10. “It’s the principle.”
“IT’S THE PRINCIPLE.”
HALE
The problem with fucking a friend, however reasonable (and good) it felt at the time, however mutual and uncomplicated you’d both agreed it was, was that pretending you didn’t want to do it again turned out to be a goddamn Olympic sport.
And I was not medal material.
I wanted Yasmine Valentine again, and I wasn’t being smart about it. I’d already proved that. I’d followed her into that bathroom with nothing in my head but yes, like common sense was something that happened to other people.
I was under the hood of a ’72 Chevy C10, knuckles deep in an engine rebuild that deserved better than what I was giving it, trying not to think about her in that parking lot.
I’d taken one step toward her. One step, and she bolted.
The shop ran hot and loud around me. Old oil had worked itself permanent into the concrete, the tool chests stood in their usual red row against the wall, and from bay two came the stutter of an impact wrench and Darnell cussing at a transmission like it had said something about his mother.
Over all of it, because it was my day to pick the music, Jazmine Sullivan was working her way through a song about taking a bat to a man’s car.
My grandfather bought the place in eighty-four.
The sign out front said McClellan’s then, and it said McClellan’s for the next thirty-nine years, because the town had already made up its mind what to call it and my granddaddy wasn’t a man who argued with a settled thing. My father didn’t change it either.
Grant had rolled into town two years ago wanting to buy it outright and fold it into Townsend Customs, same as he’d done with shops from Waco to Corpus.
I’d told him no. Then proposed another option.
Partnership. My people kept their jobs. We got Townsend’s parts network, payroll system, financing, and enough breathing room to stop patching the roof with prayer and spite.
And HENRY’S went up on the wall.
That was the part I held out for. Three generations of Henrys working under another man’s name, and I was the one who finally put ours up there.
Cost me points in the negotiation, but Grant being Grant, hadn’t made it hard for me.
He’d come back with a better offer than I deserved and fewer strings than I expected.
Jazmine hit her high notes and I turned the wrench again.
“You’re going to strip that bolt.”
I jolted. “Jesus.”
Carter leaned against the workbench in a navy quarter-zip, arms crossed, looking too clean for the shop but too useful to send away.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Uh-huh. You’ve been fighting that same bolt for twenty minutes.” He glanced at the speakers mounted in the corner. “And what the fuck is this music?”
I set the wrench down. “That is Jazmine Sullivan.”
Carter stared at me.
“The voice of her generation,” I said.
“What?”
“You heard me.” I looked toward bay two. “Hey, Darnell?”
“Yeah, boss?” He didn’t look up from the transmission.
“Tell our friend from corporate what’s playing.”
“Jazmine Sullivan,” he said immediately. “Voice of her generation.”
“Thank you, Darnell.”
Carter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perfect. Consensus.”
I grabbed a rag. “What do you need, Carter?”
“The Masterson invoice, which I’ve now asked for—” he held up his fingers, “—four times.”
Carter ran operations for Grant, which meant he knew where every dollar went and enjoyed making that everyone else’s problem.
“Right, the invoices,” I said. “I’ll get them to you by Monday.”
“You said Monday, last Monday.”
“This Monday. Different Monday.”
“Hale. Finance is on my neck. I need them.”
“You’ll get them.”
“I need them before the quarter closes, not after.”
“Has Grant ever actually fired someone over a late invoice? Don’t answer that.”
“It’s the principle.”
It was always the principle with Carter. The man had feelings about process that bordered on religious.
“Monday,” I promised. “Nine a.m. You have my word.”
He studied me, then relented. “Fine. Monday. How’s it been around here this week?”
“Busy. Three restorations behind schedule, one parts delay, phones ringing off the hook, and I spent half of yesterday explaining to a man that no, we could not turn his Tahoe into a Ferrari.”
“So the usual.”
“The usual with paperwork.”
“You need someone steady up front. I’ll get HR on it. What else?”
“That’s about it.” I picked up the wrench.
“Uh-huh.” He looked from the Chevy to the speaker and back to me. “So. Woman.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve turned that bolt into a what-not-to-do situation, and Jazmine Sullivan on a Tuesday? Really?”
“She’s the voice of her generation.”
“Hale.”
I leaned back against the fender. “Tell me about Sophie. What’s going on there?”
Carter frowned. “What?”
“Sophie. Thursday night at Grant’s. Y’all left together. I risked Ava’s wrath to make that happen. You better have followed through.”
“I had to hear about it for two days,” he said. “Apparently I’m a shitty friend who fucked up her plan and stole your last chance at happiness.”
I grinned. “Worth it?”
“Obviously.”
“That mean you’re seeing her again?”
“We’re getting dinner Fri—” He stopped. Pointed. “No. Stop with your Jedi mind bullshit. We’re talking about you.”
Christ.
Time was, I could redirect a conversation without anyone noticing. Keep talking, keep smiling, point them at someone else’s drama and slip out the back. Worked on women, worked on cops, worked on my old man, but apparently it didn’t work on Carter anymore.
Or Nico.
Or Ava.
Or Yasmine.
I swore under my breath. “Alright, fine. You got me. I’m tripping.”
“So a woman.” Carter relaxed. “And don’t bother to deny it. It’s always a woman with you. For a smart guy, you’re really dumb about them.”
“I’m having a week.”
“Clearly.”
“But I’ll get over it and get you your invoices if it means we can stop talking about this.” I went back to the bolt. “Happy now?”
“Jumping for joy.” He looked at me like I was a spreadsheet throwing an error, then let me off the hook. “You’re a mess. I say that with love.”
“Love?”
“Man-love. Shut up.”
I snorted.
“Just sort your shit out.” He pushed off the bench. “And I want my fucking invoices. Monday, nine a.m.”
“Yeah, yeah. And Carter?” I put my hand to my heart. “I love you too, brotha.”
He flipped me off and was out the door.
The shop’s noise dropped back around me and I pulled out my phone.
The last exchange with Yasmine was from this morning. Two people being very deliberate about the temperature of a conversation.
Yasmine: Thanks for not making it weird.
Me: Same to you.
I’d wanted to say more. Ask if she was okay. Tell her that night at the bar, her showing up like that, had been the best part of my week. But I got what she was doing.
She was setting the terms. So I’d agreed.
Me: For what it’s worth, I’m glad you showed up
That part I’d meant, but she hadn’t responded.
I typed: You around tonight?
Looked at it, deleted it, then slid the phone back in my pocket.
Handle your shit.
Easier said than done.
The honest version of what I wanted was something I’d been avoiding long enough that looking at it now felt like standing up too fast.
I wanted to see her. Not like the parking lot. Not like the bathroom at Ricochet. I wanted to sit across from her, hand her a drink, and watch her face change when something caught her interest. I wanted to be in the same room as her longer than the situation required.
A problem.
Because Yasmine didn’t stay. Not a theory I’d cooked up, but observational data. Years of watching her roll into town and then roll right back out again. I’d accepted that, and filed it under “things that are true about Yasmine” and left it alone.
What I hadn’t accounted for was what happened when she stopped moving long enough to really look at me.
I locked up the bay, lifted two fingers to Darnell on my way out, and climbed into the truck before I could talk myself into staying busy.
Told myself I was doing the smart thing.
Told myself I didn’t need to see her anyway.
Told myself a whole bunch of reasonable lies that might’ve worked if I wasn’t already running through every spot in town she might be and whether any of them gave me a legitimate reason to show up.
The problem with fucking a friend was that everything after got complicated in ways you couldn’t unfuck.
I pulled out of the lot and drove home, caught between knowing what I wanted and knowing it wasn’t mine to take.