Part 15:
Real life is her needing to take calls at 8:00 p.m. on Sunday while I’m trying to figure out how to keep my shop open. Sarah sat beside him. You’re scared? Of course I’m scared. What happens when she realizes I’m not some diamond in the rough? I’m just rough. Have you considered that maybe she already knows that and doesn’t care? She should care for her own sake.
That’s not your decision to make. Sarah poked him in the chest. You’re self-sabotaging. You had a good time. She clearly likes you. And now you’re inventing reasons why it won’t work. I’m being realistic. You’re being a coward. The words stung because they were true. Ethan closed his eyes, thinking about Viven’s hand in his.
the way she’d laughed when they capsized. The kiss in the car that had made everything else disappear. “What if I screw it up?” he asked quietly. “Then you screw it up. But at least you tried.” Sarah stood. I’m taking Sophie home. You’re going to sit here and think about whether you want to let fear win or whether you want to actually be happy for once. That’s harsh. You need harsh.
She called Sophie, who emerged from the bedroom with suspiciously perfect timing. Are you and Vivien fighting? Sophie asked. “No, sweetheart.” “We’re just figuring things out.” “Figuring things out is what adults say when they’re definitely fighting.” She hugged him. “Fix it, Dad. She’s nice and she makes you smile. Don’t mess it up.
” They left, and Ethan sat alone in his apartment, staring at his phone. Three unread messages from Vivien. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to go to the fundraiser. We can do something else. Please talk to me. He should respond. Should say something to fix the weird tension he’d created by bolting from her car.
But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he opened his laptop and googled men’s suit rental Seattle. The results were depressing. Prices ranging from $100 to $300 for a single night. Money he didn’t have. money he’d need for the shop payment at the end of the month. His phone rang. Unknown number again. Hello, Mr. Cole.
This is James Morrison from Hart Industries Fleet Management. Ethan sat up straighter. Oh, hi. Yes. M. Hart asked me to reach out about a maintenance contract for our Seattle vehicles. Do you have time this week to discuss terms? Uh, yeah, definitely. When works for you. How about Tuesday morning? I can come by your shop. 9:00 a.m. That’s perfect.
Thank you. No, thank you. Ms. Hart speaks very highly of your work. We’re looking forward to partnering with you. They hung up and Ethan stared at his phone. She’d followed through. Even after he’d been weird and awkward about the fundraiser, even after he’d practically run away from her car, she’d still made sure her fleet manager contacted him.
He pulled up her messages and started typing. I’m sorry for being weird about the fundraiser. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just got in my head about not fitting into your world. The response came almost immediately. You don’t have to fit into my world. I like you in your world. But your world is part of who you are.
I can’t just ignore that. So come to the fundraiser. Wear whatever you want. I’ll be there and that’s all that matters. I don’t have a suit. Then we’ll get you one. Viven, I’m not buying it for you. We’ll go shopping together. You can pick what you like and I’ll loan you the money. You can pay me back whenever. That’s still charity.
It’s a loan. There’s a difference. Please, Ethan. I want you there. He sat with that for a long moment. Pride and want battling in his chest. Finally, he typed. Okay, but I’m paying you back. I know you will. Tuesday after your fleet meeting. Deal. Good. Now, get some sleep. And Ethan? Yeah. Today was my favorite day in a very long time.
He smiled despite himself. Mine, too. That night, lying in bed, Ethan thought about his daughter’s words. Don’t mess it up. Simple advice from an 8-year-old who somehow understood more about relationships than he did. He wouldn’t mess it up, or at least he’d try not to. Tuesday morning arrived cold and gray. Typical Seattle weather that threatened rain without actually delivering.
Ethan opened the shop at 8:30, giving himself time to make sure everything looked as professional as possible before James Morrison arrived. He’d swept the floors, organized the tools, even cleaned the office windows. It still looked like a struggling repair shop in Georgetown, but at least it was a clean, struggling repair shop.
Morrison showed up exactly at 9, driving a Heart Industries fleet van that had definitely seen better days. He was in his 50s, heavy set with the weathered look of someone who’d spent decades managing logistics. Mr. Cole. He shook Ethan’s hand firmly. James Morrison. Thanks for meeting with me. Call me Ethan and thanks for coming out. They walked through the shop.
Morrison asking questions about capacity, turnaround times, part sourcing. Ethan answered honestly. He could handle maybe 15 vehicles a week if he stayed on top of scheduling, more if he hired help. Miss Hart mentioned you work alone. Morrison said, “For now, I had to let my last guy go a few months back. This contract would change that.
