Chapter 2 #3
"I am winning. By a significant margin. I'm basically a champion."
"You cheat," Holt says, still not looking up. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact.
"Can't prove it," Finn shoots back immediately.
"You changed scores last week."
"That was correcting an error. Very different thing."
"That's called cheating."
"That's called justice."
I'm grinning now, can't help it. "You two are insane."
"Thank you," Finn says. "We try."
I walk over to the desk and immediately understand why he's praying for me.
It's a disaster. An absolute catastrophe.
Invoices mixed with receipts from 2019, post-its with Finn's jokes scrawled on them ("Why did the carburetor break up with the alternator?
No spark!"), pens that don't work scattered everywhere, a coffee mug with something growing in it that might be sentient, and—I'm not making this up—a spark plug sitting in the pencil holder like it belongs there.
"Okay," I say out loud, because talking to myself is better than screaming.
"This is fine. Totally fine. Invoices go here.
Receipts—do we need these from 2019? Probably not.
Why is there a spark plug in the pencil holder?
Who does this? Who looks at a spark plug and thinks 'this belongs with the writing implements'? This is chaos. This is—"
I spot what I need—a binder labeled "PAID 2024" sitting on the top shelf of the filing system.
Of course it's on the top shelf. Everything useful is always on the top shelf, like the universe is personally conspiring against anyone under five-foot-six.
I reach up, stretching on my toes, fingers brushing the spine but not quite grasping it.
Come on. Just a little higher. I push up further, arm extended as far as it'll go, and—nope. Still can't reach it.
"Need help there, short stack?"
I drop back to flat feet and glare at Finn, who's appeared out of nowhere wearing the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen. "I'm not short. I'm five-three, which is a perfectly normal height. You're just freakishly tall."
"Uh-huh." He reaches up without even stretching—doesn't even have to try, the bastard—and pulls the binder down like it's nothing. Hands it to me with a flourish. "What was that?"
I snatch it from him. "I said thank you, you giant asshole."
"You're welcome, Gremlin." He's still grinning. "Anytime you need help reaching the big-people shelves, just holler."
"I will end you."
"Looking forward to it." He walks away whistling and I want to throw the binder at his head but I need it so that's not an option.
Twenty minutes later I need a different binder—"RECEIPTS 2023"—and guess where it is? Top shelf. Again. Which is suspicious because I could've sworn both Finn and Holt were in this area recently, and I'm starting to develop a theory about why everything I need keeps ending up just out of reach.
I drag the office chair over, climb up on it like a feral gremlin—which, okay, maybe Finn has a point—and grab the binder. As I'm climbing down I call out, "Which one of you keeps putting things on the top shelf?"
Silence from Finn's direction. Too much silence. Suspicious silence.
"Finn."
"No idea what you're talking about," he says, voice dripping with fake innocence.
I look over at Holt. He's bent over an engine, completely focused on his work, but his shoulders are shaking.
Just slightly. The tiniest movement that most people wouldn't notice.
But I notice. He's laughing. The silent kind that he probably thinks he's hiding but he's not, because his whole back is shaking with suppressed amusement.
They're both in on it. They're messing with me. On purpose. Together.
"I hate both of you," I announce to the garage.
"No you don't," Finn calls back, not even trying to hide his grin now.
Holt's shoulders shake harder. He still doesn't turn around, doesn't say anything, but I can see it—the way his body betrays him, the quiet laughter he won't let out.
It's somehow worse than if he'd actually laughed out loud because it's so him—finding this hilarious but keeping it contained, letting Finn do the talking while he just—exists in his amusement.
I'm grinning despite myself. Can't help it. "You're both terrible people."
"Thank you," Finn says brightly.
Holt says nothing but I swear I hear a quiet exhale that sounds suspiciously like a laugh he's trying to swallow.
Finn walks past, grinning. "You doing okay over there?"
"Organizing. Everything's under control."
"You've been here three minutes."
"And I've already found five fire hazards, a biological experiment, and a receipt from a restaurant that closed in 2018. This place is a health code violation waiting to happen."
He laughs. I catch Holt's reflection in the window—he's turned slightly, one hand paused mid-reach for a wrench. Listening. But he stays focused on his work, doesn't look over, doesn't acknowledge me beyond that brief glance when I arrived.
The couch. He's probably exhausted. Sore. In pain. Because of me.
I dive into the desk, sorting and muttering to myself because if I don't talk I'll think too much about furniture torture.
