Page 17 of Falling for the Mechanic
The words hang in the air between us, and I try not to let them go to my head. She isn’t running. Not from me. Not yet. For now, that’s enough to make the dread of her leaving recede, replaced by a low, steady hum of anticipation for whatever there is to come.
* * *
I make it to the shop an hour late. Honestly, I don’t expect much repercussions since, for the last week, I’ve been managing everything on my own. However, the moment I see Nash’s truck, I’m cursing under my breath and wondering what I did to deserve such bad timing.
He’s going to call me irresponsible and add that insult to his list of reasons I’m not ready to take ownership.
As soon as I’m inside, I catch him settled at the computer flipping through receipts. At the other end of the desk, he’s got his cane resting against the corner. I’m relieved that he’s using it, but annoyed to see him.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Dropping my keys on the desk, I fetch a shirt to throw over my shoulders. “Doc said three weeks minimum.”
He ignores my words, his frown matching mine. “Alina called. Asked us if the slow season was over with how many cars are in the lot.”
His fingers slow, and his eyes flick up in my direction. He’s not mad that I’m late. Hell, I don’t even think that’s on the list of reasons behind his frown. “Cameron.”
I hate it when he gets like this. I feel like I’m being scolded without the words being said.
“Need to take whatever we can get.” If I work long shifts, I can keep up. Even if I’m running solo, I’ve got the drive. “Winteris coming. It’s mostly tire replacements and oil changes. Simple as simple can get.”
Except, we both know that’s a lie. Running without a staff has already taken its toll. I’m trying to make up for being the reason behind all of this.
Setting down the papers, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture weary and familiar. “How am I supposed to sit at home without worrying about you hurting yourself? Shop can’t be helped if we’re both taken out.” It’s his old refrain, the practical concern that usually just fuels my own anxiety.
Normally, I’d brush off his words with a grunt, tell him I’m fine, and get right to it, burying the worry under a mountain of work. It’s what I do. It’s all I know how to do.
But today…today, I’m feeling off. Chelsea’s left me exposed. That kiss, that moment of unguarded surrender, has scraped me raw.
The usual armor I strap on every morning feels cracked and ill-fitting. The constant, simmering pressure to prove myself, to be enough, feels closer to the surface, and it’s suddenly harder to breathe under its weight.
A sigh, heavy and defeated, escapes me before I can stop it. I move to a flipped gallon bucket and take a seat, the plastic cold and hard beneath me. My knee starts bouncing, a nervous, restless tremor I can’t control. I can’t look at him. I stare at the oil-stained concrete between my boots, my voice strained.
“You wouldn’t have gotten hurt if it weren’t for me. If we didn’t have to fight so hard during this dry spell…” The confession is torn from a place I usually keep locked down tight. It’s the core of it, the rotten foundation of every sour mood, every snapped word. It’s all my fault.
My uncle scoffs, and I don’t have to look his way to know he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m old, Cameron. That’s why I hurt myself. You’ve got nothing to do with it.”
The logic is sound. I know it is. But the guilt is a parasite that doesn’t feed on logic. It’s a whisper in the dark, a constant, grinding reminder that I’m failing. Still going to blame myself every day for it. The thought is a familiar, toxic companion. Little thoughts like that are what keep my mood sour.
“Stop scheduling so tightly and moving around the customers to squeeze even more in. The shop will be fine.”
I’ve lost count of how many times he’s tried to reassure me. Over and over, every time he catches me frantic about losing a business my father lifted from the ground, he says the words, a steady, patient promise in his voice.
A decade now, he hasn’t grown tired of saying the words.
I wish it worked as well as he thought it did. I wish I could believe him. But the fear is a deeper stain than any on this floor.
The words hang in the air between us, words I’ve never allowed myself to believe. But the fight has gone out of me, and the exhaustion is now pouring through.
I let out a long, slow sigh, the sound carrying the weight of too many restless nights and missed meals. The tension finally leaves my shoulders, and I feel myself slump forward, elbows on my knees. I say the next word quietly but clearly. “Okay,”
The silence that follows is thick with shock. I can feel my uncle’s stare boring into the side of my head. He was braced for an argument, for my usual stubborn refusal to yield an inch.
“Okay?” he repeats, his voice laced with disbelief.
“I’ll wrap up what I have. Then I’ll slow down.” I say the words, and for the first time, I don’t just mean them for his benefit.
A strange, foreign sensation uncoils in my chest. It’s relief. A deep, profound relief that makes me realize just how tired I am, how long I’ve been running on fumes, punishing myself.
I finally look up at him. “You can go back up the mountain. Enjoy your time away. I’ve got it.”
