"Morning."
I get out, my leg stiff from sitting too long, and compensate without thinking. "There's a workshop today. Parts supplier thing in Mesa. I forgot we were registered. We have to go."
She stops with her hand on the door. "Okay."
That's it. Just okay. Not when are we leaving or do I have time for coffee or any of the thousand things she'd normally say. Just one word.
"We need to leave by soon to get there on time," I add, because apparently I'm a masochist who needs to hear more of that careful nothing in her voice.
"Okay," she says again, and disappears inside.
Finn's truck rumbles into the lot twenty minutes later, all off-key singing and drumming on the steering wheel, and the cheerfulness feels like nails on concrete. He takes one look at my face and the singing stops.
"Morning. We ready to—wait, why do you look like that?"
"Workshop," I say. "Mesa. Today."
"What workshop?"
"Parts supplier certification. The one I signed us up for months ago and completely forgot about."
"Fuck." He scrubs his hand through his hair, already seeing where this is going. "The three of us? In a truck? For an hour?"
"Yeah."
"This is gonna be great. Really great. Love this for us."
We load into my truck—Finn in the middle because someone has to be, Scout at the window like she needs an escape route. She climbs in without a word, turns her face toward the glass. I start the engine, adjust the mirrors, check the gauges. Anything to delay the inevitable.
"So," Finn tries after we hit the highway. "Anyone excited about mandatory safety certification?"
Nothing. Scout's staring at nothing, my hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles still split from the fight. I can feel Finn's eyes on them.
"No? Nobody?" He's trying so hard. "Free coffee? Stale donuts? The thrill of regulatory compliance?"
Scout makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be something breaking. I can't tell. Don't want to check.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Finn pulls out his phone, gives up on conversation, and the silence fills every inch of the cab. The air conditioning rattles. Scout shifts in her seat. I count mile markers and hate myself.
The workshop's in a warehouse space outside Mesa—concrete floors, metal folding chairs, maybe thirty mechanics already milling around with coffee. The heat hits the second we step out of the truck, that dry furnace blast that makes your lungs work harder, and inside it's barely cooler. Just stale air pushed around by industrial fans that do nothing but move the heat around.
I spot the sign-in table and head over, Scout trailing a few steps behind like we're strangers.
"Ward & Weller?" The guy at the table is maybe our age, clean white shirt somehow not already soaked through with sweat. Name tag says Grant Verden. "I'm the parts coordinator. You must be—" He looks up as Scout reaches the table and stops. Does a double-take that's not subtle at all.
"Hi," Scout says, and there's a flicker of warmth in it. Small, but it's there.
"Hi." Grant's still looking at her, and I should probably say something, sign us in, move this along. Instead I'm standing here cataloging everything about him: clean-shaven, good posture, the way he shifts his clipboard to his other hand.
"Sorry, I—" He clears his throat. "You must be the famous color-coded filing system. I've shown the photos to half the shops I work with." He's talking faster now, animated, doing this thing with his hands where his fingers splay out like he's trying to shape the words in the air. "Alphabetized, categorized, color-coded by urgency. It's—" He catches himself. Laughs. "Sorry. I get way too excited about organization. My girlfriend used to say it was—" He stops. "Ex-girlfriend. Used to say."
And there it is. Ex-girlfriend. Single.
