14. Ethan
ETHAN
Iwrenched down too hard and the tool slipped, sending my knuckles into the engine block. Sharp pain bloomed in my hand. I cursed quietly as blood seeped over two knuckles.
Mrs. Donelly’s truck didn’t care about my distractions or how my mind kept drifting upstairs to the apartment where Lena had been holed up for days, distant as if our night together had never happened.
It just waited to be fixed.
I wiped the cut on a rag, leaving a red streak on gray fabric. The wound wasn’t deep enough to stop me, only enough to remind me to focus. I picked up the wrench again, more deliberately this time.
For three days Lena had been different, and it wasn’t just because she said that nothing between us was ever going to happen again.
Her smiles didn’t reach her eyes. She moved through rooms as if she was trying not to disturb anything, including me.
I told myself it was work. She had a report to finish, problems to solve before delivering her recommendation. But her lack of eye contact felt like more than focus. The timing was obvious.
After one full night together—honest and open—she built walls. I replayed that night, searching for the moment something shifted, the moment I might have missed.
A part of me had known this was going to happen, and still, I was stupid enough to hope that it wouldn’t.
I leaned into the engine, adjusting the timing belt that kept slipping. Mrs. Donnelly couldn’t afford a new truck and this repair had failed three times in a year. Someday I would tell her it wasn’t worth it. Not today, though.
The shop door opened with a gust of cool air and Mark’s heavy steps.
“Still fussing with that heap?” he called, crossing concrete toward me.
I didn’t look up. “Mrs Donnelly needs it tomorrow.”
“And you need a break.” He leaned on the bench beside me. “You look worn out.”
“Thanks.”
He watched me tighten a clamp. His silence meant he was waiting for me to speak. He never rushed when he knew something was wrong.
“Heard your consultant wraps up soon,” he said. “Town’s buzzing wondering what she’s going to recommend.”
My hand froze. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. Carol says the report’s almost done. Your girl’s been working late. Also told me something that I think you should know.”
The tenor of his voice sent a shiver of ice up my spine. “She’s not my girl.” The words cut sharper than I intended.
“Well, I can’t say that’s not a relief, considering what I just heard.”
“Mark, I really am running low on patience today. Spit it out.”
I finished the clamp and wiped my hands. The silence grew too long.
“I mean it. What’s going on?”
“Carol said that she got a look at one of the documents Lena was working on the other night. Said there was some mumbo jumbo in there about future developments. She might be playing nice with everyone around here, but she’s not telling them everything.”
“Not telling me everything you mean.”
“What’s going on with you two? The whole town sees it. And I gotta tell you. It hurt to think that she might have told you about the development and that you were keeping it to yourself.”
“She didn’t tell me. And there’s nothing going on between us,” my chest tightened as I bit out the words, “At least, there isn’t anymore. And now? Well, I think I have a good idea of why.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means–. Dammit. It means that maybe I thought I saw something going between us two, and she ended it. Probably because she always knew what was really going to happen to the town. Knew what she was going to do.”
“Ethan, I’m sorry. Thats… heavy.”
I shot him a pointed look, my hands tightening at my sides.
How had she kept this from me?
There had been a part of me that thought if she saw what this place really was, if she saw me, that it might actually make a difference to her.
“How could I have been so stupid?”
“Never met a man in love that wasn’t,” he stammered when he met my icy gaze, “Or lust, or whatever. Point being, you didn’t know. What are you going to do about it now that you do?”
I shook my head, defeat climbing up my throat, followed by a burning sense of betrayal.
“What can I do? She made her choice, and this town wasn’t it. I wasn’t it.”
He left me alone with Mrs. Donnelly’s truck, with the knowledge that the woman wearing tracks into the carpet above me had not only sidelined me, but had kept me in the dark.
Early in the morning I saw her through the café window. She sat at the corner table that everyone avoided, papers spread out. I watched her furrowed brow, the tension in her fingers at her temple. She wasn’t just working. She was burdened.
Good. She deserved to be.
