Evelyn’s workshop was a chaotic sanctuary, a cluttered haven of half-finished dreams and stubborn grit. The faint scent of sawdust clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of varnish and the earthy musk of old wood. Tools lay scattered across her workbench—chisels, sandpaper, and a hammer she swore was cursed because it always managed to nick her thumb. In the center of it all stood her latest obsession: a quirky wooden sculpture of a lopsided owl, its one eye comically larger than the other, as if it were winking at her failures.
“Damn it, Tommy, if you were here, you’d be laughing your fool head off at this sorry bird,” she muttered, her voice rough with years of barking orders and biting wit. She leaned over the sculpture, her silver-streaked auburn hair falling into her face as she carved a jagged feather with a steady, practiced hand. “You’d probably say it looks like me after one too many whiskeys. Cheeky bastard.”
She could almost hear his laugh—low and mischievous, the kind that used to rumble through her chest when he’d sneak up behind her in this very room, his hands sliding over her hips, his breath hot against her neck. “Oh, Evie, you’re a masterpiece, drunk or sober,” he’d tease, and she’d swat him away with a smirk, only to pull him back for more.
The radio on the shelf blared a cheesy love song, some saccharine crooner whining about endless devotion. Evelyn snorted, rolling her eyes as she flicked a wood shaving off her apron. “Listen to this drivel, Tommy. You’d have turned it off by now, wouldn’t you? Or worse, you’d sing along just to annoy me.” She chuckled, her voice softer now, tinged with a warmth she rarely let slip. “Bet you’d belt out every word, off-key as hell, just to see me squirm.”
Her hands stilled for a moment, the chisel hovering over the owl’s wing. The memory hit her hard—Tommy sprawled on her workshop floor, shirt unbuttoned, his lean, tattooed frame glistening with sweat after they’d tumbled into a pile of sawdust during one of their reckless, hungry trysts. He’d been thirty years her junior, all raw energy and devil-may-care charm, and she’d eaten it up like a woman starved. She hadn’t felt that alive in decades, not since her first marriage turned to ash and left her swearing off love for good. But Tommy? He’d cracked her open, made her feel like a wildfire instead of a smoldering ember.
“Damn you, boy,” she whispered, her throat tight. “You had no right to make me feel like that. No right at all.” Her fingers trembled, and she set the chisel down with a clatter, her steely resolve wavering. The workshop, once a place of fierce creation, felt suddenly too big, too empty. The radio’s love song faded into static, and the silence pressed against her like a weight.
She pushed herself up from the stool, her knees protesting with a groan she ignored. “Getting old, Evelyn,” she scolded herself, brushing sawdust off her jeans. “But not too old to kick your memory’s ass for leaving me like this.” Her lips twitched into a half-smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Later, in her bedroom, the chaos of the workshop gave way to a softer kind of clutter. Mismatched quilts draped over an ancient brass bed, and shelves sagged under the weight of books and trinkets—souvenirs of a life lived hard and unapologetically. On the nightstand sat a worn stuffed bear, its fur matted and one button eye hanging by a thread. Tommy’s bear. He’d left it behind after one of their last nights together, a silly thing he’d clung to since childhood, a secret he’d only shared with her. “Don’t laugh, Evie,” he’d said, grinning as he tucked it under her pillow. “He’s my good luck charm. Keeps the nightmares away.”
She’d laughed anyway, of course. “What kind of grown man needs a teddy, huh? You’re lucky I don’t toss it out with the trash.” But she’d kept it, hadn’t she? Even after he was gone, taken too soon by a world that didn’t deserve him.
Now, sitting on the edge of her bed, Evelyn clutched the bear to her chest, her calloused fingers tracing its frayed seams. The tears came unbidden, hot and sharp, spilling over her weathered cheeks. She didn’t cry often—crying was for the weak, and Evelyn had never been weak—but tonight, the grief clawed its way out, raw and unrelenting.
“Stupid boy,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice breaking. “You had to go and die on me, didn’t you? Couldn’t even stick around to see me finish that damn owl. Bet you’d have carved a better one just to show me up.” She laughed, a wet, bitter sound, and hugged the bear tighter. “You’d probably say, ‘Evie, that bird’s got more charm than you on a good day.’ And I’d tell you to shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”
She could almost see him there, leaning against the doorframe, all cocky grin and tousled hair, his eyes glinting with that infuriating mix of adoration and mischief. “Aw, come on, Evie,” he’d drawl, stepping closer until his scent—sweat and cheap cologne—filled her senses. “You know you love it when I talk back. Gets you all fired up.”
“Fired up, my ass,” she’d snap, but her hands would already be reaching for him, pulling him down onto the bed, her laughter mixing with his as they tumbled into each other. She’d always been the one in control, the one calling the shots, and he’d loved it—loved the way she took what she wanted, no apologies, no hesitation.
Now, though, there was only silence. The empty house creaked around her, a hollow reminder of what she’d lost. She pressed her face into the bear’s fur, inhaling the faint trace of Tommy that still lingered, and let the tears fall. “Don’t you dare think I’m going soft on you,” she muttered, her voice muffled but fierce. “I’m still the boss, you hear me? Always will be. So you better be waiting up there—or down there, knowing you—with a smart-ass comeback ready. I’m not done with you yet.”
The room stayed quiet, but in her mind, she heard his laugh again, felt the ghost of his touch. And for a moment, Evelyn—the fiery, unbreakable woman who’d faced down a lifetime of hardship—let herself believe he was still there, just out of reach, waiting to spar with her one more time.
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