Chapter 13
Holt
The shop's still dark when I pull into the lot. I have been practicing all night what I am going to say.
Scout, we need to talk. No—sounds like I'm breaking up with her. Can we talk? Too passive. I need to explain—
Her light's on.
I kill the engine and just sit there, staring up at that yellow square in the predawn gray. She's awake. This is it. I'll go up there, knock, and—
My phone buzzes.
REMINDER: Mandatory supplier certification workshop TODAY 9AM at Mesa Distribution Center. Ward & Weller Auto registered for parts specialist demo. Attendance required for account status.
I read it twice. Three times. Press my forehead against the steering wheel and breathe through the urge to put my fist through the dashboard.
Fucking automated reminder. I'd completely forgotten about this—signed up months ago when the account rep mentioned it might get us better pricing.
I've been sleeping on Finn's couch, rehearsing this conversation, and the universe just gave me a mandatory fucking workshop.
The loft door opens. Scout comes down the stairs in her usual work clothes—cut-offs, tank top, hair already pulled back—and she doesn't look at me. Doesn't even glance at the truck as she crosses to the shop entrance.
"Morning."
I get out, my leg stiff from sitting too long, and compensate without thinking. "There's a workshop today. Parts supplier thing in Mesa. I forgot we were registered. We have to go."
She stops with her hand on the door. "Okay."
That's it. Just okay. Not when are we leaving or do I have time for coffee or any of the thousand things she'd normally say. Just one word.
"We need to leave by soon to get there on time," I add, because apparently I'm a masochist who needs to hear more of that careful nothing in her voice.
"Okay," she says again, and disappears inside.
Finn's truck rumbles into the lot twenty minutes later, all off-key singing and drumming on the steering wheel, and the cheerfulness feels like nails on concrete. He takes one look at my face and the singing stops.
"Morning. We ready to—wait, why do you look like that?"
"Workshop," I say. "Mesa. Today."
"What workshop?"
"Parts supplier certification. The one I signed us up for months ago and completely forgot about."
"Fuck." He scrubs his hand through his hair, already seeing where this is going. "The three of us? In a truck? For an hour?"
"Yeah."
"This is gonna be great. Really great. Love this for us."
We load into my truck—Finn in the middle because someone has to be, Scout at the window like she needs an escape route. She climbs in without a word, turns her face toward the glass. I start the engine, adjust the mirrors, check the gauges. Anything to delay the inevitable.
"So," Finn tries after we hit the highway. "Anyone excited about mandatory safety certification?"
Nothing. Scout's staring at nothing, my hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles still split from the fight. I can feel Finn's eyes on them.
"No? Nobody?" He's trying so hard. "Free coffee? Stale donuts? The thrill of regulatory compliance?"
Scout makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be something breaking. I can't tell. Don't want to check.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Finn pulls out his phone, gives up on conversation, and the silence fills every inch of the cab. The air conditioning rattles. Scout shifts in her seat. I count mile markers and hate myself.
The workshop's in a warehouse space outside Mesa—concrete floors, metal folding chairs, maybe thirty mechanics already milling around with coffee.
The heat hits the second we step out of the truck, that dry furnace blast that makes your lungs work harder, and inside it's barely cooler.
Just stale air pushed around by industrial fans that do nothing but move the heat around.
I spot the sign-in table and head over, Scout trailing a few steps behind like we're strangers.
"Ward & Weller?" The guy at the table is maybe our age, clean white shirt somehow not already soaked through with sweat. Name tag says Grant Verden. "I'm the parts coordinator. You must be—" He looks up as Scout reaches the table and stops. Does a double-take that's not subtle at all.
"Hi," Scout says, and there's a flicker of warmth in it. Small, but it's there.
"Hi." Grant's still looking at her, and I should probably say something, sign us in, move this along. Instead I'm standing here cataloging everything about him: clean-shaven, good posture, the way he shifts his clipboard to his other hand.
"Sorry, I—" He clears his throat. "You must be the famous color-coded filing system.
I've shown the photos to half the shops I work with.
" He's talking faster now, animated, doing this thing with his hands where his fingers splay out like he's trying to shape the words in the air.
