He Gave Her The Best So I Left Him With Nothing Chapter 11
The wind in Santa Fe was dry and warm, carrying the scent of pine and sun-baked earth.
In the small courtyard of the casita I was renting, I was restoring an old Spanish Colonial chair. The rasp of sandpaper on wood was a steady, grounding sound. I loved the certainty of it: apply the right pressure, and the wood grew smoother. People weren’t like that. You could never be sure what lay in their hearts.
I had always been good at this kind of work. But for years, to seem more ambitious to my family, I had tried to be more like Marguerite, forcing myself into a life that never fit.
Now, I could finally just be myself.
I listed a few of my restored pieces online. Before long, kind comments and custom requests began trickling in.
Then, yesterday, a local interior designer with a sizable following shared one of my small cabinets on her Instagram. My phone nearly melted from the flood of orders and new followers.
Are you still taking commissions?
I’m willing to wait.
I stared at the messages on my screen, then thought of the “dull and boring” girl my parents and Cormac had always described. A sudden sting pricked my eyes.
There were people out there willing to spend money, spend time, just to wait for my work.
Maybe I wasn’t as worthless as they had always said I was.
