THE NEXT DAY, I return to Doc’s shop dressed for work. Old T-shirt. Stained jeans. A whole new attitude.
He takes one look at me. Just one look. And then points to the broom.
This time, when I start sweeping, I badmouth him under my breath rather than to his face.
Progress.
The next few days are all the same.
Doc doesn’t offer any counseling, any observations, any advice.
I walk into the shop. He points to the broom like I’m his maid. And I get to work while my heart smolders with resentment.
I’m not sure what I hate more about this entire process-manual labor or paying Doc’s secretary after I’m done. This guy is running a racket. After this is all over, I’m going to sue him for everything he’s worth.
Days bleed into one another.
A week later, I enter Doc’s shop and fall into the routine. A curt greeting. A sharp nod from Doc and then I head for the broom.
Except today, Doc stops me.
I whirl around, almost giddy with anticipation. “Yes?”
“You can grab the wrench now,” Doc says, jutting his chin at the toolbox instead of the cleaning supplies.
Hope sputters out like an old balloon.
I scowl at him as I march to the toolbox. “Great. I’m graduating from being your maid to your assistant. What’ll I do next? Wash the cars?”
Quiet laughter fills the room. My eyes widen.
I whirl around to find the source of the sound.
Doc’s lips are closed, but his eyes glitter with amusement. Did he just… laugh at me?
“You know anything about cars?” Doc asks when I stomp back to the truck.
“I only know how to change oil,” I mutter heatedly. “Not that I’ve done it many times.”
“I see.”
How does he pack so much judgement into two words? I defend myself. “I’m more into sports than cars.”
“What type of sports are you into?” Doc accepts the wrench from me and wrestles with a valve on a dirty engine.
“I love them all, but boxing gets my blood pumping more than the rest.” My shoulders relax a bit. It’s easy to fall into conversation when I’m talking about something I love.
“Are you a trainer or are you an athlete?”
“Neither. I represent the athletes headed for stardom.” “Represent? How?”
“You know…” I shrug, searching for the words to explain it. Everyone in my world simply knows what an agent does. It’s been a while since I’ve had to break it down. “I take care of their contracts, manage their interviews, control the press, assign them a PR team. If they want to join a big competition or if they just want to donate a lot of money to a cause, I make it happen.”
“You guys work by contracts?” His biceps flex as he puts more force into breaking the bolt.
“Yeah, we sign contracts.” I watch his progress in awe. “They hand over their public persona to us and we’re in charge of that image. The better they perform in their field, the more valuable they are to the company.”
“What do you do when one of your most valuable athletes get injured while competing?”
I shudder at the thought. “That’s the worst-case scenario, Doc. Like I said, they have to play for us to make money. The less games they play, the harder it is to keep their names on people’s mind. We have to kick into emergency mode to keep them current.”
“That’s an interesting answer.” His lips flatten in disappointment.
I take note of it. Slipping my hands into my pockets, I mumble, “I’m guessing it’s not what you expected me to say.”
“Don’t you care about the injured athlete?”
“Of course I care.” His question is offensive. “I make more when they’re healthy, so I get them the best doctors and physical therapists money can buy.”
Doc sets the wrench on the side of the hood. “Sometimes I think of cars like people. When they get hurt or malfunction, they are put out of commission and brought in for repair. Once they’re whipped back into shape, they return to the road again.”
“That’s a nice story, Doc. What’s your point?”
Doc gestures to the garage. “This shop,” he surveys the old vehicles, “is a repair shop for cars and for marriages.”
“Are you saying you see me as damaged?” “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
I frown at his harshness.
Doc nods to the toolbox. “Spanner.” I hand it to him a little roughly.
“That’s what we do.” He wields the tool on the vehicle. “If you’re here, either something is wrong…”
“Or someone just brought the car in for servicing,” I say to be contrary.
Doc remains unruffled. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, when a car needs servicing it’s because something is worn and needs attention.” He stops. Wipes the sweat on his brow with a dark hand. Leaves oil stains behind on his forehead. “So what’s happening in your marriage that you think needs repair?”
“I’d like to clarify that I don’t need any repairing.” I stare down my nose at the mechanic. “It’s Harriet who needs the help.”
“Why do you say that?” Doc’s voice is carefully controlled.
I’m sure this is a test, but I’m beyond caring if I pass or not. This is the truth and he can do with it what he will. “My wife has no respect for me. Even strangers on the street don’t treat me with the kind of disdain she does.”
Doc’s eyes narrow. I feel like an engine he’s taking apart. Diagnosing.
Eager to put it back together. “What else?”
“She’s always complaining. Always picking fights. She doesn’t understand the way she treats me is what pushes me away.”
“What does she push you into?”
“It’s…” I snap my mouth shut. “Look, Doc, I’m not trying to make an excuse, but when she treats me like crap I get tired of it. That’s when I feel like I need a break.”
“From your marriage?”
“From the drama.” I correct him. “Because she doesn’t respect me and treat me like a man, I go where I am treated that way.”
“Give me an example of her not respecting you.” Doc hands me the broken valves.
I cup them in my palm, struggling to choose just one instance. “I’ll come home after a long day’s work-work that pays for the roof over her head and the car in our garage by the way.”
Doc grunts, unimpressed.
“The moment I walk in, she’ll start harping on me. If I want to hang out with my friends, she’ll blow her top. It’s like she wants to control everything. She’s not supportive at all-”
“So you’re saying you have a faulty wife.” Doc arches an eyebrow. “Exactly. She’s the one who needs to be here.” I jut my finger at the
floor.
Doc shakes his head. “I don’t work on women.”
“My wife was here every single day for months.” My eyes narrow on him. I have the pictures to prove it.
“Your wife is an exception, not the rule.” He lifts a dirty finger. “We work on men in this shop, and the reason we work on men is because the man is the foundation of the relationship. The quality of the relationship is a reflection of him.”
“You’re blaming me for everything?” I roll my eyes. Now I get why Harriet loves this guy.
“Whenever a man describes his wife, he’s describing himself. The wife is the mirror.”
“Bull.”
Doc hands the spanner back to me. “We use the side mirrors on a car to see what’s behind and beside us.” He grabs a bunch of wires out of the cavern of the hood and inspects them. “If we don’t look at the mirrors, we run the risk of making a deep turn or scraping something.”
“I’m aware of how the mirrors on a car work, Doc,” I snap.
He doesn’t seem fazed by my tone at all. “A mirror communicates what is happening around you. Do you agree?”
Does he think I’m an idiot? “If my wife is a mirror, then you’re saying I’m bitter, spiteful and nagging, but I’m none of those things.”
“Maybe.” He arches an eyebrow. “Let me ask you this. Was your wife bitter, spiteful and nagging before you married her?”
“Of course not. She was… everything I wanted.” I picture the feisty, intelligent woman who caught my attention and refused to let go.
“Those traits you just mentioned didn’t come out of nowhere.” Doc grabs a rag and wipes his hands on it. “Your wife is like an incubator. She will take what you give her and multiply it.”
“You’re saying I give her a bad attitude?”
“Exactly.” He dips his chin. “You can’t run from your responsibility.
The ball always stops at you.” “What a load of-”
“Communication is key.” Doc slants me a scolding look. “We can end today’s meeting with you accepting one thought.”
“And what is that?” I scowl down at him.
“Even if it’s not your fault, it’s your responsibility.” My lips curl into a sneer.
I shake my head because I knew he’d come with nonsense. My responsibility?
No freaking way.