Chapter 13 #2
"Long story." She glances at me, quick, then back to Grant. "Short version is I needed a change. Saw a help wanted ad online. Next thing I knew I was driving through the desert at two in the morning wondering what the hell I was doing."
Grant laughs. "And now?"
"Now I'm still wondering." But she's smiling when she says it. "But less often."
"The desert grows on you." He gestures at the shimmering heat with his sandwich. "Or it drives you crazy. Sometimes both."
"Which one are you?"
"Oh, definitely both." That hand-gesture thing again, fingers spreading. "I grew up in Flagstaff. Moved to Phoenix for college, lasted two years before I realized I needed less city, more space. Found this job, figured I'd do it for a year, maybe two." He shakes his head. "That was five years ago."
"You like it?"
"I like the quiet. The space. Weird hours." He grins. "My ex hated it. Kept saying I was wasting my degree working with auto parts in the middle of nowhere."
"What was your degree in?"
"Business management." He says it like it's a punchline. "Real useful when you're explaining to a mechanic why his gasket order's delayed."
Scout laughs—actually laughs, throwing her head back—and the sound hits me in the chest like a fist.
"What about you?" Grant asks. "College?"
"Some." She's quieter now. "Didn't finish. Turned out sitting in lecture halls talking about theoretical business models wasn't really my thing. I'm better with my hands."
"Nothing wrong with that. Half the mechanics I work with have more practical knowledge than any MBA I've met."
"Tell that to my—" She stops. Rewrites mid-sentence. "Tell that to most people."
Grant doesn't miss it. Doesn't push. Just shifts again. "Well, for what it's worth, what you're doing at Ward & Weller—that takes real skill. You can't teach someone to see how a shop actually functions and then fix it. That's instinct."
The sandwich tastes like dust in my mouth. I'm eating it anyway, chewing mechanically, listening to every word while Finn kicks me under the table.
I kick him back. The sun's beating down on all of us, heat radiating off metal chairs, but Scout looks comfortable. Happy, almost.
Like she's not sitting in a parking lot in hundred-degree heat talking to a stranger.
Like she's exactly where she wants to be.
"So what do you do when you're not color-coding parts?" Grant asks.
Scout pauses mid-bite. Thinks about it. "Honestly? Not much. Work. Sleep. Avoid thinking too hard about life choices."
"Sounds perfect."
"Does it?"
"Yeah." He's genuine when he says it. "Sometimes the best thing you can do is just... be. Work with your hands. Let your brain rest. Exist without a five-year plan."
Something in Scout's face shifts. Opens. "Yeah. Exactly."
And I watch it happen. Watch her recognize something in him, some shared understanding I can't give her because I'm too busy carrying years of guilt and a prosthetic leg and the absolute certainty that I'll fuck this up the same way I fuck everything up.
The afternoon session drags on—more presentations, more certifications—and by the time we're loading certified parts into Finn's truck bed, I'm ready to set something on fire.
"This goes in the back corner," Scout's saying, directing traffic while Grant helps load boxes. "No, the other back corner. Yeah, there."
"You're very particular about organization," Grant says, grinning.
"You have no idea." Finn appears with another box, shirt soaked through with sweat. "She color-coded our tools. Our tools."
"Efficiency," Scout argues.
"Madness," Finn counters, but he's smiling.
Grant laughs, sets down his box, and pulls out his phone. The movement's casual but I see the shift in his shoulders, the way he's suddenly less certain.
"Hey, can I get your number?" He's talking to Scout, but I hear every word from ten feet away where I'm pretending to inspect brake pads. "For shop stuff. Or coffee sometime. If you want."
Scout hesitates. Looks past Grant's shoulder to where I'm very obviously eavesdropping, and I should turn away. Should give her privacy. Should do literally anything except stand here holding a fucking brake pad like my life depends on it.
She looks back at Grant. "Sure."
Everything narrows. The parking lot, the heat, the sound of Finn dropping boxes—all of it compresses down to Scout's voice as she recites her number.
