Nina
The platform took three days.
Not because it was complicated — it was just wood and nails and a level. But because Caleb's hands shook more on some days than others, and because Nina refused to let him work when the tremor was bad, and because they kept stopping to look at the ocean and talk about nothing.
On Tuesday, they attached the support beams to the trunk.
Caleb stood on the ladder, his left hand holding the beam in place, his right hand fumbling with the drill. The screw gun was heavy, and the vibration made the tremor worse. Nina held the ladder with one hand and the beam with the other.
"This would be easier if you let me do it," she said.
"This would be easier if I had two working hands."
"You have two working hands. They just work differently."
Caleb looked down at her. "That's a very diplomatic way of saying I'm useless with a drill."
"You're not useless. You're persistent. There's a difference."
He laughed — a short, breathy sound. "You and your differences."
"Someone has to point them out."
He got the first screw in. Then the second. Then the third. Each one took longer than it should have, but each one held.
By noon, all four support beams were attached.
Caleb climbed down from the ladder. His legs were shaking — not from the tremor, from fatigue. He sat on the grass, his back against the tree, and closed his eyes.
"I'm done," he said.
"You're done for now."
"I mean I'm done. As in finished. As in I can't move my arms."
Nina sat down next to him. The grass was damp, but the sun was warm on her face.
"You did good," she said.
"We did good."
"I held the ladder."
"You held the ladder and the beam and the drill when I dropped it."
"You dropped the drill twice."
"Twice is not a lot."
"Twice is two times more than zero."
Caleb opened his eyes. "You're keeping count?"
"I'm a nurse. Keeping count is what I do."
He looked at her for a long moment. The sun was in his eyes, making him squint. His right hand was resting on his knee, trembling.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For not doing it for me. For letting me struggle."
Nina tilted her head. "Why would I do it for you?"
"Because it would have been faster. Easier. You wouldn't have had to hold the ladder for three hours."
"But then it wouldn't have been yours." She picked a blade of grass and tore it in half. "The treehouse, I mean. If I built it, it would be mine. But you're building it. Even when it's hard. That's what makes it yours."
Caleb was quiet. The gulls cried overhead. The ocean crashed against the rocks.
"My father used to say that things worth having are hard," he said. "He said easy things don't stick."
"Your father was smart."
"He was smart about some things. Stubborn about others."
"Like father, like son."
Caleb almost smiled. "Yeah. Like father, like son."
---
On Wednesday, they built the platform frame.
The support beams were in place, jutting out from the trunk like arms waiting to hold something. The frame was a square of lumber that would sit on top of the beams, creating the floor of the treehouse.
Caleb couldn't lift the frame by himself. His right hand couldn't grip the wood tight enough, and his left hand wasn't strong enough to carry the weight alone. So Nina lifted one side, and he lifted the other, and together they maneuvered it onto the beams.
"It's crooked," Caleb said.
"It's not crooked. It's slightly angled."
"Slightly angled is crooked."
"Slightly angled is character."
Caleb grabbed the level — with his left hand, because his right was shaking too much — and checked the frame. "It's off by a quarter inch."
"That's nothing."
"It's not nothing. The platform has to be level."
"Then we'll adjust it." Nina picked up a shim — a thin piece of wood Hank had given them for exactly this purpose — and slid it under the frame. "Now check."
Caleb checked. "It's still off."
Another shim. "Now?"
"Better."
Another. "Now?"
Caleb looked at the level. Then at her. "How many shims are you going to use?"
"As many as it takes."
"You're impossible."
"You've mentioned that."
"It's not a compliment."
"It's not an insult either."
He laughed. Actually laughed — a real one, loud and surprised. Nina smiled.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing. I just —" He shook his head. "I haven't laughed like that in years. Not really. Not the kind that comes from somewhere real."
Nina felt something warm spread through her chest. Not her heart — something quieter. Something that lived in the spaces between her ribs.
"You should do it more often," she said.
"Laugh?"
"Laugh. Smile. Let people see you when you're not trying to be strong."
Caleb looked at the ocean. The sun was starting to set, painting the water in shades of orange and pink.
"I don't know how," he said. "To not be strong. I've been strong for so long that I forgot what the other thing feels like."
"What other thing?"
"Being soft. Being open. Being... human."
Nina put her hand on his arm. Just for a second. Just enough to let him know she was there.
"You're human, Caleb. Even when you're strong. Even when you're not." She took her hand back. "Now help me with the next shim."
---
On Thursday, it rained.
Not the soft drizzle of the coast — a hard, driving rain that turned the grass to mud and made the ocean roar. The treehouse frame stood empty, the ladder slick with water, the chalk marks on the trunk fading.
Caleb stood at the glass wall, watching the storm.
"We can't work today," he said.
"No."
"The platform will get wet."
"It's wood. It's meant to get wet."
"The screws might rust."
"Then we'll replace them."
He turned to look at her. His face was drawn, tired. "I hate waiting."
"I know."
"I hate feeling like I'm losing time."
"You're not losing time. You're resting. There's a difference."
He almost smiled. "You and your differences."
"Someone has to point them out."
They spent the day inside.
Nina made soup — potato leek, the same kind Eleanor had made. Caleb sat at the kitchen table, watching her chop vegetables. His right hand was tucked into his pocket, hiding the tremor.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Sure."
