19. Edda
Chapter nineteen
Edda
The bell above the shop door chimes at exactly nine o’clock, and I do not look up from the Schwinn’s rear derailleur because I already know who it is. Bennett Thornhill has never been late to anything in his life, which apparently includes proving a point to a woman who told him not to bother.
“Counter’s clear if you need to set anything down,” I say, adjusting the cable tension with pliers that have seen better decades. “Coffee’s in the back if you want some. Made it twenty minutes ago, so it is not fresh, but it is not terrible either.”
His footsteps slow just inside the door. I can feel him recalibrating, the way he does when I hand him something he did not expect. Most people would have interrupted by now, made themselves known, filled the space. He does not.
The cable slides through the housing with a clean, satisfying whisper.
“I will wait,” he says.
I finish the adjustment, run the shift through all seven gears, then set the pliers down.
When I finally turn, he is by the register with his hands relaxed at his sides, not in his pockets, not reaching for his phone.
No small distraction, no exit strategy. Just standing there like he has decided the only acceptable move is stillness until I give him direction.
“You look like you slept,” I say before I can stop myself. It comes out more surprised than I intended.
“Four hours.” The corner of his mouth shifts, almost a smile, but not quite. “Personal record for the week.”
That lands harder than it should.
I wipe my hands on the rag tucked into my back pocket and come around the workbench.
Morning light spills through the front windows, catching the faint silver at his temples.
He is wearing a shirt I have never seen before.
Navy, soft fabric, collar open. No tie. No jacket.
Just Bennett Thornhill stripped of the armor he usually wears, like it is stitched into his skin.
For a moment, he does not look like a man who owns half the city.
He looks like someone who might actually feel the weight of it.
"You’re staring."
“You’re wearing color.”
“I own color.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
This is the rhythm we fall into when neither of us knows how to start the real conversation.
Verbal sparring as a warm-up, both of us skirting the edges of something neither of us is willing to name yet.
Except today feels different. Today, he is not trying to win.
He is just here, in my shop at nine in the morning, because I told him to be.
I grab my coffee from the back counter and take a sip. It is cold now, but I need something to do with my hands.
“Mrs. Petrova’s grandson’s bike is finished. She is picking it up at noon. I have a consultation at two about a vintage Peugeot someone found in their grandmother’s garage. The expansion unit needs measurements for the new shelving. I was going to handle that this afternoon, but I can push it.”
Bennett does not move. “What do you need?”
The question lands differently than it would have two weeks ago. Before, it would have been an assessment, a problem breaking into parts he could organize and control. Now it feels like something else. Less strategy. More intent.
A pause stretches just long enough for me to notice it.
“Lunch,” I say. “Eventually. But first, I need to know if you can handle watching me work without offering suggestions.”
"I can handle it."
"You say that now."
"I say that meaning it."
I set the coffee down and gesture toward the Schwinn.
"This is Mrs. Petrova's grandson's bike.
Twelve-year-old kid who rides it to school every day and treats it like a vehicle of mass destruction.
The rear derailleur was shot, the chain was stretched, and someone adjusted the brakes so badly I'm surprised he could stop at all. "
I pick up another wrench and move to the front wheel. "I'm going to true this wheel, which takes about fifteen minutes, and you're going to watch without commenting on spoke tension, structural integrity, or whatever engineering lecture is trying to form in your head."
A faint shift crosses Bennett’s face, something close to amusement but restrained before it fully settles. "I don’t know anything about spoke tension."
"Then this should be easy for you."
I start working. The wheel spins in the truing stand, the slight wobble catching light as it rotates. Small, but stubborn enough to matter. I find the first spoke nipple, fit the wrench, and give it a careful quarter turn. Spin again. The wobble shifts. I adjust the opposite side.
Behind me, Bennett stays where he is.
No phone. No watch-checking. No impatient pacing like someone trying to reclaim time. Just stillness, deliberate in a way that feels less like absence and more like attention.
The wheel slowly comes into alignment by the seventh adjustment. I spin it once more, watching it glide smoothly and even, and feel that quiet satisfaction that never really gets old.
"You made that look easy," Bennett says.
“It is easy. After you have done it a few thousand times.”
“Most things are.”
