Gage's truck is on the wrong side of the lot.
He parks in the east section every day. Third spot from the end, near the dumpster enclosure. His truck is impossible to miss—lifted, mud on the wheel arches, a dent in the tailgate that's been there since my first week.
Today it's in the west section. Right next to my car.
He's leaning against the driver's side door when I come down the steps, arms folded. He pushes off when he sees me and matches my stride.
"Heading out?"
"Yeah." I dig in my bag for my keys. "You're parked over here today."
"Moved it at lunch."
He doesn't say why. I don't ask.
At my car, I pop the locks and toss my bag onto the passenger seat. Gage stands by the back bumper. His hands go to his pockets. Back out. Back of his neck.
"Hope."
I turn. "Yeah?"
"Has anyone bothered you?"
His eyes are fixed on mine. Shoulders drawn up tight. Whatever he's holding isn't sitting well.
"Bothered me how?"
"Anyone in the building. Giving you a hard time."
I think about Rick in the corridor. Josh in the break room. The way conversations stop when I walk past now.
"Yes and no," I say. "But it's nothing I can't handle."
His mouth pulls tight.
"Why are you asking?"
His hand drops from his neck. "People talk. I hear things." His voice goes lower. "I want to make sure you're all right."
"I'm good, Gage. Thank you for checking in with me."
He nods. He doesn't believe me.
"If someone gives you trouble," he says, "you come to me. That's what I'm here for."
"I will."
"I mean it, Hope. Drive safe," he says.
"Always do."
I get in my car, close the door, and start the engine. In my mirrors, he's still standing there. Watching me pull out.
I'm smiling before I've cleared the lot.
He's a good man.
The drive home is twenty minutes of empty highway and the last of the daylight behind the ridge. By the time I pull into my spot the smile has faded but the warmth hasn't.
