Chapter 4
The week leading up to Saturday is when I realize they're escalating.
Monday morning I walk into the break area for coffee and stop dead. My mug—the one I've been using all week, the chipped blue one that's become mine—is sitting on the top shelf. The very top shelf. The one that requires either a ladder or the ability to defy gravity.
I stare at it. Process. Then raise my voice loud enough to carry into the garage. "REALLY?"
"What?" Finn calls back, voice dripping with fake innocence.
"My mug is on the top shelf."
"Weird. Must've grown legs. Things do that in the desert heat. Scientific fact."
I drag a chair over, climb up to retrieve my mug while muttering under my breath. "Tall bastards. Both of them. Freakishly tall bastards who think this is funny."
Finn's laughing. I can hear it echoing through the garage.
Tuesday my stapler appears on the top shelf. Wednesday it's my favorite pen—the clicky one that actually works, unlike the other seventeen pens in the drawer. Thursday I find my Post-it notes up there, bright yellow and mocking, just out of reach.
That's when I decide: if they're going to play, I'm going to play back.
Friday morning, Holt walks to his workbench and stops. Stares. His favorite wrench—the one he uses for everything, the one that lives in the exact same spot every single day—is gone.
I watch from my desk, pretending to be deeply focused on invoices.
He crouches down. Checks the bottom shelf. The very bottom shelf, the one that requires actual kneeling to access. His wrench is there, tucked neatly behind a box of parts, perfectly placed where someone very short would find it convenient.
He straightens up. Looks directly at me. I'm grinning so hard my face hurts.
"Scout."
"Hmm?" Innocent. So innocent.
"My wrench."
"What about it?"
"It's on the bottom shelf."
"Weird. Must've fallen. Things do that. Physics." I go back to my invoices, still grinning. "Maybe you should organize your tools better. Keep them somewhere accessible."
Finn emerges from under a truck, takes one look at the situation, and starts laughing. "Oh, she's learning. She's adapting. I'm so proud."
"This means war," Holt says, but his mouth is twitching. Almost smiling. Definitely trying not to.
"Bring it," I say. "I've got short person rage on my side. You don't stand a chance."
By Monday of the following week, we've hit full escalation.
My lunch disappears—found eventually on the top shelf of the filing cabinet.
His socket set vanishes—located on the floor behind the desk where he'd have to crawl to reach it.
Finn's favorite screwdriver goes missing entirely until I casually mention checking "kid height storage locations. "
It's petty. It's ridiculous. It's the most fun I've had in years.
Tuesday afternoon brings a different kind of entertainment. A customer walks in—middle-aged guy in khakis and a polo, the kind who looks like he's about to mansplain to me something simple. He's got that energy. That "I'm very important" energy that makes my teeth hurt.
I'm at the desk when he approaches. "I need to talk to whoever's in charge."
"That would be Holt." I gesture toward the garage. "He's with a customer right now but he'll be with you in a few minutes. Can I help you with something?"
"I need a full brake system overhaul and I need it done by tomorrow."
I glance at the schedule. We're booked solid. "I can put you on the schedule for next week—"
"Next week won't work. I need it done tomorrow."
From the garage, I hear Finn's voice, quiet enough that the customer can't hear. "Bet he asks for a discount."
Holt's response is just as quiet. "Bet he name-drops someone 'important.'"
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
The customer leans against my desk. "You know, I'm friends with the mayor, and I really think you could make an exception. It's not that difficult to squeeze one more car in, is it?"
Holt's shoulders shake slightly. Just barely. But I notice.
"Let me check with Holt," I say, already knowing what the answer will be. "One moment."
After I relay the situation and Holt politely but firmly tells the customer we can't accommodate rush work without advance notice—and no, being friends with the mayor doesn't change shop policy—the guy leaves in a huff.
The second the door closes, Finn walks straight to the whiteboard. Adds a tally mark under Holt's column with dramatic flair.
"Lucky guess," he says.
Holt shrugs. "Pattern recognition."
I'm watching this, fascinated. "Do you two bet on EVERYTHING?"
They both turn to look at me, speak in perfect unison. "Yes."
"Everything?"
"Everything," Finn confirms. "Weather. Customer behavior. How many times the phone will ring before lunch. Whether Mrs. Lane will bring cookies. What color car will pull up next. Literally everything."
"That's insane."
