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“Something cars need, lady. Maybe we forgot to tell you when you brought yours over. Who did you talk to?”
“A girl. Blond, a little taller than me— ”
“I did the intake.” I smile at the client and step inside, ignoring Bob’s glare. “Is there a problem?”
She scowls. “You didn’t mention that my car would need an engine . . . whatever. I-I can’t afford this.”
I glance at the cars around the shop, trying to place her. “It’s a 2019 Jetta sedan, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You won’t need an engine flush.” I smile reassuringly. She looks distraught and rattled over money— something I can relate to. “The car’s well under fifty thousand miles.”
“So the engine flush wasnotnecessary.”
“Not at all. I’m sure it’s a mistake, and . . .” I trail off as I realize what she said.Was. “Excuse me, do you mean that the engine flush hasalreadybeen done?”
She turns to Bob, steely. “I’m not paying for a job that evenyour own mechanicsays wasn’t needed. And I won’t be using this garage again. But nice try.”
It takes her less than a minute to settle the fifty- dollar bill. The tension in the garage is thick and ugly, and I stand by the counter, feeling painfully awkward, until the Jetta has driven off. Then I turn to Bob.
Surprise surprise, he’s fuming.
“I’m sorry,” I say, a mix of contrite, defensive, and gloating. Working with Bob clearly arouses complex, multilayered emotions within me. “I didn’t know you’d already done the flush or I wouldn’t have told her it wasn’t necessary. She seemed like she didn’t have the money for— ”
“You’re fired,” he says without looking at me, still fiddling with the credit card transaction.
I’m not sure I heard him right. “What?”
“You’re fired. I’ll pay you what I owe you, but I don’t want you back.”
I blink at him. “What are you— ”
“I amsick of you,” he yells, turning to me and coming forward. I take two steps back. Bob’s not tall and he’s not large, but he’smean. “Youalwaysdo this.”
I shake my head, glancing at the other mechanics, hoping they’ll intervene. They just look at us stone- faced, and I—
I can’t lose this job. Ican’t. I have a letter in my purse and a text in my phone, and apparently guinea pigs get depressed if they’re not living in damn pairs. “Listen, I’m sorry. But I’ve been working here for over a year, and my uncle wouldn’t— ”
“Your uncle ain’t here anymore, and I’m done with you. Not only do you never upsell, but you also don’t letmedo it? Get your stuff.”
“But that’s not my job! My job is to fix people’s cars, not sell them stuff they don’t need.”
“Ain’t your job anymore.”
“She’s right, you can’t fire her like that.” I turn around. Easton is standing behind me with her bestI will now correct your grammarface. “There are regulations in place that protect employees from unjust termination— ”
“Luckily, Blondie here was never on the books to begin with.”
That shuts Easton up. And the realization that Bob can do anything he wants with me— that shutsmeup, too.
“Get your stuff and leave,” he says one last time, rude and obnoxious and cruel as always. I can’t do anything about it. I’m completely, utterly powerless, and I have to clench my fists to stop myself from clawing his face. I have to force myself to walk away, or I’ll tear him apart.
“And Mallory?”
I stop, but don’t turn around.
“I’ll be deducting the cost of the engine flush from what I owe you.”
