knew that Mallory was going to visit Sophia’s grave. He did it like clockwork, almost every two days, sometimes three. He always had that same look on his face before he went. But I couldn’t fault him for his grieving process. I was going through my own.

The moment the front door clicked shut behind him, the huge house immediately fell silent. The floorboards refused to creak beneath my feet, the wind from the late evening wouldn’t whistle against the glass of the windows. Even the natural aroma of the newly refurbished wood flooring didn’t smell at all like it usually did.

The house was dull without Mallory.

Or maybe it wasn’t the house that fell dull without Mallory.

Instead of dwelling on that thought, I grabbed my winter jacket from the coatrack in the front foyer and tossed it over my shoulders without zipping it up. Boots in hand, I walked to the back doorway, slipped on my footwear, and pulled the back door open.

The night was still early but the sky had drifted to darkness. Northern winter nights, Mallory told me. The sun set early and the nights lasted a lifetime.

Shoulders up, head down against my collar, I trudged through the fresh snow to Mallory’s workshop. He never kept it locked. He said anyone ballsy enough to find their way through the wilderness to his house and then navigate around the snow piles deserved to make off with his furniture.

I pushed the door closed behind me and flipped on the light. That sweet sawdust smell immediately made me feel a sense of… something. The workshop was still a bit heated from when Mallory worked earlier and I’d been inside napping. After turning on the electric heater in the corner, something caught my eye.

In the corner, where normally there was a dining room chair, was now one of the larger chairs from the house—the chair I thought of as my reading chair. Which was obviously nuts because absolutely nothing in that house belonged to me besides the few clothes I kept.

But there it was, tucked into the corner, all the sawdust swept out from under it, with a knitted off-white blanket folded on its seat.

I put my hand to my mouth, closed my eyes, and tried—desperately—to remember the control I felt with a hunting rifle in my hands. The smooth feel of the trigger against my fingertip. The weight of it in my hands. My gaze fixed on the crosshairs at the back end of the scope.

But there was no certainty in that memory. There was only here and now and that chair I thought of as my own in this space where Mallory told me he found peace.

So, with no other thought in mind, I crawled into the chair, rested my head against its backing, and closed my eyes.

---

“Archer.”

A hand rested against the side of my neck. It was warm and rough, and I leaned into it and felt my lips lift at the corners.

“Hey,” the voice said again.

I opened my eyes and looked up, meeting Mallory’s gaze.

“Hey,” I replied, my voice hoarse from sleep.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “But it’s going to get cold out tonight, and I don’t want you to get sick out here.”

“It’s fine.” Standing, I stretched and then rolled my shoulders. “Was I asleep long?”

He had a strange smile on his face. “Not sure. I came home and the house was empty. Couldn’t find you anywhere. So I came out here and there you were, sleeping in your chair.”

Self-consciously, I scratched the back of my neck. “Yeah. I don’t know. The house seemed too quiet or something.”

“I get it.” His smile was easy and warm. “I think tonight’s a whiskey kinda night. Want to sit on the back deck with me and stargaze?”

“Thought you’d never ask, Patel.”

I followed Mallory out of the workshop after he turned off the electric heater and flicked off the lights. He kept the deck shoveled all the time and the portable fire pit constantly remained in the same spot in front of the three chairs, which pointed out toward the thickness of trees.

He went inside to grab the whiskey but left me to ignite the small fire while he was gone.

“Here,” he said, handing me a half-full glass.

I lifted it in cheers, watching as he sat in the chair beside me. We shared a few companionable moments of silence listening to the wind in the distance and the snow falling from the pine trees and hitting the ground.

“This is different from the last time, huh?” I asked smartly, immediately regretting it.

Mallory turned to face me. “Archer.”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to know something.”

“Then tell me something.”

“If I could get my hands on those idiots who did this to you…” But he didn’t finish the thought out loud. Instead, he inhaled heavily and closed his eyes.

For the first time in what felt to be a lifetime, I thought of the young man I’d been with in that dark alley. I barely even remembered his name.

“Aren’t you lonely, Mallory?”

“Less so now that you’re around.”

I pressed the rim of the glass against my lips and tipped it back, relishing the warmth that tickled its way down my throat. “Not like that. I mean… lonely.”

“Ah.”

“I am.”

He sighed heavily. “Yeah. You ever had a boyfriend?”

I snorted. “No.”

“Girlfriend?”

I threw him a look and he shrugged.

I asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Even the question makes me feel a million years old. No.”

“Boyfriend, then?”

This time, he gave me a look. “Nope.”

“Never?”

“No, Archer.”

Unable to meet his gaze, I looked up into the stars, thankful for their presence and way of distraction from explanation.

“I met Sophia when we were young,” he said softly. “Just kids, really. High school. First saw her when I was in grade ten. Fell in love right then, right there. Never wanted anyone else. Not like that. She was my whole world until Danny came along.”

“Still too raw to try dating again?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. It just hasn’t felt like that in a long time. I fell in love when I was so young. I still loved her her entire life, but it was different. Everything feels different now.”

“It must’ve been nice, though. Having her while you did.”

“You ever been in love?”

“No,” I answered immediately, drinking a long sip of whiskey. “Not even close.”

“Really?”

“Do you think some people only have a certain amount of love inside of them? Or a certain amount of fucks to give? Because I do. And I think I’ve reached my quota.”

“You’re too young to be so cynical. You’ll find love, Archer. There’s no limit for things like that.”

“So I’m told.”

“You’re young. And you’re interesting—which is saying enough since I don’t think most people develop a personality until their thirties.” I grinned at his joke and even he had a hard time keeping a straight face. “And you’re a nice person. Calm. Calming, if a little private. And it helps that you look… the way you do.”

This had my attention. Our eyes met, my eyebrows rose. He laughed. It sounded strained.

“Don’t look at me that way,” he said. “You already know.”

It had to be something in the whiskey that refused to tell my mouth to keep shut the thoughts my mind held sacred.

“Tell me how I look, Mallory.”

I’d said it surely, without hesitation, my voice calm and even.

He said nothing. Just looked at me.

As resolute and stern as the mountains, Mallory.

And just as silent.

But I didn’t look away, and neither did he.

Maybe if this universe of ours was different. Maybe if everything was different and the sky was the ocean and the clouds were the soil. Maybe if life hadn’t engrained me with apprehension or uncertainty or a longing for some things I obviously could not have.

Maybe then, we would’ve had words for each other.