"That's entertainment," Finn corrects. "We've been doing this for years. It's tradition. It's sacred. It's the only thing keeping us from murdering each other out of boredom."
"I'm not bored," Holt says.
"You're always bored. You just hide it better than I do."
Later that afternoon, a bolt rolls off the workbench and disappears under the metal shelving unit. The kind that requires getting on your hands and knees to retrieve.
"I'll get it," Finn says, already moving.
"I got it," Holt says at the same time.
Finn pauses. Glances at Holt's right leg—the prosthetic hidden under his jeans. "You sure? Might be hard with—"
Holt gives him a look. The kind of look that could strip paint. Silence stretching between them, weighted with years of friendship and unspoken understanding.
"—with your terrible personality weighing you down," Finn finishes smoothly. "Was gonna say personality. Obviously. What else would I mean?"
Holt crouches down—easy, smooth, no hesitation—and retrieves the bolt. His prosthetic doesn't slow him down, doesn't make it difficult. He's done this a thousand times. He straightens up and throws the bolt directly at Finn's head.
Finn catches it, grinning. "Love you too, buddy."
"Get back to work."
"Sir, yes sir."
I'm watching this exchange from my desk, learning their language. The jokes are affection. The insults are care. The silence between them is trust so deep it doesn't need words.
I want that. Want to be part of it. Want to build something that lasts.
This morning is hot and relentless. Its Saturday and I'm standing in the bedroom wearing a sundress for the first time in what feels like forever, staring at my reflection and thinking: this is either brilliant or the worst idea I've had since agreeing to marry someone I didn't love.
The sundress is pale yellow cotton with little white flowers.
Very sweet.
Very optimistic.
Very much clinging to every curve I possess because the desert doesn't care about modest fashion choices. But I'm committed now. I'm going to explore this town, meet actual people, and feel like a human instead of a shop gremlin covered in grease and resignation.
I get halway down the block when I realize the sundress is a mistake.
Not a small mistake. Not a "whoops, wrong shoes" mistake.
The fabric is sticking to places fabric shouldn't stick.
My thighs are already chafing. The straps keep sliding off my shoulders.
And my hair, which I left down because I wanted to feel human instead of feral, is now a damp curtain of regret clinging to my neck.
But I'm committed. I've made this far. Turning back now would be admitting defeat, and I've already admitted defeat to enough things this month—my engagement, my old life, basic adulting skills like "remembering to eat lunch." I'm not adding "couldn't handle a sundress in the desert" to the list.
A truck rumbles past, driver raising two fingers in greeting even though we've never met, and I wave back because apparently that's what you do here. Acknowledge existence. Participate in small-town rituals I'm still learning.
Sunny's Diner appears like a mirage, pink neon glowing even in daylight, and I nearly run the last fifty feet. The blast of cold air when I push through the door makes me want to cry. Or propose marriage to whoever invented air conditioning. Maybe both.
The diner's packed. Every booth full, counter lined with regulars, the smell of coffee and bacon and pie thick enough to taste.
Conversations layer over each other—someone's complaining about the heat, someone else is laughing about something I can't hear, there's the clink of forks on plates and the hiss of the griddle and underneath it all, the steady hum of Saturday morning in a town where everyone knows everyone.
I spot an empty stool at the counter and claim it before someone else does, sliding onto the cracked vinyl and immediately feeling the sweat on the back of my thighs. Elegant. Very dignified.
"Look who survived!" Sunny appears with a coffee pot, grinning. Her red lipstick is perfect despite the early hour. "Sit anywhere, honey. Though it looks like you already did."
I grab the menu even though I know what I'm getting—coffee and whatever's cheapest, maybe pie if I'm feeling reckless with funds I don't have. "Is it always this packed?"
"Every Saturday since 1987. Town tradition." She pours coffee without asking, the mug appearing in front of me like magic. "Everyone shows up, trades gossip, complains about the heat, goes home. You're officially part of the rotation now."
"Lucky me."
"You settling in okay at Ward's place?" The way she says it—Ward's place—makes it sound like everyone knows exactly where I'm living and has opinions about it.
"Yeah. It's good. The room's great. Holt's been really nice about everything."
"Mmhmm." She's smiling like she knows something I don't, which is deeply unsettling. "Nice. That's what we're calling it."
Before I can figure out what that means, someone slides onto the stool next to me without asking.