"Invoices here. Receipts—trash. Pens that don't work—also trash.
Why do we keep broken pens? This is chaos.
This is—oh my god, is this a sandwich? How long has this been here?
This is archaeology. We're going to find ancient civilizations under this desk. "
The phone rings and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I grab it, plaster on my most professional voice. "Good morning! Ward and Weller Auto, where we fix your car and—" I realize mid-sentence I'm about to say "judge your life choices" and pivot hard. "—uh, provide excellent automotive services! How can I help you today?"
Beat of silence. Then a woman's voice, amused: "Is this the new girl?"
"Yes? I mean, yes. This is Scout. How can I help you?" Professional. I'm being so professional right now.
"This is Mrs. Rafferty, dear. Confirming my appointment for tomorrow at two?"
"Let me check—" I scan the disaster, find an appointment book buried under three layers of paper. "Yes! Tuesday at two. You're all set, Mrs. Rafferty."
"Wonderful. Tell Holt I'm bringing cookies."
"I will. What kind?" This feels important. Cookie intel.
"Chocolate chip. His favorite."
"Noted. I'll make sure he knows." I'm smiling now, actually smiling. "Have a great day."
"You sound lovely, dear. Much more interesting than that phone system they had before."
I hang up feeling accomplished, which lasts until Finn's voice comes from under his truck.
"Did you just almost say 'judge your life choices' to a customer?"
I freeze. "Shut up. I'm being professional."
"You were about to say that."
"It just came out! A slip! Could happen to anyone!"
Holt's voice cuts through the garage, flat and economical. "Don't say that to customers."
My stomach drops. "You heard that?"
"Everyone heard that."
I bury my face in my hands. "It just slipped out! I promise I'll be professional. I can be professional. I'm the queen of professional. Professional is my middle name. Scout Professional Adler, at your service—"
"Mrs. Rafferty loved it," Finn calls out, clearly enjoying this way too much. "I heard her laughing."
"That doesn't mean I should—"
"Scout." Holt's looking at me now, one eyebrow raised. "Just answer normally."
"Right. Normal. I can do normal." I absolutely cannot. "Normal is my specialty. I'm extremely normal. So normal it's boring. People fall asleep from how normal I am."
Finn's laughing. Holt's mouth does that thing again—the almost-smile that's gone before I can fully catch it, but I saw it. I'm counting that.
I go back to the desk feeling mortified and triumphant in equal measure.
The morning continues in what I'm generously calling controlled chaos. I'm organizing files when I realize Finn's "system" and Holt's "system" are locked in some kind of philosophical war.
"Finn," I call out, holding up an invoice. "Where do paid invoices go?"
"That pile over there." He gestures vaguely at approximately three different piles. "Or maybe that one. Honestly, if it's paid, who cares? Money's in the bank, invoice can live wherever it wants. It's free. It has rights."
I blink at him. "You don't file paid invoices?"
"I file them in the general vicinity. It's called intuitive organization."
"That's not organization. That's throwing papers and hoping."
"Works for me."
"How do you find anything?"
"I don't. I just make new invoices. It's very efficient."
"That's the opposite of efficient. That's—" I turn to Holt, who's at his workbench doing something with a wrench. Trying not to notice how his forearms flex when he works. Failing. "Holt, where do paid invoices go?"
"File cabinet." He doesn't look up. "Alphabetical. Last name. Paid in green folder, unpaid in red."
"Okay, but Finn just told me—"
"Finn's system doesn't work."
"My system works fine!" Finn's emerged from under the truck to defend his honor. "I know where everything is. It's all up here." He taps his forehead.
"You lost the Morrison invoice last week."
"I didn't lose it. I misplaced it temporarily."
"For three days."
"Three days is temporary! Temporary is anything under a week. Under a month, even. Time is a construct."
"That's not—" Holt stops, shakes his head like he's given up. "That's not how time works."
"Says who?"
"Says the dictionary. Says physics. Says every clock ever made."
"The dictionary's never run an auto shop. Neither has physics. Or clocks. None of them know what it's like in the trenches."
I'm looking between them, caught in this ongoing battle that clearly predates my arrival by years. "So... green folder?"
Holt meets my eyes. His face does a complicated thing—acknowledgment that I'm trying to navigate this minefield, appreciation maybe, something that looks almost like approval. "Green folder."
"Dictator," Finn mutters, but he's grinning.
"Anarchist," Holt replies, completely deadpan.