I glance up as the doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone, unless the pizza guy’s come back to tell me my credit card payment didn’t go through.
I walk to the front door, swing it open, and there’s John, looking as handsome as ever in a hoodie and jeans.
“Hey,” I say uncertainly.
“Hey.” He holds out a sweater, which I recognize as mine. “Youleft this at my place. I just found it in the dryer. Figured I’d get it back to you before you left.”
“Oh.” I take it from him. “Right. Thanks.”
“No problem.” There’s a long beat of awkward silence. “’Kay, well. Night.”
My heart twists painfully. “Night.”
I wait for him to walk away, but he just keeps standing there, not quite looking at me. I open my mouth to say—something, I’m not quite sure what—but he beats me to it.
“I do have a dream job.”
I blink. “What?”
He clears his throat. “A dream job. You know, like that weird list you have.”
“It’s notweird.” Then, hesitantly, “So... what is it?”
He clears his throat again. “I want to own the shop. I know it’s not that big or important, but... I don’t know.” He rocks on his heels. “You were right. Not about everything, I mean. I still think you’re—well.” He shakes his head. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. But I have been bored with the shop. Fred’s made enough to retire, so I don’t think he cares how much money we make or about branching out at all. And there’s a huge market for performance services, which is way more interesting. Plus I’ve always thought it would be cool to restore vintage race cars. I’ve got a buddy who does it in Ontario, and he’s doing pretty well off it. And the shop could look cool if someone actually put some money into it, like a real vintage car shop.”
I turn the idea over in my mind. I’ve seen enough of the YouTube videos he watches to kind of understand what he has inmind. Camel-colored leather couches, chrome fixtures, maybe some old-fashioned posters of vintage cars...
“That would be cool,” I say. “And you’d be great at it.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe Fred will sell the shop to me, if I offer him a decent price. I think he’s getting fed up with it. Dealing with flighty receptionists and everything.” His eyes crinkle at the edges, the old John flashing through for a second.
My lips turn up. “You know what they say about women—hire them as receptionists for your auto shop, and a year or two later, they’ll leave to do an internship at the Met.”
“It’s a stereotype for a reason,” John says.
We smile at each other a little cautiously.
“You’d be great at running a race car shop,” I say honestly.
“A performance shop,” he corrects.
“Ooh, you should call it ‘Race Cars ‘R’ Us.’”
He smiles. “See, this is why you should stick around and help. I never would’ve thought of such an exceptionally terrible name.”
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. Does he mean that?
I study his face. He’s smiling like it’s just a joke, but there’s something underneath his expression, a seriousness that grows deeper as the silence stretches out.
“John...”
“You like it here, Em. I know you do. You could make a go of your caregiving business, and there’s bound to be a job at a museum here, someday. I know it’s not some big, fancy city, but... you could be happy here.”
My throat grows a little tighter. I rub my arms against the chill of the evening air. “I know,” I say quietly. “It’s not that I wasn’t happy here, it’s just...”
“That you think you can be happier somewhere else.”
I nod jerkily. “It’s not that Iwantto leave... but I can’t stay. It’s too big.” I look up at him, willing him to understand. “It’s too big,” I say again. “It’s my life.”