"Alphabetized, categorized, color-coded by urgency.
It's—" He catches himself. Laughs. "Sorry.
I get way too excited about organization.
My girlfriend used to say it was—" He stops. "Ex-girlfriend. Used to say."
And there it is. Ex-girlfriend. Single.
Scout's smiling. Actually smiling. "It's not a problem. The system's the only thing keeping that shop from burning down."
"Right?" Grant's grin widens. "I tried to explain to my boss that 'throw it in a drawer and hope' isn't actually a system, but—"
"But they never listen," Scout finishes.
"Exactly."
They're still smiling at each other. I'm still standing here like an idiot, watching it happen, and the bad coffee I had an hour ago is sitting wrong in my stomach.
Finn clears his throat. "Hey, man, where's the coffee?"
Grant points toward the back corner, reluctantly breaking eye contact with Scout.
We sign in, find seats, and the presentation starts—hydraulics, pressure systems, safety protocols.
I'm supposed to be paying attention but I can't stop tracking Grant's position in the room.
He's up near the front, occasionally pointing at slides, occasionally looking back toward where Scout's sitting a few rows ahead of me.
Sweat's already rolling down my spine, soaking into my shirt, and the folding chair's digging into my bad leg. I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't make everything ache.
Grant's explaining torque specifications. Scout's taking notes. I'm staring at the back of her head and hating every second of this.
Coffee break hits at nine-thirty. I'm refilling my cup—burnt, bitter, somehow worse hot—when I see him find her. She's standing by the parts display, studying some new gasket design, and Grant appears at her elbow.
"Hey," he says. "You looked like you were actually interested in that pressure valve section. Most people zone out by slide thirty."
She laughs, and it's that full, bright sound I haven't heard since—
Since before.
"I was trying to figure out if we could retrofit our hydraulic lift with the new system," she says. "Pretty sure the answer's no, but I was doing the math anyway."
"That's—" He leans against the display table, and there's something disarming about the way he does it. Not smooth. A little awkward, actually, like he's not quite sure where to put his hands. "Okay, that's actually impressive. Most people at these things are just here for the free certification."
"I mean, I'm also here for the free certification." Scout's opening up, that defensive edge she's been carrying all week softening. "But if I'm gonna sit through hours of this, might as well learn something useful."
"You got a point." Grant takes a sip of his coffee, makes a face. "God, this is terrible."
"Yeah, it really is."
"But we keep drinking it."
"Nowhere else to get caffeine."
They're laughing together now, easy and comfortable, and I'm standing ten feet away pretending to be very interested in a hydraulic pressure chart. The coffee tastes like metal in my mouth. My jaw aches from clenching it.
"You working the counter or in the garage?" Grant asks.
"Both. Wherever they need me."
"They're lucky to have you."
She shrugs, but something in her face shifts. Softens. That defensive tension she's been carrying all week just... drops. Her shoulders ease. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
And it's for him. For Grant with his hand-gestures and his appreciation for filing systems and his complete lack of baggage.
I turn back to the coffee station and pour a cup I don't want.
The presentation resumes—more slides, more specifications—and Grant occasionally glances back at Scout. She occasionally glances back at him. I watch it happen and taste metal every time I swallow.
Lunch is catered sandwiches and chips in the parking lot, the sun absolutely brutal.
Heat radiates off the asphalt in waves that make everything shimmer, and the air smells like hot tar and dust, that specific scent of Arizona summer that sticks in your throat.
We find a spot of shade against the building that does fuck-all to help, concrete wall already baking at our backs.
Grant gravitates straight to Scout like she's magnetic north. Finn and I end up at the same table because the alternative is sitting alone like the pathetic disaster I am.
"So where are you from originally?" Grant asks Scout, unwrapping his sandwich and squinting against the glare. "You don't sound local."
"Kind of everywhere." She picks at her chips. "Moved around a lot."
"Military family?"
"Something like that."
He doesn't push. Just nods and shifts the conversation. "Best place you've lived?"
I watch her sort through the answer, deciding what's safe to share. "There was this town in Colorado. Little place in the mountains. I liked it there."
"Mountains to desert—that's a hell of a change." He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews. "What brought you out here?"