I pull myself to my feet, splash water on my face from the utility sink. Look in the small mirror. My eyes are red and swollen. Face blotchy. Hair coming loose from its bun.
I look exactly like someone who spent two hours crying on a back room floor.
Perfect.
I grab my bag from under the desk—moving quickly, not looking at anyone—and head for the stairs.
"I'm going upstairs," I manage. It's all I can get out.
I don't wait for a response.
Finn
I watch her disappear up the stairs and want to punch something.
Holt's still in the garage, head down over the Civic's engine. He hasn't looked up since Scout bolted. Hasn't moved except to reach for different tools.
I walk over, lean against the workbench. "She's gone."
"I know." His voice is flat.
"That customer left confused as hell. She never finished his paperwork."
"I'll take care of it."
"Sure. Cool. You'll take care of the paperwork." I grab a rag, wipe grease off my hands that isn't there. "She was crying in the back room for two hours, Holt."
His hands still for half a second. Then he's moving again, adjusting something I can't see. "I know."
"And you're just gonna let her cry alone?"
"She doesn't want to talk to me."
"Did you ask?"
Silence.
"That's what I thought." I toss the rag down. "This is killing her."
"She's better off—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
He straightens, finally meeting my eyes. There's something raw in his face. Something that looks like pain. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He turns back to the engine. "Drop it, Finn."
I want to push. Want to grab him and shake him until he sees what he's doing. But Scout's still upstairs, probably still crying, and I gave him Monday. Gave him space to work it out on his own.
He didn't.
I drop it.
