Page 279 of Before We Were

Jay lets out a breath, as if he's been holding it the entire time. "Thank fuck. I did not want to wash these glasses by hand for the next month."

I laugh, surprised by how fond I've grown of the kid. "Anything else you're concerned about?"

"That's all boss."

"Jay, you know you can just call me Nick, yeah?"

"Boss sounds more badass. Not that your name sucks or anything. It's just—You know what, you're a busy man, so I'm just going to shut up and go finish polishing glasses. See ya round, boss."

He hangs up, and I shake my head with a smile. Some things never change, and maybe they shouldn't. Sometimes it's the small moments—a nervous phone call, a kid trying his best—that remind you why you do what you do.

And maybe that's what it's all about: being there, staying steady, giving people the chance to become who they're meant to be. Even if sometimes that means letting them go find themselves first. A sense of pride settles in my chest.

People can change.

It just takes the right moment—or the right push.

The yard smellslike motor oil and rust, the kind of heavy industrial scent that seeps into your clothes and lingers for days. As I step into the main office of the wreckers, the overhead fluorescent lights buzz faintly, casting everything in a sickly pale glow. Mikey's behind the counter, talking to another guy I don't recognize—a blonde kid with a crooked name tag that reads Dillon.

Their conversation dies mid-sentence when the door creaks open, but before I can step fully inside, an older woman brushes past me with enough force to make me step back.

"Sorry, ma'am," I say reflexively, but she doesn't acknowledge my existence.

She's dressed like she walked straight out of some high-end department store catalog—designer everything, from her perfectly coiffed hair to her imported leather shoes. She carries herself with that particular kind of entitled grace that comes from old money and older secrets. Her face might've been stunning thirty years ago, but now it's all harsh angles and expensive makeup trying to mask the march of time. She spares me a sideways glance that could freeze hell over before sweeping past me through the door.

"Good day to you too," I mutter under my breath, stepping fully inside. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Mikey and Dillon exchange a look that sets off every alarm bell in my head. Mikey looks startled, like someone just caught him in a lie. The other guy—Dillon—leans in close to Mikey and mutters something I can't quite catch, but I don't miss the sharp glance he shoots at the door the woman just left through.

"She paid how much to get rid of it?" Mikey whispers, his voice low but still carrying in the quiet office.

I freeze, my hand hovering over the counter as my ears prick up. Twenty years of reading people tells me something's off here.

"Shut up, man," Dillon hisses, his eyes darting to me like a guilty conscience.

I pretend I didn't hear a thing, carefully arranging my face into something neutral as I approach the counter. Years of business negotiations have taught me when to play dumb.

"Mikey," I say, nodding in greeting. "I'm here to pick up some belongings from the Jeep you guys towed in." The words taste bitter in my mouth, remembering why I'm here.

Mikey straightens up, visibly relieved to focus on something else.

"Yo, Nick. Yeah, yeah, I heard about that. Is she—uh, the girl, I mean—is she okay?"

"She's recovering," I say simply, keeping my tone even while something darker stirs in my gut.

Dillon mutters something about grabbing the box and heads toward the back, his shoulders tense. As he disappears, I lean casually against the counter, watching Mikey fidget like a man with too many secrets.

"What was a lady like that doing in a place like this?" I ask, my voice deliberately light but pointed.

Mikey glances toward the door, then back at me, hesitating. He knows me well enough to know I don't ask questions without a reason. Finally, he lets out a breath, leaning in like he's about to share something he shouldn't.

"She's been in here a few times this week," he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. "A couple of banged-up cars came through, but none of 'em were like the one she wanted to buy back."

My eyebrows lift slightly, interest piqued. "Why'd she want to buy it back if it's at the wreckers?"

Mikey starts scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Don't know. Woman has got enough money to buy a fleet of 'em if she wanted, but instead, she had Dillon get rid of it."

I feel the air shift, tension crackling like static electricity before a storm.

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