Page 9 of Stop and Seek
Okay.
Alright.
That was it.
Going to work wasofficiallyoff the table.
He’d give it a few hours, wait for the engine to stop plotting murder, then limp it over to Ethan’s.
Ethan would give him that disappointed-ass look, the one that saidyou’re too smart to keep doing this, but he’d fix it. He always did.
And Theo would pretend it didn’t land like a knife under the ribs.
Ethan’s shop was a glorified gas station shack, a relic from way back when Grandpa Everett owned it. The oversized garage door didn’t close all the way—hadn’t in years—so dead leaves drifted in and out like they paid rent.
Ethan refused to fix it. Called it ventilation.
Still, the place was busy. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was always playing a rotation of classic rock that made Theo want to rip his ears off.
It could’ve been a decent side job. If he could stand the smell of gasoline curling into his brain. After ten minutes, his head was swimming like he’d done Whippets under the bleachers.
“Why is there no oil? Better yet,howis there no oil?” Ethan wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better days, leaning against the hood of Theo’s car. “You’ve gotta take better care of her.”
Theo kicked the clunker. It shuddered in protest before settling onto four half-inflated wheels.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“You’ve been saying that for months. One of these days, you’re going to be stranded, and I won’t be there to tow your sorry ass.”
“Maybe I’ll just start walking everywhere. Join a gym.”
Theo crouched down. Sifted through the array of tools in the blue box. Pliers, a collection of sockets, more than three different types of wrenches—who needed this much shit?
“You okay?” Ethan asked.
Theo didn’t look up. “Just tired. Work’s been… work.”
His eyes drifted to the cracked side-view mirror. Something dark smudged on his cheek—maybe ash, maybe dirt. He swiped at it without thinking and promptly dragged a streak of grease across his face.
Perfect.
His whole life was unraveling in pieces: his job, his car, hisbrain.
Telling Ethan that?
Hard pass.
Ethan had Carrie. A house. Basil and thyme growing in his goddamn window sill. He didn’t need Theo dumping a truckload of emotional sludge on top of his perfect-shaped life.
Instead, Theo grabbed the ugliest tool in the box—some warped metal contraption with teeth—and held it up. “Who are you torturing with this?”
“It’s a spark plug gapper. You need one?”
So much for explanations he could understand. Mechanically inclined people were fascinating.
Theo dropped it back into the box.
“Well, you know I’m here if you ever want to vent,” Ethan said, softer this time. “So’s Carrie. She’ll probably make you lasagna again if you ask.”
