Holland
By late morning the lobby had settled into a rhythm I could ride without thinking—answer, print, staple, smile, repeat. Diesel ghosts drifted in every time a tech cut through to the showroom; the ficus looked like it was rehearsing its funeral; my stomach had started making small whale noises I tried to ignore.
I should’ve packed a lunch. I’d meant to. But the night had been long in a way that made me forget ordinary things. Todd texting from his truck. The wind behaving. Me sleeping in full pieces for the first time in too long. Morning had arrived with a weird calm and a blank spot in my tote where a sandwich should have been.
The shop door pushed open and the air did a small shift that had nothing to do with temperature. Remy came through wearing a jacket that said owner with
