And there he is.
Rafe Cadler.
Same as I remember him, except maybe broader, grimmer, somehow even more allergic to small talk than he was in high school. He steps out from behind my poor crumpled Civic as if he’s the final boss in a game calledEmotionally Unavailable Mechanics of the Midwest.
I’m surprised finding his pack in Clay and Theo hasn’t chilled him out at all. Maybe the day they find their Omega, everything will change for him.
He’s in coveralls, tied at the waist, tank top stained with grease, baseball cap pulled low. No pack marks. No expression whatsoever.
“You bent the axle,” he says, deadpan. “Blew a tire. Cracked the oil pan. Congratulations.”
I blink. “What can I say? I’m gifted.”
No smile, just a nod. He might as well be logging that information for future insurance purposes.
“You shouldn’t have been driving it,” he adds, like this is a courtroom and I’m the idiot on trial for vehicular hubris. “That car’s frame was already compromised.”
“Well, it was either drive it or sleep in it,” I say, too tired to sugarcoat. “And I was really hoping not to die in a Walmart parking lot outside Fayetteville.”
That earns me a look. Not pity, he wouldn’t waste the energy, but acknowledgment. He’s seen that kind of desperation before and filed it neatly into a mental cabinet labeledShit Happens.
He turns toward the little office and gestures. “Keys are inside. You’ll need a loaner.”
“Oh, I don’t…” I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a single look. A whole thesis ondon’t argue with mein one raised eyebrow.
“It’s not a favor,” he says, as if the very idea insults him. “You’ll pay for parts. Labor. If you scratch the loaner, I’ll add that too.”
“Great,” I say. “Love a transactional relationship. So clean. So emotionally sterile.”
Still no smile. The man is an impenetrable wall of diesel fumes and quiet judgment.
Inside the office, it’s all cracked linoleum and sticky notes and a coffee machine so old it could have survived several wars. He hands me a clipboard and a pen.
“You’re taking the blue truck,” he says. “Back lot. Ugly as sin, but it runs.”
I sign. He hands me the keys.
“I’ll text you when the Civic’s fixed,” he says, already turning back toward the bay.
“That’s… Thanks,” I say, and immediately hate myself for it.
He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.
“Don’t thank me, Marsh,” he says. “Just don’t crash the truck.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m standing there holding keys to something I absolutelywillcrash if today continues at its current level of emotional sabotage.
The blue truck is, as promised, hideous. It’s boxy and loud and smells of pine air freshener and aftershave. There’s abumper sticker that saysNO PACK, NO PROBLEMin faded letters. I get in. The engine roars to life, surprised to still exist.
I guess that’s something, right?
The engine coughs, then settles into a rumble like it’s offended I even turned the key. Cautiously, I back out of the gravel lot, afraid the truck might collapse if I jostle its feelings too hard.
Once I’m a few blocks away, I finally exhale.
One errand down. Only a hundred emotionally charged disasters left to go.
