Chapter 11
His truck's not here.
I'm standing at the loft window, fingers pressed against glass that's already warm, staring at the empty spot where he always parks. Second morning in a row. Yesterday he showed up at ten. Today it might be eleven. Might be noon. Might be never.
I should move. Get dressed. Go downstairs. But I can't make myself turn away from that empty parking space.
The sun's climbing fast, heat already shimmering off the asphalt. It's going to be another scorcher. Shorts weather. Tank top weather. The usual.
Except I can't wear the usual because the bruise on my hip is still visible—faded to that greenish-yellow that somehow looks worse than fresh purple—and I can't let him see it. Can't let him look at me and remember why he left.
So. Jeans it is.
I force myself away from the window and dig through the pile of clean laundry I haven't put away.
Find the least tight pair I own. Pull them on and immediately start sweating.
It's got to be eighty degrees already and I'm about to spend the day in denim because I'm too chickenshit to wear shorts. Because I asked for this bruise.
My hands shake as I button the fly.
Don't think about it. Just get through today.
I grab a tank top, yank my hair into a bun that feels like it's trying to scalp me. Everything's too tight. My clothes. My chest. My throat. Like I'm holding something in that keeps threatening to spill out.
The shop floor is quiet when I come downstairs. Finn's truck is in its usual spot, driver's door hanging open like he just rolled in. Bay doors are up, floor fans already spinning, and it's just him humming off-key to some song on the radio.
No Holt.
"Morning, Gremlin!" Finn appears from behind the Chevy he's working on, grin firmly in place. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah."
The lie tastes like blood in my mouth.
"Coffee's fresh," he says, gesturing with a wrench. "Made it strong. Figured we could both use it."
"Thanks."
I pour myself a cup, add caramel sugar, stir longer than necessary. Keep stirring even after it's dissolved. If I stop, my hands will shake and he'll see.
"Any calls this morning?" My voice sounds almost normal. Almost.
"Nah, quiet so far. Got Mrs. Paller’s alignment scheduled for Thursday, and some guy's supposed to drop off a Dodge this afternoon for an oil change."
He's watching me. I can feel it. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." He doesn't believe me. I wouldn't believe me either. "Well, if you need anything—"
"I know. Thanks, Finn."
I take my coffee to the desk before he can push further. Boot up the computer and stare at the screen until the icons blur together. There's invoices to process. Calls to return. Orders to place. Normal stuff. Easy stuff.
Except my brain feels like static and I can't remember what I'm supposed to do first.
Invoices. Start with invoices.
I pull up the spreadsheet and squint at the numbers. They don't make sense. Everything's jumbled. I backspace, retype, backspace again. My neck's already sweating under the bun. The jeans are sticking to my thighs.
Behind me, Finn's back to humming. The wrench clanks against metal. The floor fan oscillates with that rhythmic squeak that's usually comforting but today makes me want to scream.
Then I hear it.
The sound of an engine cutting through everything else.
I know that sound. Know it like my own heartbeat.
My stomach drops.
I busy myself with absolutely nothing—shuffling papers that don't need shuffling, opening drawers for no reason. His footsteps are heavy on the concrete. Steady. Deliberate. Getting closer.
"Morning."
His voice is flat.
I force myself to look up. "Morning."
That's all we get. One word each. His eyes slide past mine before he turns toward the garage bay where Finn's working. I hear them exchange a few words—something about a timing belt—and then nothing.
He doesn't come back.
I stare at the computer screen, at numbers that refuse to line up, and try to remember how breathing works.
The morning drags. Every phone call feels like it takes an hour. Every invoice is a puzzle I can't solve. I put Mrs. Paller’s file in the wrong drawer three times before I realize what I'm doing. Drop my pen. Forget what I was typing mid-sentence and just stare at half-words on the screen.
Around eleven, Finn sets a water bottle on my desk.
"You're doing that thing where you forget to drink."
"I'm drinking."
"Your coffee's been empty for an hour."
I look down. He's right. "Oh."
"Scout—"
"Thanks for the water."
He squeezes my shoulder and doesn't push. Just goes back to work.
The water tastes like nothing. I drink it anyway because if I don't, he'll worry more than he already is.
Holt walks past the desk twice before lunch. Doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. Just moves through like I'm a piece of furniture he's learned to navigate around.
Each time, something in my chest cracks a little more.
Finn shows up at noon with sandwiches from the diner, dropping one in front of me with an exaggerated ceremony. "Turkey club. Extra pickles. Your favorite."
