My ex’s little side piece turned obsessive creeper.
She stalks my every move. Lurks on my social media even after I blocked all the original accounts. Watches my stories from new burner profiles, a pathetic little phantom who’s tragically bad at staying hidden. You would think, with all her watching, she’d know my background in marketing means I have an eye for monitoring all my metrics.
And yet my best friend thinksI’mthe crazy one.
Demi narrows her eyes. “You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?”
I grab another one of my tools, ready to go to town on this piece. “Maybe.”
She smirks. “Is that for the dresser or the homicide you are definitelynotplanning?”
I flip the small pry bar in my hand. “Why choose?”
“That’s my girl.” Demi cackles.
My fiery little redheaded friend crosses over to the stool stationed in the back of the shop where I’m working. She perches on it, owning the space outright, legs stretched, casually surveying the mess around us.
The shop is a contradiction—half gritty, half refined. Not so different from me. The showroom is a picture of effort and illusion. The lighting is warm, drawing attention to the furniture I’ve restored and vintage pieces I’ve hunted down, every smaller accent arranged just so to compliment my designs. I’ve sanded, painted, and curated my way into making it feel delicate, more boutique than a refurbished auto shop.
But back here? Back here is where themagichappens.
And by magic, I mean the thick toxic cocktail of dust, paint fumes, and whatever else I’ve been breathing in. It coats my tongue every time I talk too much. The garage itself still bearsthe marks of its past life no matter how much I clean. Floor patches stay dark from grease stains, old bolts and washers consistently appear in the corners, and the faint scent of motor oil crinkles my nose whenever the air shifts just right.
My workbench is a chaos of tools, paint cans, brushes hardened with forgotten strokes, and a collection of rags stained with every shade of the past six months. Half-finished projects lean against the walls, waiting for inspiration or the right buyer. A long wooden table is stripped down to bare wood, its old lacquer curling at the edges like dead skin. A dresser stands beside it, missing half its drawers, as if it lost its fight with life and is waiting for me to resurrect it.
The overhead lights buzz, casting a sterile glow over the mess. And I love it. I haven’t even lived through all the seasons here yet, but I already know:
Summer will turn this place into a kiln
Winter will be a battle between the heat and A/C
Spring will pretend to save me money on my electric bill before it slaps us with another cold snap
I wouldn’t trade it.
And Bash? He’s exactly where he always is when Andrew doesn’t have him or he’s not at school. In the tiny office tucked near the front. I glance over to see the top of his curls as he shifts in the old leather chair that came with the shop. The flickering glow from his tablet screen bounces off the glass partition. The soft melody thrumming from whichever game he’s playing is barely audible over my noise and the distant downtown traffic outside. This is as much his haven as it is mine. Surrounded by the humming of tools and entertained by me wrestling beauty into discarded things.
A smile glides across my lips. He’s my mini me. He sees the potential in the broken just like his mama.
Demi follows my gaze, smirking. “Kid still obsessed with those weird building videos?”
“Tutorials,” I correct, rolling my eyes like Bash would. “He could probably rebuild this entire shop in pixel form.”
“Little genius. He’ll run this whole place before long.”
I snort and set the pry bar against the dresser, running my fingers over the splintered edge. “He’d be a better boss than me.”