"Why did you really leave nursing?"
Nina's knife paused. She looked at him. "I told you. Marcus."
"You told me about Marcus. But that's not the whole story."
She set the knife down. Wiped her hands on her apron. The rain hammered against the glass, loud and insistent.
"You're right," she said. "It's not the whole story."
Caleb waited.
"I left because I was tired," she said. "Not of the work. Of the feeling. The feeling that no matter what I did, it wasn't enough. That I was just... putting Band-Aids on wounds that needed surgery. That I was watching people die and pretending I was okay with it."
"You weren't okay with it."
"Nobody's okay with it. But some people can pretend. I couldn't pretend anymore." She picked up the knife. Started chopping again. "I thought if I left, I could find something else. Something that didn't hurt so much."
"Did you find it?"
She looked at him. At his tired eyes and his shaking hands and the way he was sitting like a man who had given up on pretending.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I'm finding it now."
---
The rain stopped in the evening.
The clouds broke open, and the sun came through, low and golden. The world was wet and clean, and the air smelled like earth and salt.
Caleb and Nina walked to the tree.
The platform frame was still there, slightly crooked, held together by shims and hope. The grass was muddy, and Nina's boots sank into the ground with each step.
"It held," Caleb said.
"It held."
"No thanks to us."
"Thanks to us. We built it."
He touched the wood. His right hand was shaking, but he didn't hide it. He let his fingers trace the grain, the nails, the places where the saw had wandered off course.
"It's not perfect," he said.
"It's not supposed to be perfect."
"Then what's it supposed to be?"
Nina thought about it. About all the imperfect things she'd loved in her life — her grandmother's crooked smile, her mother's burnt toast, her own hands that had held a dying boy and failed to save him.
"It's supposed to be real," she said. "Real and here. That's enough."
Caleb looked at her. The sun was behind her, lighting up her hair like a halo. She wasn't beautiful in the way magazines meant — she was beautiful in the way things that mattered were beautiful. Solid. Present. Real.
"You're enough," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them.
Nina's breath caught. "Caleb —"
"I mean it. You're enough. You're more than enough. You're —" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're the reason I climbed the ladder. The reason I called my mother. The reason I'm standing here, in the mud, looking at a crooked platform that's supposed to be a treehouse."
She stared at him. Her heart was pounding — she could feel it in her throat, her temples, her chest.
"I'm just doing my job," she said.
"You stopped doing your job weeks ago." He stepped closer. His right hand was shaking, but he reached for her anyway. Touched her arm. "You're not my nurse anymore, Nina. You're something else. I don't know what to call it. But it's not a job."
Nina looked down at his hand on her arm. His fingers were trembling, but his touch was gentle.
"What do you want to call it?" she asked.
"I don't know." His voice was quiet. Barely a whisper. "I've never had this before. Someone who stays. Someone who sees me — really sees me — and doesn't run."
"Maybe you don't have to call it anything. Maybe you just... let it be."
He looked at her. Really looked — the way he had that first day in the kitchen, when she'd caught the falling glass.
"Okay," he said. "I'll let it be."
He took his hand back. Stepped away. The moment broke, but something else remained — something that hadn't been there before.
Nina turned back to the treehouse. Her hands were shaking now too.
"We should cover the platform," she said. "In case it rains again."
"Yeah," Caleb said. "We should."
They found a tarp in the garage and draped it over the frame. The plastic flapped in the wind, loud and insistent.
"There," Nina said. "It'll be fine until tomorrow."
"Tomorrow we finish the floor."
"Tomorrow we finish the floor."
They stood side by side, looking at the tarp-covered frame. It looked like a ghost — something that wasn't quite there yet.
"I meant what I said," Caleb said.
"I know."
"You're enough."
Nina turned to look at him. The sun was setting behind him, turning the sky orange and pink. His face was half in shadow, half in light.
"So are you," she said.
---
That night, they sat on the deck like they always did.
The stars were out — more stars than Nina had ever seen in Chicago. The ocean was quiet, just a soft hush against the rocks.
Caleb had the blanket over his lap. Nina had her own blanket — the wool one from Eleanor's house — wrapped around her shoulders.
"I've been thinking about the hospital treehouse," Caleb said. "About the girl with the pink scarf."
"What about her?"
"I want to name it after her. The treehouse. Or maybe after someone like her. Someone who needs a place to be a kid."
Nina turned to look at him. "That's a beautiful idea."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "My father's name was David. David Rhodes. He died when I was sixteen. I've never named anything after him. Not a building. Not a scholarship. Not even a park bench."
"Why not?"
"Because I was angry. At him. At the disease. At the world for taking him." He looked down at his hands. "I'm not angry anymore. I'm just... sad. And I think naming something after him would be a way of saying that the sadness isn't the only thing he left me."
Nina reached over and took his hand. His left hand, because it was steadier.
"What would you name?" she asked.
"The treehouse. The one at the hospital. I'd call it David's Lookout."
Nina felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked them back.
"That's perfect," she said.
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Caleb squeezed her hand. His grip was weak — the tremor made it hard to hold on — but she felt it anyway.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For listening. For not telling me what to do. For just... sitting here."
Nina leaned her head back against the deck chair. The stars were spinning slowly overhead, or maybe that was just her.
"That's what I'm here for," she said.
"No," Caleb said. "That's who you are."