I stare at it.
"You eating today, or are we doing the 'I'm fine' thing again?"
"Just not hungry yet."
"Scout—"
"I'll eat it later."
He sits on the edge of the desk, unwrapping his own sandwich with deliberate slowness. Takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. "You know you can talk to me, right?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Right. Nothing. Which is why you look like you haven't slept in days and you're about to cry over a perfectly good sandwich."
My voice cracks. "I'm not going to cry."
Finn reaches out like he's going to touch my arm, and I pull back without thinking. His hand freezes mid-air.
Something crosses his face—concern, maybe. Or pity. I can't look at it.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I just—I need to work. That's all."
He pulls his hand back slowly. Studies me for a long moment. "Okay. But the sandwich stays. And if you don't eat it by the end of the day, I'm staging an intervention."
"Deal."
He leaves. The sandwich sits there mocking me. I can't imagine eating it. Can't imagine anything except the sound of Holt's truck this morning and the way he wouldn't look at me.
The afternoon is worse.
A customer comes in at two to pick up his truck—routine brake job, should be easy. I pull up his invoice and try to focus on the numbers. They swim on the screen.
"That'll be two-eighty-seven fifty," I say, except that's wrong. That's not even close to right.
"You sure?" The guy's squinting at the paper. "Thought you said three hundred on the phone."
"Right. Sorry." I backspace, retype. The numbers still don't make sense. "Three hundred. Three-oh-seven. No, wait—"
My elbow hits the pen cup.
Everything happens slow and fast at once.
The cup tips. Rolls. Pens scatter across the desk in a wave of plastic and ink, some clattering to the floor, others spinning in circles on the wood. One rolls right off the edge and I watch it fall, watch it hit concrete and bounce.
"Shit." I drop to my knees, hands scrambling. "Sorry, I'm sorry, just give me a second—"
The concrete's cold under my knees. My fingers slip on smooth plastic. I can't grab them fast enough. Can't hold anything. The pens keep rolling away from me and my hands won't work right and I can't—
"Hey, no worry, honey." His voice is so kind. "You sure you're alright?"
The kindness breaks something.
Tears blur my vision. I'm on my hands and knees surrounded by pens and I can't stop them. Can't breathe. Can't think. Just kneeling here crying like an idiot while some customer hovers awkwardly above me asking if I'm okay.
"I'm fine," I choke out. "Just—just give me a minute—"
I abandon the pens. All of them. Leave the customer standing there confused. Stumble toward the back room with my vision swimming and my chest heaving.
Get inside.
Shut the door.
Slide down against it until I'm sitting on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest.
And then I really cry.
Not the quiet kind. The ugly kind. The kind where your whole body shakes and you can't catch your breath and every thought is a knife.
Asked for too much.
Wanted something he couldn't give.
Scared him away.
Begged for it.
Evan was right.
Too much. Too broken.
Too damaged.
Not worth the effort.
The thoughts pile on top of each other, each one worse than the last, building until I'm drowning in them.
He saw the bruise and ran. Because I asked him to hurt me. Because I'm so fucked up I can't even want normal things.
Ruined everything. Had something good and I ruined it by being broken.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears. They keep coming anyway. Soak through my fingers. My chest hurts. Everything hurts.
Someone knocks.
"Scout? You okay?"
Finn. Of course it's Finn.
"Yeah." My voice is destroyed. Completely wrecked. "Just need a minute."
"Okay." A pause. "I'm right here if you need me."
His footsteps retreat.
I don't know how long I sit there. Long enough for my legs to go numb. Long enough for the tears to slow to hiccupping breaths. Long enough for the sun to shift through the small window and paint new shadows on the wall.
Long enough to convince myself I can stand up and pretend this didn't happen.
I pull myself to my feet, splash water on my face from the utility sink. Look in the small mirror. My eyes are red and swollen. Face blotchy. Hair coming loose from its bun.
I look exactly like someone who spent two hours crying on a back room floor.
Perfect.
I grab my bag from under the desk—moving quickly, not looking at anyone—and head for the stairs.
"I'm going upstairs," I manage. It's all I can get out.
I don't wait for a response.
Finn
I watch her disappear up the stairs and want to punch something.
Holt's still in the garage, head down over the Civic's engine. He hasn't looked up since Scout bolted. Hasn't moved except to reach for different tools.
I walk over, lean against the workbench. "She's gone."
"I know." His voice is flat.