"Finn," Holt says, voice low and flat. "You're supposed to be working."
"I am working. I'm providing emotional support."
"That's not a job."
"Should be. I'd be employee of the month. Every month. They'd name the award after me. The Finn Award for Excellence in Emotional Support and General Awesomeness."
I laugh and catch Holt's mouth twitch—not quite a smile but close enough that I'm counting it as a win. Progress. Finn winks at me.
By Sunday night I've mentally prepared for Monday. Don't screw this up, I tell myself, lying in bed listening to him shift on that couch for the millionth time. The springs groan and I wince. You need this job. You need this place. Be professional. Competent. The kind of employee who justifies taking someone's bedroom and destroying their spine in the process.
I fall asleep to pages turning and think: tomorrow. Tomorrow I prove I'm worth keeping around.
Monday morning I wake before my alarm because anxiety is an excellent motivator. I stand in front of the mirror giving myself the kind of pep talk that would concern a therapist.
"You can do this. It's just phones and filing. Basic administrative work. You've survived worse. You ran away from a wedding three days before it happened. You drove across three states with forty dollars and a gas tank running on prayers. You broke down crying in front of a stranger who gave you his bedroom and hasn't complained once about sleeping on torture furniture. This? This is nothing. Phones. Filing. Basic human interaction. Eight hours of pretending to be functional. You've got this. You're going to be amazing. Or at least mediocre. Mediocre is fine. Mediocre gets you through the day without getting fired. Aim for mediocre."
The mirror doesn't look convinced, but I put on my game face—cut-offs, tank top, hair up in a knot because there's no way I'm leaving it down in this heat. The temperature's already climbing and it's barely six-thirty.
I hear Holt moving in the living area. The familiar protest of springs—louder this morning, angrier—followed by footsteps and the coffee pot starting. He's been awake for a while. I heard him get up around five, heard the couch groan in relief when he finally left it alone.
Every morning he wakes up in pain while I sleep in his bed. Every. Single. Morning.
The guilt is becoming impossible to ignore.
I emerge to find the living area empty, coffee made, his duffel by the door packed with what I assume are clean work clothes. He's downstairs already. I pour coffee, add enough sugar to make it taste like dessert, check the time—6:55. Five minutes early. Good. Professional people arrive early. I can be professional.
I drain the mug, rinse it because leaving dishes feels wrong, and head down. My stomach's doing acrobatics but I ignore it. First day. Don't screw this up. Be normal. Be competent. Be the kind of person who deserves a job and a room and a second chance.
The shop's already humming when I push through the door. Metal on metal, the hum of equipment, Finn's music playing something twangy. Finn's by the truck, and he sees me first. His face splits into a grin that makes me feel instantly better.
"Morning, Gremlin! Ready to witness the glamorous world of carburetor replacement?"
"Yes. Absolutely ready." The words trip over each other, tumbling out too fast. "Where do I start? What do I do first? Should I turn on the computer? Is there a computer? Do you have a system? I'm good with systems. I once organized my entire apartment by color and frequency of use, which was excessive but effective, so really I can handle whatever organizational nightmare you're about to show me—"
"Breathe, Scout."
I stop. Force a breath. Finn's still grinning, completely unbothered by my verbal disaster.
"Sorry. Nervous."
"Don't be. It's just us." He gestures around. "And we're idiots. You'll be fine."
From across the garage, Holt straightens up from where he's been bent over an engine. His eyes meet mine—brief, assessing, blue enough to be distracting—and he nods once. Not a greeting. Acknowledgment of my existence.
It stings a little, which is stupid. He's working. This is professional. I need to be professional. Stop expecting warmth from someone who communicates in nods and silence.
"Front desk," Finn says. "Your domain. May god have mercy on your soul."
I'm heading that direction when something on the wall catches my eye—a whiteboard, kind of beat-up, with two columns written in permanent marker at the top. HOLT on the left. FINN on the right. Below each name, tally marks. Lots of them. Like, years worth of tally marks covering every inch of available space.
"What's this?" I point at it, genuinely curious.
Finn lights up like I've just asked his favorite question. "Official scorecard."
"For what?"
"Everything," Holt says from across the garage, not looking up from whatever he's elbow-deep in.
