“I’M willing to learn from you.” My words echo against the hulls of broken cars. It crawls beneath the clank of metal. Expands until the world bleeds into silence.
Doc straightens, one hand still gripping the car he’s repairing. A wrench sits expertly in his oil-stained palm. The navy overalls are, I’m noticing, a staple part of his wardrobe. Steel-toed boots complete a look that I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Doc says nothing as he studies me. A beat of quiet.
Two.
Black eyes pin me in place and narrow slightly. Suspicion? Disdain?
It’s hard to say.
I leave my hands at my sides in a classic show of surrender. The mechanic wins this round.
For now, I’m stuck here.
It’s not like I didn’t try my hardest to get out of this. I spent the weekend tracking Fuentes down. Turns out, Fuentes left the city to visit family. I’m sure that was a calculated move. He’s dodging me. The little prick.
That was one door slammed in my face. The next was Harriet.
After seeing my wife all dolled up at the gym, I stalked her online. Am I proud of it? No. But it was either look her up from the comfort of my couch or drive all the way to her apartment.
It’s a good thing I went with Option A.
Harriet’s flaunting her vacation online. She was laughing and posing everywhere. And her smile-I love what the sun does to her smile- beamed in every frame.
Last night, I kept swiping through her photos. The inside of a plane. A tropical airport. A beachy cabana. Thatch roof restaurants. Fried fish on a plate.
My favorite was the last picture. Harriet was floating in an infinity pool with the sunset at her back. The water lapped at her brown skin, but I could just make out the hint of her white bikini top. The caption read ‘enjoying paradise in Belize’.
I had to talk myself out of flying to Central America. If men are hitting on my wife in a sports bra and yoga pants, she’s probably stopping traffic over there in Belize.
It was sheer will power that kept me seated.
That and the fact that Harriet’s made it clear she doesn’t want to see me right now.
Frustration builds in my chest.
My wife is living it up after leaving me. It’s not exactly how I expected this to go. I thought she was miserable. I figured she’d give up on this little temper tantrum and come flying back into my arms. In my dreams, everything would go back to normal and I wouldn’t have to make an effort.
But the days keep marching on. My wife is sticking to her guns. Worse than that, she’s enjoying herself.
It’s difficult to see her beaming face. Is it that easy to leave our marriage behind? Is she that happy to be rid of me?
The thought cuts like a knife.
It’s the second reason I’m in front of Doc, tucking my tail between my legs like a dog kicked out of the house.
Harriet wants this. And I want Harriet.
I cannot accept a future where my wife isn’t in my life. In my house. In my bed.
We’ll see how much of Doc I can stomach. Hopefully, he asks me a couple questions, gives me a tidy little lecture and I can move on with my life.
“Where do I start?” I ask, drawing nearer to him.
He lifts a hand.
I scramble to a stop and give him a curious gaze. “Sweep the shop.”
Laughter bursts out of me, chasing the sunshine pouring through the room. “No.”
“The broom is over there.” He points to the side where the cleaning supplies are leaning haphazardly against the wall. The broom and mop look dirtier than his overalls.
“I’m not sweeping the shop.” I fold my arms over my chest. This guy is crazy if he thinks I’ll stoop to manual labor.
I’m Jerrison freaking Bradley. I hire people to clean my building. To clean my home. How dare he order me to sweep this place like I’m a child?
Doc peers at me above the open hood. “Why aren’t you moving?”
“Let me make myself clear, Doc.” I spit the word out because I’m a hundred percent sure this man did not go to school to become a doctor in any profession. “I’m not sweeping your damn garage.”
He shrugs. Drops his focus back to the car he’s working on. “Then you know the way out.” A dark hand rises to wave me away. “You don’t have to leave any money with the secretary.”
My lips quake with anger.
Is he playing games with me? Did he team up with Harriet just to waste my time?
I’ve never been one to let an offense slide.
Stalking closer to him, I fling my arms out. “How is this helping me fix my marriage?”
“I’m the one who asks the questions.” Doc’s voice drops to a deathly tone. At once, the air in the shop goes cold. When he lifts his eyes, I almost shudder. “We’re not going back and forth with this. If you don’t have an interest in sticking around and doing things my way, that’s fine. I am not forcing you to stay.”
My chest balloons with an aggravated breath. I curl my fingers into fists.
This is dehumanizing.
I’m too old to sweep some guy’s shop just because he told me to. But I have Fuentes on the edge of backing out of the contract.
I have Harriet insisting I see this through.
Though it burns me like I’m stepping into molten lava, I whirl around, march to the broom and snatch it from the wall.
I don’t just sweep. I attack the floor.
My hands curl around the handle and I stab at any oil stains I can find, letting out my aggravation in rabid thrusts that leave blisters on my palm.
When I’m finished, I’m out of breath and more furious than I’ve ever been in my life.
I stop in front of Doc. “I’m done.”
“Good.” He doesn’t bother looking up when he points to a side office. “Leave your payment with the secretary.”
I glance over my shoulder. Back at him. “You’re kidding me.” “Have a safe drive home.”
“That’s it? I sweep your shop and then I pay you for the privilege?” “Don’t be late tomorrow,” Doc says, slamming the hood shut and
walking away.
I kick the tire of the truck as I watch him pour himself a mug of lemon water and gulp down the contents.
My throat burns. After sweeping up all that dust, I could use some refreshments. Doc probably knows, but he doesn’t bother turning around and offering me anything.
“Petty little weasel,” I huff under my breath.
I’m dirty, furious, and in pain. It’s been decades since I’ve picked up a broom and the callouses in my hands have grown soft.
I pour out my temper on my truck. Smack the steering wheel. Hurl obscenities at the window. Release my disdain on the gas pedal.
In the middle of the tantrum, I get a call from Fuentes.
I’m so shocked, I almost ram into the car in front of me. The tires protest when I slam on the brakes. My car falls a hair short of the guy’s bumper.
Quickly tearing my eyes off the road, I press the icon on the dashboard to answer Fuentes’s call.
“Mr. Bradley,” his voice sounds crisp and formal over the line, no hint of the excited athlete who signed with my agency, “I’d like to discuss something with you.”
Easing the car to the side of the highway, I lighten my tone. “Fuentes, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. About what you saw the other night
at the bar, I-”
“You can do what you want, Mr. Bradley. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” I hate the desperation in my voice. The insistence. “I’m trying to work on myself and my family. I just need some time.”
“You have a month and a half until my probation period is over, Bradley.” He pauses. “I wanted to let you know that I’m willing to uphold my end of the bargain and attend any event that you schedule for me in these two months.”
I breathe out in relief. At least he hasn’t written me off completely. “Thank you. And trust me, Fuentes. You’ll see that I’m exactly the man you thought I was when you signed with me.”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced. But I really don’t care.
It took too long to scramble to the top. I’m not losing anything.
Not Fuentes.
And certainly not my wife.