* * *
The service had run long.
Pastor Mike liked to talk, and today he'd really liked to talk—something about patience, something about waiting on the Lord, something Ira had stopped tracking around minute thirty-five. He'd spent the last twenty minutes of the sermon staring at the stained glass window behind the pulpit, watching dust motes drift through colored light.
Now he stood in the fellowship hall, paper plate in hand, trapped in the post-service orbit of small talk and stale coffee. Across the room, his mom was deep in conversation with the Hendersons about their new grandchild. Rosie had escaped to the parking lot ten minutes ago, claiming she needed something from the minivan. She hadn't come back.
The fellowship hall smelled like weak coffee and sheet cake. Someone had put out veggie trays that no one was eating. Ira took a celery stick just to have something to do with his hands.
"Ira! There you are."
He turned. Mrs. Okafor from the building committee was bearing down on him with purpose.
"Hi, Mrs. Okafor."
"I wanted to ask about the parsonage. How's the work coming along? Pastor Mike mentioned you've been making progress."
"It's going okay. Slower than I'd hoped, but—"
"We're all so proud of what you're doing. That building's been an eyesore for years. It's wonderful to see a young person with vision."
Ira smiled. The automatic smile. "Thank you. I appreciate the support."
"Of course! Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."
She moved on before he could respond. Ira watched her go, still holding the celery stick he hadn't eaten.
Let me know if you need anything.
Everyone said that. No one meant it.
He dropped his paper plate in the trash and headed for the side door. He'd driven himself today—he usually did on Sundays, in case he wanted to check on the parsonage after. His mom and Rosie had taken the minivan.
The fellowship hall was too warm, too crowded, too full of people who wanted to tell him how proud they were.
He pushed through the door into the parking lot.
The sun was brutal. Mid-June in Cedar Ridge meant humidity that sat on your skin like a wet blanket. Ira squinted against the glare, loosening his tie, and that's when he saw the truck.
White pickup. Cedar Ridge Lumber & Supply on the door. Parked at the far end of the lot, near the parsonage.
Rowan's truck.
* * *
The parsonage door was propped open with a cinder block.
Ira could hear it before he reached the porch—the crack of wood splitting, the rhythm of demolition. Someone working. Someone who hadn't asked permission.
He climbed the steps and walked inside.
Rowan was in the dining room, pulling boards off the east wall. His toolbox sat open by the door, a crowbar in his hand. He'd made progress—a whole section stripped down to studs, debris piled neatly. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, work boots, gloves. Sunday clothes for a different kind of person.
"What are you doing here?"
Rowan didn't stop working. "Same thing you're gonna ask every time?"
"You didn't tell me you were coming."
"Didn't know I was coming until I got here." He pried another board loose, checked it, tossed it on the pile. "Drove past, saw the lot was empty, figured I'd get some work done before Pastor Mike came sniffing around."
"He's not that bad."
"Sure." Rowan finally looked at him. Took in the dress shirt, the khakis, the tie stuffed in his pocket. "You look uncomfortable."
"I just came from service."
"I figured. The organ music stopped about twenty minutes ago." He turned back to the wall. "Figured you'd still be trapped in the cake-and-coffee part."
Ira stood in the doorway, unsure what to do. This was his project. His space. And Rowan had just... shown up. Again. Without asking.
"You can't just let yourself in whenever you want."
"Door was unlocked."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?" Rowan set down the crowbar and faced him. "You want me to leave? I'll leave. But I'm here, the work needs doing, and you're standing there in your church clothes looking like you'd rather be anywhere else." He shrugged. "Seemed like I could be useful."
Ira didn't have a response.
Rowan picked up the crowbar again. "You gonna file a complaint? Tell the pastor some heathen broke in on the sabbath and committed manual labor on church property?"
"That's not—" Ira stopped. Breathed. "I'm not going to file a complaint."
"Good. Grab your pry bar. It's by the window." He wedged his crowbar back into the wall like he meant it. "Let me know if you need anything."
The phrase landed different in his mouth.
Sharper. Almost a dare.
* * *
Ira stood there for a moment.
Don't. If you let him help, you'll owe him. If you let him help, you'll start wanting it.
He grabbed the pry bar.
He didn't change out of his church clothes. There wasn't time, and something about the moment felt like it would break if he left. So he rolled up his sleeves, loosened his collar, and started working.
They didn't talk much. The rhythm was enough—pull, check, toss. The east wall came apart faster than Ira expected. Rowan knew where to look, how to test for damage, which boards could be saved and which were too far gone.
