Page 53 of First-Time Caller
There’s a short huffing sound. “Okay, well, there was no need for that.” Dan pauses. “And I’ve been divorced three timesbecauseI still believe in love, Ms. Romance.”
He also believes the penny slots at the Horseshoe casino are the perfect place to meet women, so . . .
Still. Just because I’m frustrated doesn’t mean I get to be a shithead. “You’re right, Dan. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Apology accepted,” he replies easily. “We’re just trying to help you out. Can’t we be excited for you?”
That’s the problem. Everyone is trying to help. I have ten thousand opinions floating around and the roar of them is making it impossible to hear myself think. I have no idea what feels right, what feels true. All my pieces are scattered across the floor and I can’t think long enough to figure out which one will fit the best.
I push out from beneath the car and stare at them, upside down. Their heads are bent together, arms crossed over their chests.
“I didn’t realize you two had thoughts about this.”
Dan’s dark eyebrows collapse in a heavy line across his brow. “Of course we do, Lu. We love you. We want you to be happy.”
Harvey clasps his hands together across his barrel chest. “We want you to fall in loooooove.” He draws the word out and warbles around it, trying to match up with Celine on the radio. “We listen to your show every night. We even have a text chain about it.”
That’s a big deal. It took them roughly three years to get the hang of group messages.
Angelo appears at his side, rubbing his hands on the ratty towel he keeps tossed over his shoulder. “Did you think we didn’t care?”
When I first came to Dan for a job almost a decade ago, I was an exhausted mother to a rambunctious toddler. I had a high school diploma, no formal work references . . . and a limited knowledge of how to change the oil of a car. Grayson had just started at the Maryland Institute College of Art on a full scholarship and I—I decided to defer my admission to the University of Maryland to work instead. We needed the money, and Grayson wasn’t going to get a second chance at a full ride. I saw aHELP WANTEDsign in the window of the garage and stopped in on a whim.
Dan took one look at me sitting in the chair across from his desk with dried vegetable puree on my shirt and gave me a chance. He taught me everything I know about cars and patiently supported me through the hardest time of my life. He’s more of a father to me than my own is. Angelo too.
“No. I know you guys care. I just didn’t realize you were invested.”
All three of them frown. Harvey props his hands on his hips.
“That’s insulting, Lu. I’m insulted.”
“I’m also insulted,” Dan adds.
Angelo narrows his eyes. “Consider the three of us thoroughly insulted.”
I bite my cheek against my smile. “I’m sorry. I won’t underestimate you guys again.”
“You better not. We’re in this for the long haul.” Harvey holds out his hand right as someone rings the bell in reception. He nods toward the half door. “You go handle that customer and I’ll look at your phone. I’ll give you my top three choices.”
“That doesn’t seem like a fair trade.” I reluctantly hand him the phone.
“It perfectly fair,” Harvey says, nose already pressed to the screen. He was prescribed reading glasses a year ago, but he refuses to wear them. He’s also scrolling at an alarming pace. “This is hard work, Lu. You’ve got the better end of the deal here.”
It doesn’t feel like the better end of the deal. Especially when I see the man waiting in reception, a fierce frown on his face and both of his arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks like a linebacker. Or a particularly distressed lumberjack.
“You handle historic cars here?” he asks as soon as the door swings shut behind me. NoHello. NoHow are you?
“Sometimes,” I answer, reaching for patience instead of the frustration that instantly roars to life. I hate when people don’t even bother with pleasantries. I grab an intake form from beneath the counter and snap it to a clipboard. “What are you looking for?”
He’s a younger guy. Younger than most of the customers we get in the shop. Dan likes to joke that his client base is primarily people who have lived here for this life and all of their past lives too. But I don’t recognize this man. Tall. Short blond hair that fades to a dark, honey bronze at his neck. Not a lick of humor in his stern face. A square, angular jaw and bright blue eyes. He looks like he snaps people like twigs in his spare time. Maybe competes in some sort of underground fighting ring.
“I want to add underglow to my ‘58 Chevy,” he says.
I don’t gasp, but it’s a close thing. I stop scribbling across the top of the form and stare at him. “You want to add underglow to your vintage Chevy?”
His mouth doesn’t so much as twitch. “That’s what I said.”
“Okay.” I drop my pen back in the cup. “No.”
