“George. I asked for only three things.”
I grunt.
He closes the fridge. “Thanks,” he says, softer than usual.
“You guys should catch up. You haven’t seen each other in a while.” I pick my keys up from the table.
“Six months, give or take,” Marcus says to Lance, his gaze fixed past me.
“I know.” Lance barely acknowledges him. His attention’s still on me like he wants to say something else and can’t decide if he should with Marcus standing there.
I save him from figuring it out. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” he says with reluctance. “Later.”
I nod once toward Marcus. “Good luck with the conference.”
“Thank you,” he says smoothly. “Good seeing you.”
Sounds civil enough, but still somehow feels like a line drawn in concrete.
I let myself out, closing the door behind me.
The hallway’s the same ugly beige it’s always been. Same scuffs along the baseboards. Same dryer running somewhere down the hall.
I linger for a second, Lance’s key in my hand for no real reason, before heading downstairs. Cold morning air hits me the instant I step outside. Sun barely up over the rooftops. I get into the truck and sit there, both hands on the wheel, not starting it yet.
I keep thinking about the way Marcus’s eyes bore into me as I move around Lance’s apartment—using the key, stocking his fridge, knowing where shit goes without asking. It’s like he was trying to work out how a lowly mechanic from San Diego ended up this deep in his brother’s life.
I start the truck harder than necessary and pull out of the lot.
I’ve got work waiting at the shop and about ten better things to think about than the expression on that lawyer’s face.
Mostly, I manage it.
26
George
I roll my shoulder, wincing as the familiar ache flares up again. It’s been nagging me for days.
I’m still in the office at the shop, making some calls almost all afternoon. The last one ends the same way the others did. I thank the guy for his time, hang up, and sit there staring at the office wall for a while after the line goes dead.
Three days of calls and the math still comes back wrong.
The 504 program needs ninety days minimum to process and I have sixty, which means it’s useless no matter how good the application looks on paper. The Small Business Administration loan I already carry blocks me from applying for a second one while the balance is active. The Veterans Affairs vocational rehabilitation track Carter used to buy into the shop is exhausted, nothing left there either.
Every option crashes into the same wall underneath it. Timing. Always timing.
I’ve run the numbers enough times now to know running them again isn’t going to magically produce a different answer. They’re not just circling. They’ve already got people in position.
Tired of looking at it, I shove the ProMotive letter back in the drawer and set off for the bay.
The overheads stay off. The work lamp above the back bench throws enough light to work by and that’s all I need. I drag a stool over and sit down at the bench where I’ve spent most nights this week pretending I’m troubleshooting something mechanical instead of my own life.
The tools line the wall exactly the way my father kept them. Wrenches by size. Screwdrivers on the second row. Ratchets underneath. I hung them the same way when we opened.
The youth mechanics calendar is still pinned above the break room door. Saturday’s session is circled red.
