"Yeah, I figured." He grins and it's understanding, not pushy, which somehow makes it worse. "I'm not trying to, like, step on anyone's toes here. Just thought coffee couldn't hurt."
"No. Yeah. Coffee's good." Coffee's safe, coffee's easy, coffee's what normal people do on dates instead of standing in garages having loaded silences that mean everything and nothing.
He turns up the radio—country music, and asks me where I'm from, how I ended up here, all the normal first-date questions, and I'm giving him the edited version because the real version involves a wedding dress and a full-scale panicattack and that's not exactly "let me tell you about my charming backstory" material. His hands are steady on the wheel, no tapping or fidgeting, just easy confidence, and I watch the desert blur past—scrub brush and red rock and sky that goes on forever—and my chest feels tight and I don't know why.
The coffee shop's cute in that deliberate way where someone definitely looked at Pinterest first. Exposed brick, hanging plants that are somehow thriving in this heat, indie music at exactly the right volume, and it smells like espresso and cinnamon and every first date I've ever heard about but never actually had.
There's a chalkboard menu with too many options in perfect cursive and I already feel out of place, like I should've worn the dress after all, or at least not shown up with motor oil still under my fingernails no matter how hard I scrubbed.
Grant orders black coffee and then looks at me, just waits, doesn't assume. "What do you want?"
"Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot."
"Living dangerous." He grins and pays before I can dig out my wallet, which is nice, he's being nice, normal nice, first-date nice. We sit by the window where the light's good and you can people-watch, and Grant's completely relaxed, leaning back in his chair like he does this all the time, like dating is easy for him. "So how long have you been at Ward & Weller?"
"Few months."
"You like it?"
"I love it." That part's true, easy to say—the work, the routine, the way my hands stay busy and my brain shuts up when I'm buried in an engine, the way Holt's silence doesn't demand anything except that I exist in the same space and Finn makes me laugh until I can't breathe and—shit, I'm thinking about them again. Stop thinking about them. Focus on Grant. Grant who's right here, asking questions, being interested.
"That's great. Holt and Finn seem like good guys. Finn's hilarious." He pauses and I can feel what's coming. "Holt's... intense."
I'm very focused on the condensation dripping down my cup.
"He's quiet. Takes a while to warm up."
"Has he? Warmed up to you?"
There's something in how he asks it, like he already knows, like it's written all over my face in permanent marker.
"I think so."
Grant doesn't look convinced but he doesn't push, just launches into this story about a customer who tried to fix his transmission with duct tape, and I laugh because it is funny, he's good at this, good at talking and filling space and making it comfortable, and this is nice, this is exactly what a first date should be.
So why do I feel like I'm watching it happen to someone else?
He's talking about a car show now, classic Mustangs lined up in the sun, and all I can think is how Holt would've just said "duct tape fixes everything but stupid" and it would've been funnier than this entire story, how Holt's silences make me want to fill them, make every word feel like it matters because he actually listens, really listens, instead of just waiting for his turn to talk. How right now, with Grant being perfect and interested and everything I'm supposed to want, I'm bored out of my skull.
The coffee tastes fine. Grant's laugh is warm. His smile reaches his eyes. And none of it touches me. Not the way my pulse jumps when Holt looks at me, not the way my skin goes electric when I make him almost-smile, not the way the temperature shifts when he walks into a room.
"—and the guy says, 'But it was working fine yesterday!'" Grant finishes, shaking his head. "They always say that."
"Yeah." I'm smiling but I'm not here. "They do."
He picks up his coffee and studies me over the rim. "You okay? You seem like you're somewhere else."
Fuck.
"No, I'm good. Just—" scrambling for literally anything that's not the truth, "—thinking about this Dodge we've got coming in Monday and whether it's the alternator or something deeper—"
"Scout." He sets his cup down, gentle but firm. "It's okay. You don't have to make excuses."
My throat's tight. "I'm not—"
"It's the complicated thing. Holt." He's not mad, doesn't even look hurt, just understanding, which is somehow worse than if he were pissed. "You want to walk around? Get some air?"
"Yeah. Okay." Because staying here feels like drowning and at least outside I can pretend the heat's why I'm uncomfortable.
