Under His Roof

CHAPTER V

My hands were raw and my lower back burned by the time we walked back to the house, but a strange sense of satisfaction settled in my chest.

For the first time in three days, I hadn't spent the afternoon staring at a wall or checking a phone that refused to ring.

I had organized seven shelves of brass fittings, logged ninety two part numbers, and earned a quiet nod of approval from Mr. Bennett before he locked the front door.

I was actually useful.

Zeke walked a few paces ahead of me on the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket.

He hadn't spoken a word to me since our argument in the stockroom.

The air between us was heavy with everything we left unsaid, but my mind kept drifting back to his eyes when he told me not to pity him.

His anger wasn't just about my former money.

It was too sharp, too precise, too deeply rooted.

It felt personal, like a scar that hurt every time the weather changed.

When we stepped inside, the house was warm and smelled of lemon cleaner and roasting garlic.

Mrs. Bennett was in the kitchen, surrounded by half empty cardboard boxes and stacks of old cookbooks.

"How was the hardware inventory?" she asked, looking up from a dusty wooden cabinet near the pantry.

"We finished the plumbing section," I said, setting my coat on the back of a wooden chair. "It was... fine."

Zeke didn't offer any commentary.

He simply kicked off his work boots by the door and headed straight up the stairs without looking back at either of us.

His bedroom door shut with a firm, decisive click.

Mrs. Bennett blew a stray lock of hair out of her face and gestured to the open cabinet.

"I'm trying to clear out these old photo boxes so we have room for extra pantry supplies. Mind giving me a hand for twenty minutes? I can't reach the top shelf."

"Sure," I said, stepping closer.

I reached up, pulling down a dusty cardboard shoe box taped shut with yellowed packing tape.

Printed across the side in thick black marker were the words:

CEDAR RIDGE SUMMER CAMP, 2018.

My pulse flicked slightly.

Eight years ago.

The summer our paths had crossed for two weeks before my father bought his way into a higher social circle and we stopped coming to Cedar Ridge altogether.

"Oh, goodness," Mrs. Bennett chuckled, taking the box from my hands and setting it on the kitchen table.

"That was the year Zeke broke his arm on the rope swing, wasn't it?"

She smiled before turning back toward the oven.

"Go ahead and sort through those while I check the roast. Throw away anything that's blurry or damaged."

I sat down on the wooden chair and peeled back the old tape.

Inside sat dozens of glossy four by six prints, their edges slightly curved from time.

I flipped through them slowly.

Pictures of wooden cabins, muddy lakes, campfire circles, and kids with sun bleached hair and scraped knees.

There was Zeke at eleven years old, scowling at the camera with a bright red cast wrapped around his left forearm.

He looked smaller, thinner, but those same dark, guarded eyes stared back at me through the glossy paper.

Then I reached a photograph near the bottom of the stack.

I stopped.

It was a shot taken near the edge of the lake, under the shade of a large oak tree.

A younger version of me was sitting on a wooden bench, wearing a pristine white sundress that stood out against the dirt.

Standing two feet away was Zeke.

We weren't smiling, but we weren't glaring at each other either.

We were just standing there, frozen in time, looking straight at whoever held the camera.

I stared at the picture, searching my memory for any trace of that moment.

Nothing came up.

I remembered the heat, the smell of bug spray, and the general feeling of wanting to go home, but this specific afternoon was a complete blank.

I turned the photograph over, expecting to see a date stamp or a simple location label printed on the back.

Instead, written in thin, blue ballpoint pen across the white photo paper, was a single line of handwriting:

You promised you wouldn't tell.

My throat went dry.

The handwriting was jagged, pressed so hard into the paper that it left raised ridges on the front of the image.

My mind raced.

Who wrote it?

Was it Zeke?

Was it me?

Did I make a promise to him that day?

Did he make one to me?

I tried to pull up any image of that afternoon by the lake, but my brain hit a solid brick wall.

There was no context.

No memory.

Just those six words etched into the back of a picture I didn't even know existed.

"Find anything good?" Mrs. Bennett asked, turning away from the oven with a pair of oven mitts.

"Just... old camp pictures," I murmured, my fingers pressing against the edges of the photo.

Before I could ask her about the handwriting, heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs.

Zeke walked into the kitchen, having changed into a clean gray shirt.

He stopped short when he saw the open box on the table and the print resting in my palm.

His face drained of color.

His jaw set into a tight, hard line.

In three quick strides, he crossed the kitchen and reached out, his hand hovering inches from mine.

"Where did you get that?" he asked.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried a razor sharp edge that made my breath hitch.

I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I turned the photo over, showing him the blue ink on the back, watching his eyes track the letters.

"I found it in the box," I said, holding his gaze. "What happened that day, Zeke?"

The kitchen was completely silent save for the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet crackle of the roast in the oven.

Mrs. Bennett looked between the two of us, sensing the sudden shift in the room, but stayed silent near the counter.

For several seconds, Zeke said nothing.

His chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths, his eyes fixed on the photograph like it was a ghost that had suddenly materialized in front of him.

Then his expression closed off completely.

His eyes hardened into ice.

"You really don't remember?"