After about an hour, Ira's dress shirt was soaked through. His khakis had sawdust ground into the knees. His church shoes were scuffed beyond repair.
"Your mom's gonna kill you," Rowan observed.
"Probably."
"Worth it?"
Ira looked at the wall they'd stripped. Clean studs, ready for new framing. More progress in an hour than he'd made some whole days by himself.
"Yeah," he said. "Worth it."
Rowan nodded. Didn't say anything else. Just kept working.
Around two o'clock, Ira's phone buzzed. His mom: Where are you? Rosie said you walked toward the parsonage.
He texted back: Working. Lost track of time. Be home for dinner.
Her response was immediate: In your church clothes?
They're already ruined.
A pause. Then: We'll talk later.
He put his phone away. Rowan was watching him with something like amusement.
"Trouble?"
"My mom."
"She mad?"
"She's going to be." Ira pulled another board. "But she'll get over it. She always does."
"Must be nice."
Something in Rowan's voice made Ira look up. But Rowan had already turned back to the wall, his expression unreadable.
"What, your mom doesn't forgive?"
"Must be nice to have someone to disappoint."
He didn't look at Ira when he said it.
"My mom lives at her sister's now. Ashford. Started as weekends when I was fifteen. Now it's just... where she lives."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not a tragedy. It's just how it is." He pried a board loose with more force than necessary. "She and my dad can't stand each other. They stay married because divorce is expensive and neither of them wants to sell the house. So she left. Just not officially."
Ira didn't know what to say to that.
"Sorry," Rowan said, not sounding sorry. "Didn't mean to make it weird. You asked."
"It's not weird. I just—" Ira stopped. "I don't really know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." Rowan tossed the board on the pile. "That's the nice thing about you church kids. You always think you have to have a response."
He wedged the crowbar into the next board.
"Sometimes there's nothing to say."
They worked in silence for a while after that. Not uncomfortable—just quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when something true has been said and there's nothing to add.
* * *
They quit around four.
The east wall was done. Both of them were filthy, sweaty, exhausted. Ira sat on the porch steps, drinking the last of his water, watching the afternoon light slant across the parking lot. A few cars still sat near the church—some meeting or committee thing, probably.
Rowan sat beside him. Not close, just nearby. Two people sharing a step.
"You're not bad at this," Rowan said.
"At what?"
"The work. You've gotten better since Thursday."
"I had a good teacher."
"You had an adequate teacher who was bored and had nothing better to do." Rowan finished his water. "But you're not bad. You actually listen. Most people don't."
Ira wasn't sure if that was a compliment or just an observation. With Rowan, it was hard to tell.
"Can I ask you something?" Ira said.
"You're going to anyway."
"Why do you keep coming back?"
Rowan was quiet for a moment. He looked out at the parking lot, the church, the afternoon light.
"I don't know," he said finally. "Boredom, mostly. My dad's an asshole and my mom's never home and I've got nothing to do all summer except work at the yard and try not to lose my mind." He shrugged. "You're not like most people in this town."
"How so?"
"I don't know yet." He glanced at Ira. "That's why I keep coming back." He stood, brushing off his jeans. "Same time next week?"
"I work most days. The grocery store."
"So do I. The yard." He grabbed his toolbox. "We'll figure it out."
He headed for his truck. At the door, he paused.
"Your mom's definitely gonna kill you."
"I know."
He climbed in the truck and pulled out, leaving Ira alone on the porch steps with the afternoon light and the quiet and the feeling that something had shifted.
Not friendship. Not yet.
But something.
* * *
His mom didn't yell.
That was almost worse. She looked at his ruined clothes, looked at his face, and just sighed.
"You couldn't have changed first?"
"I didn't plan to stay. I just... got caught up."
"You've been 'getting caught up' a lot lately." She took the khakis from him, examining the damage. "These are done. The shirt might be salvageable."
"I'm sorry."
"I know you are." She set the clothes in the laundry basket. "I'm not mad, Ira. I'm just... worried. You're running yourself ragged with this project. You're barely sleeping. You're skipping meals. And now you're working through Sunday afternoon instead of resting."
"I wasn't alone. A guy from school was there—his dad owns the lumber yard. He helped."
"On a Sunday?"
"He's not exactly the churchgoing type."
She was quiet for a moment. "Is he... a friend?"
Ira considered the question.
"I don't know," he said. "He knows what he's doing. And he showed up."
His mom nodded slowly. Something passed across her face—not relief, exactly. More like recognition. Like she understood what that meant.
"Good," she said softly. "You need at least one person who does."
She touched his shoulder. "Dinner's in twenty. Wash up."