Page 14 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

“You drove me up an entire mountain last night.”

“That’s driving. Not hiking.”

She grins and takes her coffee back from me, and something settles in my chest that I don’t recognize. It takes me a minute to place it. It’s ease. I can’t remember the last time something felt easy.

She stays while I work on the Tacoma. Sits on the stool by the parts shelf, legs crossed, drinking her coffee. She asks questions about the brake job, the way she asked about the MOSFET. I catch myself explaining rotor wear patterns and realize I’m talking more than I’ve talked in a week. Maybe a month.

I don’t hate it.

Her phone rings at 9:30. She glances at the screen and something shifts. Small, barely visible. A flicker across her face that reminds me of a circuit breaker tripping. Everything still looks fine on the outside, but the power just cut.

“Hey, Mom.”

I go back to the brake pads. I’m not trying to listen. But the shop is quiet and sound carries, and I can hear both sides of the conversation because her mom’s voice is loud. Bright and exactly what I’d expect from someone who raised Callie Wynn.

“Just checking in, sweetie. How’s the little outdoor job going?”

Little outdoor job. I feel my jaw tighten.

“It’s good,” Callie says. Her voice is still cheerful. Still sunny. But the frequency has shifted, tuned to a different station. She sounds like a performance of herself. “Busy with summer tourists.”

“And you’re still doing the ski thing in the winter?”

“It’s not a thing, Mom. It’s a certification program. I’m going for Level Two.”

“I know, I know. I just worry. You’re twenty-three, Cal. Ashley got promoted to regional coordinator last month. Did I tell you that? Twenty-five and she’s already managing a whole division.”

“You told me.”

“I’m not comparing. I just think you have so much potential, and I hate to see you waste it on something seasonal. You could do anything.”

“I am doing something.”

“I mean something with a future, honey.”

The conversation goes on for another two minutes. Callie’s mom isn’t mean. That’s the thing that grinds into me as I listen. She’s warm and loving and completely, casually devastating. She talks about Callie’s cousin who just finished law school. Mentions a job opening at a marketing firm in Denver that would be “perfect for someone with your personality.”

Every sentence is a small, soft dismissal wrapped in a compliment, and Callie takes each one with the same bright, practiced cheerfulness that tells me she’s been taking them her whole life.

She hangs up and sets the phone on the parts shelf, screen down.

“Sorry about that,” she says. Same smile. Same voice. Completely hollow.

“Callie.”

“It’s fine. She means well. She just doesn’t get it.”

“She’s wrong.”

“I know she’s wrong.” She picks up her coffee, but it’s empty, and she stares into it for a second before setting it back down. “It’s not about knowing. It’s about hearing it from the people who are supposed to believe in you and getting…this instead. Every time. For years.”

She’s shaking. Just barely. If I wasn’t watching her the way I’ve been watching her for the last three days, obsessively and against my better judgment, I’d miss it.

“She compared you to your cousin,” I say.

“She compared me to everyone. Ashley got promoted. Jamie passed the bar. My old roommate just got engaged to an investment banker.” She laughs, but it’s wrong. It’s that bright, bubbly sound rearranged into something brittle. “And then there’s Callie, handing out coupons and chasing a ski dream.”

“It’s not a dream. You have a certification and a plan.”