I glance at him. He is watching me instead of the wheel, and there is something in his expression I have not seen before. Not quite patience. Not quite restrained. Something in between, like he is actively choosing how much of himself to show.
“You are doing well,” I say. “Not telling me how to do my job.”
“I was thinking about it.”
“I know.”
The honesty of it pulls a short laugh out of me before I can stop it, surprised and unguarded.
It hangs in the space between us longer than it should.
Bennett’s eyes shift slightly at the sound, like he is registering it in a way he did not expect to matter.
Not a smile, not yet, but something close enough to change the air.
I move the Schwinn off the stand and roll it toward the finished section near the register. When I turn back, I lean against the workbench and fold my arms.
“Okay. You passed the first test. Now we talk.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“The thing you said in your office. About me, considering my options.”
His jaw tightens. I catch it immediately, the way his control catches on that edge and holds. “I said the worst possible thing in the worst possible way.”
“You did.”
“I knew it while I was saying it.”
“Then why say it?”
Silence settles in. The shop fills it easily, rubber, oil, the quiet hum of a place that has outlived most of what has tried to replace it. Outside, a truck rolls past, and the windows shiver faintly in response.
Because control is the only reflex I have when something matters too much,” he says finally. “And you mattered. Matter. And I didn’t know what to do with that, so I did what I always do. I treated it like a problem I could assess and manage.”
A pause. Not defensive. Just honest in a way that costs him something.
“I’m not saying that as an excuse,” he adds. “I’m saying it because you asked.”
I nod slowly, letting it land. “George came to see you.”
His expression shifts almost imperceptibly. “You know about that?”
“Lina knows George’s wife from physical therapy. She mentioned he’d stopped by.” I shrug like it’s casual, though it isn’t. “Small world. He said you needed someone to tell you the truth.”
“He said a lot of things.” Bennett’s hand drifts toward his pocket before he seems to catch himself. It drops back to his side. “He said my mother used to worry about this. That I’d try to manage the people I loved the same way I manage everything else.”
Something tightens in his jaw at the next part, like he doesn’t want to give it shape. “She told him that a few weeks before she died. She thought I’d end up alone. That I’d turn every relationship into a transaction.”
The air between us changes. Not heavier. Just more fragile.
“I’m working on not doing that,” he says after a beat. “I don’t know if I’m succeeding. But I’m trying.”
“I know,” I say, quieter now. “That’s why I let you come today.”
The bell chimes again, pulling both of us toward the door as a woman steps inside. Early fifties, yoga pants, fleece jacket, phone already in her hand like she’s balancing too many things at once.
“Sorry, I know you open at nine, but is there any chance you can look at my daughter’s bike? She left it at the bus stop, and someone backed into it. She’s supposed to ride it to soccer practice tomorrow, and I just don’t know what to do.”
I push up from the workbench. “Bring it in. I’ll take a look.”
Her gaze flicks to Bennett, then back to me. I catch it, the brief pause where she tries to place him. Something familiar, maybe news footage, maybe a headline she skimmed and forgot. It doesn’t stick. Whatever problem brought her here is louder than recognition.
She steps back out and returns with a purple mountain bike, one hand on the seat, the other still clutching her phone. The front wheel is warped at a harsh angle, the handlebars twisted as something hit it hard and clean.
Bennett shifts out of her way without comment, giving her space in a way that feels practiced. Not helpful, exactly. Just controlled distance.
I crouch beside the bike, eyes moving over it. The front wheel is gone, rim cracked. Handlebars can be corrected. The fork looks intact, which is a small mercy.
“New wheel,” I say, straightening slightly. “I can have it ready by tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock work?”
Her shoulders loosen like she’s been holding her breath since she walked in. “That would be amazing. How much?”
I give her the price, fair enough that her shoulders drop the second she hears it. She exhales, pulls out her credit card, and pays while I tag the bike and wheel it toward the repair queue.
Bennett doesn’t offer help or try to speed anything up. He doesn’t suggest a better system, doesn’t step into my space with ideas. He just stays where he is, close enough to be present, far enough not to interfere.
The woman leaves, thanking me three times on her way out. The bell above the door chimes behind her, and the shop settles back into its usual quiet.