The cardboard edges dig into my palms and I'm gripping too hard, crushing it, and I can feel it in my chest. Actual physical pressure, like something's wrapped around my ribs and squeezing.
My throat goes tight. There's a ringing in my ears that has nothing to do with the heat.
"I'll text you," Grant says.
"Okay."
"Okay." He shifts the last box into place. "It was really good meeting you, Scout."
"You too."
I set down the brake pad before I destroy it completely. My hands are shaking. I make them stop.
Finn appears at my elbow as Grant heads back inside. "You good?"
"Fine."
"You're about to break that part."
"I'm fine."
"Holt—"
"Let's just go."
We load into the truck in silence. Nobody fights for position this time—same configuration as before, Finn in the middle, Scout at the window.
I start the engine. Pull out onto the highway. Watch the warehouse disappear in the rearview mirror.
Twenty minutes of silence. Nobody even tries this time. Scout's phone buzzes, and she pulls it out. The screen lights up her face in the growing dusk, and I see it—surprise, then something softer. She types a response. Hits send. The smallest smile touches her mouth.
My knuckles go white on the steering wheel. That pressure in my chest gets worse, spreads to my jaw, makes my teeth ache.
Her phone buzzes again.
I can't do this. Can't sit here and watch her text him, watch her smile at whatever charming thing he's saying, watch her move toward something easy and uncomplicated while I—
"You're really gonna go out with him?"
The words are out before I can stop them.
Scout
I look up from my phone. Holt's staring straight ahead at the road, jaw doing that thing where I can literally see him grinding his teeth.
"Excuse me?"
"That guy. Grant. You're gonna go out with him."
Heat floods my face. Anger, embarrassment, something sharp. "That's none of your business."
"The hell it isn't—"
"Stop." It comes out harder than I meant. "You don't get to do this."
"Do what?"
"This. Whatever this is." I gesture between us, phone still in my hand. "You left, Holt. You saw a bruise and you ran. You won't talk to me, won't look at me, won't explain anything. And now you think you get a say in who I text?"
His jaw ticks.
"He doesn't know you," Holt says finally, so quiet I almost miss it.
"Good." Sharp. Mean. I don't care. "Because apparently I’m too broken for anyone to truly get to know me."
He flinches. Visible, actual flinch, and something in my chest twists.
The silence that follows is suffocating. Finn's staring at his phone like he can disappear into it, like if he just focuses hard enough he'll phase through the seat and escape this nightmare.
I look back at my screen. Grant's message is still there, asking if I'm free Saturday for coffee. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Saturday works, I type.
Hit send before I can think better of it.
Holt's hands tighten on the wheel until I'm sure he's going to snap it in half.
Nobody speaks for the rest of the drive. Not when we hit Coyote Bend's town limits. Not when Holt pulls into the lot. Not when he kills the engine and we just sit there in the dying light, three people who used to know how to talk to each other and now can't find a single word.
I'm out of the truck before anyone can say anything. "I'm going upstairs."
The stairs feel endless. My hands are shaking and I don't know if it's anger or something else, something worse. I fumble with the door, get inside, close it behind me and just lean against it. Breathe.
My phone buzzes. Grant again.
Looking forward to it :)
I stare at the message. At the smiley face. At the simplicity of it—a guy who likes organization and thinks I'm impressive and wants to get coffee. No baggage. No prosthetic leg and military guilt and whatever the hell is happening between me and Holt that neither of us can figure out how to fix.
I should be happy. Excited, even.
Instead I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, phone in my lap, and I can hear voices outside. Holt and Finn. Can't make out the words but I know the tone—Finn arguing, Holt shutting down. Same as it's been for days.
My phone buzzes again.
There's a good coffee place on Main Street if that works? 10am?
I type back. Sounds perfect.
Send.
Set the phone face-down on the floor next to me and stare at the ceiling. Wonder why doing the right thing feels so much like giving up.