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Haley grimaced. She knew the truth of my words. The only reason Dad and I had gone so long without working was because the Bell family—us—had been the only mechanics in town for eighty years.
Same building. Same place. Same service.
Until my ex-stepmother’s debt had caught up with her and cost us the business.
As Dad had said—losing the business was better than losing our house. We could get jobs. Another house?
The only good thing that had come out of that bullshit mess was the reconciliation of my parents.
“Why don’t you apply?” Haley asked after a few minutes of silence. “You need a job, they need a mechanic… You know everyone in town.”
I wrinkled my face. “I don’t know, Hales. Working in what used to be my family garage? Isn’t that weird?”
“Did I or did I not buy you shit paper this week?”
“Asking you for toilet paper wasn’t my finest moment,” I admitted. “And you didn’t have to buy it. I just needed a roll and my parents wouldn’t answer their phone.”
She waggled her eyebrows.
I pointed my finger at her. “No. Enough. We are not visiting that.”
Haley laughed. She waved her hand in the direction of my laptop. “Come on. Just apply. You need a job, and you don’t want to drive to get one. It’s literally on your doorstep.”
I wavered. Little did she know that I’d applied for several jobs in nearby towns over the past few months. I’d been—obviously—unsuccessful, but not because my qualifications lacked.
No.
I was more than qualified.
I was overlooked for one simple reason.
I was a woman.
And I was terrified the same thing would happen again.
I tapped my nails against the trackpad of my laptop.
I knew nothing about the people who’d bought it. Dad had refused to talk about it, and while he’s gotten a good price, the divorce had cost him all the money he’d made.
I scrolled down the page to find the job ad Haley had seen. It was a couple of posts down, and I hit ‘see more’ to read the full offer.
Mechanic Wanted
Mechanic required at Ryne Garages. Located on the corner of Mountain Boulevard, Springbrook. Contact [email protected] or call 415-112-1883 for more information and ask for Dexter Ryne.
Haley leaned over the top of my laptop. “You found it?”
I nodded briskly. “I don’t know. Do you not think it’s weird? Like, applying for a job in the garage I basically grew up in?”
“Does it feel weird?”
“Yes.”
“Just try it. The worst that’s going to happen is that they already filled the position or you don’t get it.”
I stared at her flatly. “There are no other mechanics in town. Unless someone from outside town applied and got it…”
“Well, then, you have an excellent chance of being accepted, don’t you?”
I groaned and rested my head in my hands. “I just…I don’t know. It feels really weird to do this.”
She smacked her fist against the table, making me jump. “How much money do you have left in your savings account? And that doesn’t count the change down the back of the sofa.”
Actually, that was a very good question.
I held up one finger and opened online banking.
Ten seconds later, I was staring at a very, very sad bank account.
And I was closing that window, because man, that was depressing.
“We’re not going to discuss this,” I said, opening Gmail instead.
“You’re applying, aren’t you?” she asked, a smug smile creeping over her face.
“I’m inquiring.”
“Applying.”
“Yes! All right, yes. God, I’m applying. There. Are you happy now?” I copied and pasted the email into the ‘To’ line and attached my resume.
“Ecstatic.” She grinned.
I flipped her the bird and, after typing a few lines, sent the email.
***
I turned my key to lock my door. After the tell-tale click, I checked the handle to make sure and stuffed the keys in my pocket.
Losing the garage a little over a year ago had made me appreciate things a lot more. One of those things was the land we owned on the edge of town. Between my grandparents and my parents, they’d paid it off, and we owned it outright.
The small cottage I called home had been built for a member of staff to live in. It wasn’t huge—a living room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and one bathroom—but it was perfect for me. Dad had built the garage next door about ten years ago when it became apparent I was following in his footsteps and not Mom’s.
She hadn’t been thrilled I’d chosen grease and oil over working with her in her restaurant.
What could I say?
I wasn’t really a people person, and there were a lot of people at the restaurant. Cars didn’t talk back or complain their chicken was too dry.
No, I was thankful. Thankful that even after my ex-stepmom had put us in debt up to our eyeballs and drained Dad’s bank account, we still had a place to live.
