The Handyman: Sneak Peek

Salutations from Texas,

She calls it commitment. 

He calls it captivity. 

The handyman calls it a solvable problem.

Here’s how it begins.

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Prologue

They say it ends how it starts. The truth is, it starts with silence. Not peace. Not stillness. That would be too kind. No—this is the kind of silence that makes you remember what you’d rather forget. The kind that waits. The kind you only hear after you’ve been screaming long enough for your throat to give out.

I don’t remember when I stopped yelling. Just that it didn’t help.

No one came.

No one’s coming.

It’s not like I didn’t know better. Sound is a resource. You don’t spend it unless you’re sure of the return.

The chair creaks when I shift, and for a second, I think—maybe this is it. Maybe something will give. It doesn’t. She’s too good for that.

Even the knots are clean. Looped low, pulled tight. Nowhere to wriggle without consequence. I recognize the work. I just didn’t expect to be on the receiving end.

“I hate to suggest this,” I say. “But you might be overreacting.”

My voice surprises me. Mostly because of the resignation in it. Like this is a conversation that was always scheduled.

She doesn’t respond, and I realize her silence isn’t avoidance. It’s a choice.

“What you’re doing there,” I try again. “It’s inefficient.”

This gets her attention. She wants to be angry. Instead, she’s curious. Curiosity is always the tell. It’s the crack that lets everything else in.

Probably, it’s what started all of this.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Time is tricky like that.

Thirty seconds ago—or an hour, or a lifetime—I wasn’t here. I was fine. Unbound. Thinking about something ordinary enough that it doesn’t feel worth remembering now.

And somewhere in between, I pissed myself. Now the stain’s dry—just another thing I don’t get to undo.

She hasn’t commented. I don’t think she will. Which would be fine if it were mercy. It’s not. It’s indifference.

That’s worse.

The silence between us stretches. There’s no concern. No disgust. No interest at all. Nothing to push against. Just the quiet of a decision already made.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I think about water. The way cold feels going down when you don’t realize how thirsty you are until it’s already there. I imagine the relief and then hate myself for how badly I want something that small.

I look up.

“I’m guessing you practiced this,” I say. “But if you didn’t—”

Her eyes cut like a knife. It’s a beautiful warning and something in my chest locks down.

I stop speaking.

That cost me something. I don’t know what yet, but I feel it go.

She’s not the type who needs to gloat. Doesn’t monologue. Doesn’t posture. She just watches. Like a woman taking notes. Like this isn’t the main event—just the prep.

I don’t know which offense earned my position in this chair. But I have a few guesses.

Judging by her mood, she’s thought this through. Or at least as much as a person like her can do. It’s not rage I see when I look at her. More like I’m the last problem on a list she’s finally getting around to solving.

She walks over to the chair and stops close enough that I can feel the shift in the air. I don’t look up right away. Eye contact is another resource. People think it gives them power. It mostly gives things away.

There’s a question forming somewhere behind my teeth. It doesn’t make it out. Questions assume options. I don’t have any.

A drawer opens behind me. The sound is casual. Mechanical. I want to turn, but I don’t. I’ve seen what happens when you move before you’re told.

She may be ignoring me, but I know she’s got a lot to say. I feel it—like pressure in a wound.

Something thuds onto the table. Metal against wood.

I brace without meaning to. A hitch of breath. She clocks it.

I close my eyes and think about how all this started.

Play with fire, get burned.

And that’s when she speaks.

Just three words.

Low. Measured. Calm.

“Let’s start from the beginning.”

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