Chapter Twelve
Atlas
November
I've just finished with my last client.
It was just an oil change, a rather menial job for my level of experience. Definitely a job that I should have passed off to one of my newer techs, but the familiar rhythm keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet. Right now that matters more than my new techs gaining experience.
It's my least favorite time of the day—time to start closing up shop. The November sky is already dark, and my employees are finishing their last jobs and cleaning their stations, eager to get home to whatever awaits them on the other side of these bay doors.
Most are younger, fresh out of tech school, so they don't have families yet. Since it's Friday, they're probably going to go out to the bar with friends, maybe catch the fight, maybe find someone to hook up with.
I don't know, because I make a point not to know. I keep a healthy distance between them and me, not wanting them to know anything personal about me. Because that opens the door for questions I don't want to—and honestly, can't—answer.
My employees know what they need to know—that I'm their boss and that I'm the owner's son. And they know I work just as hard, if not harder, than they do.
If I speak to them, I keep it professional, clipped, and neutral, only about work. I'm sure that's why this location is the most successful of all. Why my dad never has to come here, and can put all of his effort in the newer locations.
I usually do the end-of-day paperwork and the deposit around 5:30. I could easily delegate it to an assistant manager, but it keeps my hands occupied and gives me another excuse not to go home too early.
I've just opened my laptop when I see Aubree come to my office door.
She's young, probably just out of college, blonde and peppy, and good with clients. She has a genuine knack for putting people at ease and guiding them through the sometimes-overwhelming diagnostics of their cars and the financial logistics of the cost.
She's been taught that if someone is a loyal customer and we need to work out a payment plan, we do it, and she has a way of making it sound like something other than charity.
All in all, she's been good for the shop; she keeps client appointments running smoothly, and all the employees like her, too.
She gives that three-tone knock on the door, and I bark, "Come in," without looking up.
"Hey, Atlas," she greets, her voice bright and bubbly as she stands in front of my desk.
I glance up briefly, just long enough to clock that she's smiling at me in that way again, the way I noticed months ago that reads a little too friendly sometimes, a little too hopeful.
I'm not exactly sure what that means, if she's hoping for a management position in the future. She's good and efficient at her job, so if I were looking, I would most likely offer it to her and hire someone else at the front.
Aubree always sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the gray, black, and blues of the shop in her long-sleeved, pink top and skinny jeans.
We don't really have a dress code at the shop; the non-mechanics can really wear whatever they want. I do notice, though, that she always wears a full face of makeup, always has her hair done, and usually smells like perfume that's too floral.
Honestly, it just makes me miss Wendy.
My wife always smells light and sweet and warm like vanilla cupcakes. It makes my mouth water every time I breathe her in. She's worn the same perfume since we were teenagers, and I swear that fragrance mixed with her natural scent has some sort of Pavlovian effect on me.
One whiff of it and my chest loosens, my shoulders drop, my jaw unlocks.
Comfort, safety, home, and desire.
My beautiful wife with her bright smile, those fox-like green eyes, those perfect, puffy lips, that long, gorgeous body that slots perfectly against mine like it was designed to be there.
Her soft skin and the curves of her breasts and hips from carrying my sons. I love holding onto them, caressing them, running my fingers over her stretch marks, and not resisting the urge to gnaw on the meat of her thighs when I'm eating her out.
That gorgeous red hair I love running my hands through, love clutching when I'm fucking her, tilting her head back so I can kiss her.
I know no one is perfect, but to me, my wife is, and every other woman dulls in comparison.
She's my one.
Not just her body, it's her presence that calms me. My wife is always composed. In any disaster or problem we face, she's able to step back and look at it logically, figuring out a way through without panic or dramatics.
When our sons used to have temper tantrums, she never rose to their level the way I wanted to when they threw a toy at her or screamed that she was a mean Mommy.
Instead, she knelt down, got eye level with them, and firmly told them why that wasn't nice, how that hurt Mommy's feelings, and why they shouldn't throw things or say hurtful words.
