9. Car Shopping
Car Shopping
NORA
Knox picked me up at nine on Saturday morning. He pulled into Barb's driveway in his truck and texted that he was outside.
I'd been ready for twenty minutes. I'd changed twice, which was ridiculous because we were going to used car lots, not dinner. I settled on jeans and a plain top and told myself to stop thinking about it.
"Morning," he said when I climbed in.
"Thank you for doing this."
"I told you I would."
He pulled out of the driveway one-handed, his other arm resting on the open window frame. His sleeves were pushed up past his forearms and I let myself look for exactly as long as I should have looked away.
He pulled a folded piece of paper from the center console and handed it to me. "Three dealerships, two private sellers, and a guy in Henderson who flips cars as a side business."
I unfolded it. Names, addresses, phone numbers, all written in neat block letters.
"How do you know all these people?"
"Firefighters know everyone. When you respond to enough car accidents, you end up knowing who handles what afterward."
The first lot was off Boulder Highway. Rows of sedans and SUVs sat baking in the sun with prices written on the windshields in white marker. A salesman in a polo shirt started toward us the second we got out.
Knox put his hand up. "We're just looking."
The salesman slowed but didn't retreat.
Knox walked me through the first row. He stopped at a silver Honda and crouched by the driver's door.
"First thing you check is the VIN plate." He pointed through the windshield at the small metal plate on the dashboard. "It should match the one on the sticker inside the door jamb. If those two numbers don't match, you walk away."
"Why wouldn't they match?"
"Because the car isn't what they're telling you it is. Stolen vehicles get new VIN plates. Or they'll take the plate from a totaled car and put it on a stolen one so it comes back clean when you run it." He opened the door and pointed at the jamb. "This one matches. That's step one."
He showed me what to look for under the hood. Mismatched paint on the fenders that meant a previous accident they hadn't disclosed. Fresh undercoating sprayed to hide rust or flood damage. Bolts on the hinges that had been turned, which meant the hood or the doors had been removed and replaced.
He stepped back from the hood and I realized how close he'd been standing.
Close enough that I'd felt the warmth of him over my shoulder the entire time he was pointing things out, his voice low and right there.
He was tall enough that I had to tip my head back when he turned to face me, and for a second I forgot what we were looking at.
"If anything looks too new on a car this old, ask why."
I was writing mental notes as fast as he was talking. He went through it patiently, never rushing, circling back when I had a question. He checked the tires, the brakes, the oil. He started the engine and listened with his head tilted like a doctor with a stethoscope.
"Sounds decent. A little lifter tick, but that's the mileage."
"Is that bad?"
"Not yet. It will be eventually."
We moved through the lot. I liked a blue Civic with low mileage, but Knox pointed out the paint mismatch on the rear quarter panel and a VIN sticker that looked like it had been peeled and reapplied. I liked a white Camry, but the price was too high for what it was.
"Trust your gut on the price," Knox said. "If it feels like too much, it probably is. These lots mark up twenty to thirty percent because they know most people don't shop around."
The second lot was smaller, tucked behind a tire shop off Lamb Boulevard. The owner came out and shook Knox's hand like they knew each other.
"Sullivan. Haven't seen you in a while."
"Ray. This is Nora. She's looking for something reliable. Under ten thousand. Nothing fancy."
Ray walked us to the back row. "I've got three in that range. A Corolla, a Sentra, and a Mazda3. The Corolla's the safest bet. The Sentra's cheaper but it needs brake pads within six months. The Mazda drives the best but it's at the top of your budget."
Knox checked all three the same way he'd checked the ones at the first lot. VIN plates, paint, hinges, tires, engine. He took longer with the Corolla. Walked around it twice, got underneath it with his phone flashlight, came back up and brushed the gravel off his jeans.
"This one's clean."
"Is that the professional opinion?"
He almost smiled. "It's the closest you'll get from someone who isn't a mechanic."
I sat in the driver's seat, adjusted the mirrors, and put my hands on the wheel. The interior was worn but not damaged. It smelled like it had been detailed recently, which Knox told me could mean they were covering something or it could mean the previous owner just took care of it.
"How do I tell the difference?"
"You don't, on a test drive. You take it to a mechanic for a pre-purchase inspection. Sixty bucks. Worth every cent."
We test-drove the Corolla and the Mazda. Knox sat in the passenger seat with his window down. The Corolla drove exactly the way it looked. The Mazda was lighter, more responsive, and made me feel like I was driving something that actually wanted to be driven.
"I like the Mazda."
"I thought you would."
"But the Corolla is the smarter choice."
"Probably."
I thought about my budget. The insurance payout from the fire had covered some things, but between replacing documents, buying essentials, and putting down rent at Barb's, the cushion was thin. The Corolla was two thousand dollars less. Two thousand dollars was two months of breathing room.
"I don't have to decide today, do I?"
