The ride down felt surreal, like he was descending from some alternate reality back into his actual life. But when he got to his truck and checked his phone, there was already a message from her. I miss you already. Is that pathetic? He smiled and typed back.
Only if it's pathetic that I feel the same way. Then we're both pathetic. I can live with that. Ethan drove home through early morning traffic, still wearing his suit from the night before, and felt something shift in his chest. The fear was still there.
Fear of failure, fear of not being enough, fear of this whole thing crashing down around them. But alongside the fear was something else, something that felt a lot like hope. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Ethan Cole allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things were going to work out. The next 3 weeks passed in a blur of work and stolen moments. The Hard Industries fleet contract started on schedule, which meant Ethan was suddenly drowning in oil changes and brake jobs and diagnostic work that actually paid on time.
He hired back his former employee, Marcus, not Wellington, thank God, but Marcus Chen, a 24-year-old who could diagnose transmission problems by sound alone and didn't mind working overtime. "Boss, we've got six more vehicles scheduled for tomorrow," Marcus said on a Friday afternoon, wiping grease from his hands. You want me to come in early? Yeah. 7:30.
Ethan was under a Heart Industries van replacing a worn serpentine belt. And Marcus, stop calling me boss. It's weird. What should I call you? Ethan works fine.
That's also weird. You're the guy who signs my paychecks. I'm the guy who's currently lying in a puddle of transmission fluid. Call me Ethan. Marcus laughed and headed to the office to close out the day's paperwork.
The shop had transformed over the past weeks. Cleaner, more organized, actually functional. They'd repainted the bay doors, fixed the flickering lights, and Ethan had finally replaced the ancient computer with something from this decade. His phone buzzed. Vivien.
Still coming to dinner tonight? He smiled and typed back with greasy fingers. Wouldn't miss it. What are we having? Thai takeout from that place in Ballard, you like?
I thought you were cooking. I am. I'm reheating very aggressively. It counts. Can't argue with that logic.
Pick up Sophie at 6:00. Be there by 7:00. Perfect. She can help me set the table. I've been practicing my hostess skills.
Ethan finished the belt replacement, closed up the van, and locked the shop at 5:30. The drive to Sarah's house took 20 minutes through Friday traffic, and he found Sophie waiting on the porch with an overnight bag. Finally, she ran to the truck. I've been ready for an hour. The text said, "6.
It's only 5:50. That's basically 6. " She climbed into the passenger seat, buckling herself in. Are we really having dinner at Viven's penthouse? The one with the big windows. Yeah, and you need to be on your best behavior.