It was like watching magic, the way she could just get through to our boys. I would watch in awe as they deflated, as her words reached them and landed exactly where they needed to.
It made me feel a little inadequate, but she was with them constantly; she was their mommy, and she learned from my mom.
Wendy always has everything handled.
She doesn't need me—but I sure as fuck need her.
And that's what terrifies me more than anything.
"What's up?" I ask Aubree, my eyes already back on the laptop screen.
"Uh..." she shifts a little awkwardly, glancing back toward the door behind her. "There's someone here for you."
I look up at her, one eyebrow raised. "Client?"
She shakes her head. "I don't think so. They mentioned dropping off paperwork. Seemed... official."
"Probably for the expansion," I sigh, gesturing vaguely toward the side of the building where we're adding three more bays and a bigger break room for the techs.
Our home shop at the Mercy Ridge location has grown faster than the others, so my dad wants to expand and refresh the location—new tools, new mechanisms, more education, more, more, more.
I've had it handled, especially since I've been able to spend so much time away from home.
"Send them in."
Aubree nods before smiling in that way at me again. "I figured you'd be working late again, so there's a sub in the fridge for you. Made by yours truly."
I don't look up when I ask, "Are there tomatoes on it?"
"Yes," she says, her voice brightening, hopeful—but my mouth twists immediately.
"I'm allergic."
"Oh... I'm sorry," she deflates, wincing, but I wave off her apology.
My mouth would break out in these awful sores if I ate anything with tomatoes. Wendy was always so careful with cooking, even being mindful of cross-contamination.
Because that's just my wife—full of care.
"It's alright. See if Jordan wants it tomorrow," I tell her, and she nods, lingering in that doorway a beat too long until she starts shifting awkwardly. I glance back up at her, and she seems to remember why she came in here in the first place.
"Oh, right..." she says as she gestures back to the door. "Should I send them in?"
I nod. She steps out of the office, and I hear her say, "Go on in."
When I look back up, standing there is a black-haired woman, dressed casually, but her face is anything but. Her posture is sharp, eyes assessing me as she asks, "Atlas Durant?"
"Yes?"
She glances at a thick envelope in her hand before holding it out to me. I take it on reflex.
"You've been served," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Have a wonderful night."
She turns and walks out before I can ask a single question. Aubree peeks back into my office, concern written all over her face, but I'm just staring at the envelope in my hand, my name typed cleanly across the front.
Something deep in my gut tells me it's not about the business—and that it's bad.
My mind goes haywire as I use my finger to rip it open, ignoring the papercut that blooms instantly on my skin.
Fuck, I haven't even properly scrubbed my hands yet, oil and grease smudged across my knuckles, now across the thick white paper.
The words blur together, and I have to blink a few times to clear my vision.
PETITION FOR LEGAL SEPARATION
The floor drops out from under me. I grab the edge of my desk to steady myself as nausea surges. I'm momentarily afraid I might vomit right here.
The marriage is irretrievably broken due to Respondent's emotional abandonment, prolonged absence from the marital home in all but physical presence, and failure to participate in marital counseling as agreed upon.
My chest caves in, my ears ring; the words don't make sense, and yet they do.
Wendy is leaving me.
My body trembles violently, and I close my eyes, willing that when I open them, the papers will say something else, anything else.
Emotional abandonment...
Prolonged absence...
Failure to participate...
Failure. Failure. Failure.
"Wendy?" I whisper, her name scraping its way out of my throat. "What the fuck have I done?"
There's a gentle knock on the door, Aubree's quiet voice asking me, "Atlas? Are you okay?"
No, I'm not okay. Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'm already moving, grabbing my keys and bolting past her out the office door.
"Aubree, close up, please!" I shout as I sprint out the front door, pushing it open hard enough the glass nearly cracks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my employees staring after me in alarm, but nothing matters now.
Life has shrunk to a single point in my mind—home.
I need to get home. I need to get to Wendy and my boys and...
I don't even know what I'm going to say, or how I'm going to fix this, but I have to try.
I need to see if I can salvage anything from the destruction I've caused.