"No. Ray's not going anywhere. And neither are those cars."
We thanked Ray and left. Knox drove south toward the Henderson seller, but the guy wasn't answering his phone, so we kept going until the lots ran out and the afternoon had settled in.
"Are you hungry?" Knox asked.
"Starving."
He pulled into a diner off Stephanie Street with a neon sign and a parking lot that was half-full for a Saturday afternoon. The smell of grease and coffee hit us before we got to the door.
We took a booth by the window. The vinyl seats were cracked at the edges and the table had that permanent stickiness that no amount of wiping would fix. I slid in across from Knox and picked up the menu.
I flipped through the pages. Burgers, sandwiches, breakfast all day. I turned to the next page and found a row of chicken tender options with different sauces and sides listed underneath.
"The tenders here aren't too bad," Knox said.
"I'll get those then."
He closed his menu. "I'll do a burger."
The waitress came by. We gave her our orders and she told us it'd be about fifteen minutes.
While we waited, we talked about the cars.
Knox went through the shortlist. The Corolla from Ray's lot was the safest option, reliable and within budget.
The Mazda drove better but cost more and had higher mileage.
The Civic from the first lot was off the table because of the paint and the VIN sticker.
The private seller in Henderson was still worth checking if the guy ever picked up his phone.
"If it were your money," I said, "which one would you buy?"
"The Corolla."
"That was fast."
"Because it's the right answer. The Mazda's more fun, but you need something that's going to run for three years without giving you problems. The Corolla will do that."
"You sound like my financial advisor."
"Do you have a financial advisor?"
"No. But if I did, I'd want him to sound exactly like you."
He shook his head, but I caught the smile before he picked up his water.
The food came. The burger was stacked high enough that Knox had to press it down with both hands before he could take a bite. My tenders were golden and still crackling from the fryer.
"This looks good," I said.
We dug in. Knox went straight for the burger. I picked up a tender and bit into it.
The breading was crispy, the chicken was hot, the ranch on the side was fine. But they weren't the ones I was looking for. They never were. Every time I took that first bite, I already knew the answer.
Knox looked up from his plate. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." I set the tender down.
"There was a diner near the house I grew up in called Chunky's. My parents used to take me and Ian whenever my mom didn't feel like cooking. Ian and I would always split the chicken tenders. Garlic parmesan and buffalo ranch on the side. Every time. It was our order."
Knox had stopped eating.
"After my parents died, I kept going. I'd take my brother on Friday nights when I could afford it. It was the one thing from before that still felt the same. Same booth, same order, same taste. Like nothing had changed, even though everything had."
I picked up my water.
"It closed down about three years ago. The owner retired and nobody took it over. I've ordered chicken tenders at every diner I've been to since, trying to find something close. Nothing ever is."
Knox was quiet. "There's a diner not too far from CCMC that my brother and I used to go to. They serve tenders there. I'm not sure if they do garlic parmesan and buffalo ranch, but we could give it a try if you want."
I looked up.
"We could check it out. Once you've got your car, we could take it out for a drive and stop by."
I was nodding before he finished. "I'd like that."
He picked up his burger and took a bite like he hadn't just given me something to look forward to for the rest of the week.
We stayed at the diner until the check came.
The conversation kept going, easy and unhurried, moving between the practical and the personal.
He told me about Travis trying to fix the station's dryer and accidentally rewiring it so it ran in reverse, tumbling everyone's uniforms into a knot so tight they had to cut Carl's shirt out with shears.
I told him about a patient who came into the ER with a TV remote lodged somewhere it shouldn't have been and refused to explain how it got there.
Knox drove me back to Barb's as the sun was going down. The sky was doing that thing it does in the desert, turning the whole western horizon pink and orange behind the silhouette of the mountains. I watched it through the passenger window and let the day settle around me.
When I turned back, the light was catching the side of his face. The line of his jaw, the slight crook in his nose, the scar on his neck that disappeared under his collar. He wasn't trying to be anything. He was just driving. And I couldn't stop looking.
This was new for me. A whole day spent with someone who had no obligation to spend it. No shift to cover, no favor to return, no reason except that he chose to. Knox had given up his Saturday to drive me around used car lots in the heat, and he'd done it like it was exactly where he wanted to be.
I didn't know what to do with it yet.
He pulled into Barb's driveway and put the truck in park.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything today. I would have walked onto that first lot and paid whatever they asked."
"The Corolla," he said. "Think about it. Ray will hold it for a few days if I ask him to."
"I'll think about it tonight."
"Good."
I unbuckled my seatbelt but didn't move. The truck was warm, the music was low, and I could smell his cologne, something clean and simple that had been there all day, close enough to notice and too subtle to name.
"Goodnight, Knox."
"Goodnight, Nora."
I walked up the path to the front door without turning around this time, but I could feel him watching, and I let him.