I’m Emily, and meeting Jack five years ago in a library, both eyeing the same tattered book, felt like fate. His laugh still warms me, though recent days tested that glow. One night, as I prepped tacos, Jack shouted, “Where’s my tool kit?” from the garage. “By the ladder,” I called, stirring salsa. He appeared, keys jangling. “Kate’s AC is broken,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.” I frowned. “Dinner’s almost done.” He apologized and left. Kate, his ex, called constantly—faulty outlets, jammed blinds, a noisy fan. Jack always went, saying, “She’s got no one else.”
They still co-owned their old house, a “financial choice,” he’d said early on. I tried to be patient, but when he fixed her mailbox while our porch rail sagged, I wondered. After he spent hours at Kate’s repairing her gate, I asked over coffee, “Why’s her fence more urgent than ours?” He shrugged. “She cooked as thanks. It’s nothing.” I looked at our peeling shed, feeling sidelined. When he skipped our movie night to replace Kate’s doorknob, I hit my limit. At 11 p.m., I said, “Are you in love with her?” He looked shocked. “No, Emily! She’s helpless with repairs, unlike you.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “She’s using you.” He promised to draw a line, but I doubted it. A week later, Kate texted about a “leaky roof.” As Jack packed his tools, I grabbed my bag. “I’m going too.” He blinked. “To Kate’s?” I nodded. “It’s our asset, right?” He agreed reluctantly. The drive was silent, streetlights flickering past. Kate’s neat brick house showed no signs of neglect. She answered in a velvet robe, makeup perfect, and froze seeing me. “Emily’s here?” she said. I smiled. “Happy to help.”
The “leak” was a small drip in her attic, hardly urgent. I watched Jack adjust a pipe, saying, “Must’ve been scary.” Kate offered coffee, which I declined. “We’re busy later.” No men’s items were around—no jackets, no tools—showing Kate wanted Jack, not just repairs. While he washed up, I gave her a list of contractors, a landscaper, and a dating site, adding, “Call Jack again, and we’ll talk.” She glared. “You don’t know our history.” I said, “I know our future.” In the car, I showed Jack a lawyer’s card. “Keep helping her, and you’re choosing her house.” He sighed, storing the card. “I’ll stop tomorrow,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It’s you I want.” Kate’s new handyman brought her flowers. Our rail’s fixed, and Jack’s tools stay with us.
