Page 5 of The Mistletoe Bluff
The smell of car oil permeated the small auto body shop as I stood gaping at the man behind the counter. He blinked at me, his eyes half closed, as if he were moments from falling asleep. He lifted the trucker hat off his forehead long enough to scratch his greasy head before wiggling it back down, looking at me with narrowed eyes and flattened lips that saidI don’t want to deal with dumb women in my shop anymore.
“Two thousand dollars. To fix the scratch on your car.” He drew out the words, as if he were speaking to a child who didn’t understand that one plus one equaled two.
I glanced around, expecting some reality TV show host to jump out and tell me I’d been punked or something. I looked over my shoulder to find two people waiting behind me, a man who was engrossed in his phone, and an older woman who looked at me with eyes full of pity.
I turned back to cranky auto-shop man. “B-b-but Google said it would only be a couple hundred bucks,” I stammered.
The man rolled his eyes. “Well, Google won’t be doing the repairs on your car, and this is no surface-level scratch. It’s deep into the paint, all the way to the metal, and will rust from exposure to the elements by the way, which requires a lot more work. Therefore, two thousand dollars. Now, I’ll either need you to make the appointment or leave as I have other customers to attend to.” He gave a vague wave to the people waiting.
Nausea filled my stomach. My credit card was maxed out and I had approximately forty-six dollars, give or take a few cents, in my bank account.
“Look…” I leaned forward, looking at the guy’s nametag. “Paul, I don’t have that kind of money. Isn’t there anything you can do? Maybe a payment plan or something?”
Paul rolled his eyes again, pointing to the sign hanging behind him that said, “We don’t offer payment plans. Payment required in full.”
Dang it.
I clenched my fists to keep from punching his face. That definitely wouldn’t do me any favors.
“We don’t do payment plans, lady. We require payment in full before service is done,” he snipped, regurgitating the sign. “That’s the policy. If you can’t afford it, then step aside.”
Rude.
“Fine,” I snapped. “I’m leaving. You don’t have to be a jerk about it. Merry Christmas.” I fought the urge to tack onya filthy animalas I readjusted my purse on my shoulder and stalked out of the shop.
I was feeling just a tad vindicated, like I had put the dude in his place by calling him out for being a jerk at Christmas time, but then my purse caught on the door handle. It would have been less embarrassing if it was a simple snag that required a brief pause to free myself.
But no, the universe was cruel.
Instead, the force of my purse catching on the door flung me backward, landing me on the hard tile, right on my butt.
My teeth sang from the impact, my tailbone likely bruised, but nothing hurt worse than my pride. The lady at the back of the line asked if I was okay as I struggled to stand. I gave the barest of nods before limping through the door, purse clutched tight to my chest. I didn’t bother to look back at Paul to see if he cared that I had just butt-planted on his floor.
The winter air smothered me as I stepped outside, eradicating any ounce of warmth left in my body, and I didn’t know what was colder—the weather or Paul’s attitude.
A shaky breath pooled in the cold air as I exhaled. I stopped next to my car and dragged my fingers along the scratch on the door. How could something so small cost so much? Sure, it spanned both the front and rear doors, but it wasn’tthatdeep. Definitely not two thousand dollars’ worth.
What had that infernal scratcher even done? It was too long and distinct to have been an accident. It looked like someone had keyed my car on purpose.
I rested my forehead on the top of the door. I’d never have that kind of money to fix it.
I supposed I should have counted my blessings—it was only a scratch and not something that made the vehicle inoperable. But still…it was an eyesore that wasn’t my fault and yetIhad to pay for it.
Climbing into the car, I let out a frustrated groan before banging my head on the steering wheel. I thought about turning the key to flood the car with some warmth since it was only thirty degrees outside, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The past year had been such an utter, colossal failure and disappointment.
Aside from succeeding in getting my best friend and my cousin together, which was a feat in itself, nothing else had gone right. Ever since Oliver Lewis won the prize that should have been mine, door after door had slammed in my face. Meridel was too small of a town for me to gain any traction. That magazine spreading the word about Sunflower Fields Photography had been vital.
But Oliver had stolen that opportunity, which left me waitressing at Dina’s restaurant on the side, trying to pay off the massive debt I had racked up trying to do something substantial with my life.
And then photographing Jameson proposing to Elsie last week…that was the true kick to my gut. A reminder that I had no promising future in this career,andno man.
I let out a long sigh. A Christmas tree air freshener swung from the rearview mirror, but it was so old it didn’t smell like anything anymore. Muttering a curse under my breath, wishing something would just work out for once in my life, I went to start the car when something white caught my eye on the passenger seat.
It was the napkin the car scratcher had left on my windshield.
The thing was crumpled in a ball, hiding under my camera bag. I hesitated for a moment before reaching over to dig it out.
It was stiff after getting wet from the snow that day, and I carefully smoothed it against the steering wheel, flinching when I accidentally honked the horn.
