“You’d better.” She squeezes harder. “And, Beth? I’m proud of you.”
Pride. It surprises me, but for a moment, it fits.
Lori peeks out the door. “Go when you hear yelling.”
When the door closes, I count five minutes by the antique clock, each second replacing panic with relief.
At last, I sling my bag over my shoulder and slip into an empty, echoing hallway. Voices erupt from the reception hall—Lori, I’m sure.
I keep my head down, skirt the crowd, and push through a service door into the parking lot. My sedan waits where I left it. I slide in, dump the bag, and start the engine.
Messages light up my phone: Mom. Dad. Clark. Stephanie. I silence it.
I put the car inDrive. No destination. No plan.
Just get the hell away.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK
Heat bites at my knuckles as I delve deeper into the engine of Mrs. Abernathy’s Buick. Sweat slips past my hairline.
The problem’s obvious—a shredded timing belt—but explaining that to Mrs. Abernathy will be harder than fixing it. She’s set on her “funny noise” theory, like that’ll hold the car together.
Somewhere behind me, a country song twangs about heartbreak, the same as every other song and only half as interesting. I reach for the socket wrench, balanced on the engine block. Focus helps me pretend the day’s not going sideways already.
“Fixing it or just bonding over shared hardship?” That’s my brother, Henry.
I don’t look up. “Trying to, but the heckling is distracting.”
Henry’s boots scuff the concrete, drawing closer. “Supervising, not heckling. Different skill set.” He sets down a coffee cup. “Wilson’s truck finally coughed up its last secret. Carburetor’s a disaster.”
“You call him?”
“Yeah. Nearly fainted at the price. Lesson in passive-aggressive responsibility; I told him next time, don’t ignore the check engine light for half a year.”
I straighten, and my back cracks. Too many hours bent over cars. I swipe my hands on the rag in my pocket.
Henry props himself against the bench, arms crossed. At thirty-two, he’s just two years older, but he acts like he’s looking down from Mount Wisdom. Probably because he is, sometimes.
He eyes me. “Still good for Sullivan’s tonight? Tina’s bringing her sister.”
A warning bell goes off in my head. “Is this another setup?”
He grins. That’s all the answer I need. “She’s cute, just back from Denver. Divorced, no baggage.”
“I have plans.”
He snorts. “With what, Netflix and your ceiling fan? Jack, when’s the last time you went on an actual date?”
The phone’s ring slices through whatever reply I was about to muster. I don’t mind. I’m out of arguments, anyway.
Henry heads for the office. “Not over, by the way. And the Christmas party with Olivia Sutton doesn’t count—six months and three holidays ago.”
In Riverdale, nothing stays secret. Mom called about my last coffee date before the dishes were cleared. She does that with everything, though.
I turn back to Mrs. Abernathy’s Buick, glad for the distraction. The timing belt frays under my huffing breath, unapologetic. Sometimes, things just aren’t fixable, no matter how much you tinker. The office door slams open.