Part of me wanted to confront her, wanted to try to change her mind, wanted to look her in the eye to make sure she understood that I knew what she had done.
Inside, Marianne set coffee beside Lena’s elbow. They exchanged quiet words. Lena’s smile was polite, hollow, and she never looked out toward me even when Marianne glanced my way. I finally turned back to the street.
By midday I drove parts back from the supplier and spotted her again on the road to the overlook. She measured pavement with a tape, noted every detail in her leather notebook. Cars passed, neighbors waved. She raised a brief hand but returned to work before I could speak.
I slowed as I drove past, studied her pulled-back hair, precise movements, the tension in her shoulders. She didn’t look up. Maybe she didn’t see me. Maybe she was pretending I wasn’t there.
It wouldn’t have surprised me a bit at that point.
In the afternoon I took the long way home, an excuse to pass the overlook. She sat on the bench we had shared, head bent over stacks of papers. She glanced at the town spread below, then back to her pages.
I didn’t stop. I didn’t speak. I drove on, heart heavy.
Later on Main Street I left the hardware store with supplies and found her exiting the town offices. We almost collided on the narrow sidewalk.
“Ethan,” she says, voice careful.
“Lena.”
Her eyes met mine, then dropped. She hugged her folders tight.
“How are you?”
“Fine.” I forced calm. “You?”
“Busy. The report is–”
“Almost done. I heard. Heard some other things about it too.”
She looked at me, and didn’t even have the decency to look confused. Instead, there was defiance in her eyes, followed by quiet apology.
Awkward silence. Three days earlier I would have suggested coffee, found an excuse to stay close. Now, hurt filled me as I watched her mouth open and shut, struggling for words.
“You know what, Lena? Don’t bother. I should get back to it.”
“Ethan.”
“No, Lena. Don’t. You’ve got some really important work to finish, wouldn’t want to get in your way. Not that you wouldn’t just steamroll me if I did.”
Her face fell, and she walked off a second later, her steps quick. I watched until she disappeared.
Back in the shop I dove into a carburetor rebuild. The radio played low, classic rock. Above, I heard floorboards creak as she paced and then music, notes weighted with questions. I recognized the melody. It mixed with her footsteps, a rhythm matching the ache in my chest.
I worked until my eyes stung and my hands turned raw. The music continued past midnight. Eventually the pacing stopped.
I was changing oil when I heard Lena’s voice outside the shop the next morning. Mr. Richards stood with her, pointing toward the overlook road. She answered with phrases like standard procedures and pending review.
She was all professional polish, not the woman who had once leaned into the view beside me. I stepped into the doorway. She saw me, nodded once, then turned back to her technical talk.
An hour later I saw her with Carol outside town hall.
Carol pressed her for straight answers, but Lena offered only jargon and deflections.
Carol touched her arm. Lena stepped back and clutched her folders.
When she noticed me, her professional mask slipped for a second, revealing strain.
Then she excused herself and hurried away.
“She’s running herself into the ground,” Carol said to me. “And she won’t say a word to me about those development plans I saw.”
“No,” I replied. “Why would she? Wouldn’t want to give us a chance to ruin things for her.”
Carol sighed and walked off, leaving me to watch the street.
Later I passed the overlook again. This time Mrs. Alvarez stood with Lena. Even from the roadside I saw Lena fighting tears, the older woman offering comfort that she didn’t deserve.
She had made her bed.
Lena shook her head and stepped away. Mrs. Alvarez watched her go.
That night I returned leftover parts to the hardware store and found Mark.
“Mrs Alvarez told me she found your consultant nearly broken at the overlook,” he says. “Then she claimed it was just work stress.”
“Yeah, well. We both know better than that,” I said, folding my hands.
“Maybe,” he said, unconvinced. “She’s wrestling with more than numbers, it seems to me. Maybe this doesn’t sit as well with her as we think it does.”
“She doesn’t care, Mark. Not enough, anyway. I don’t think she ever did. And honestly? I’m done making excuses for her. You shouldn’t either.”