Chapter 4: The Aftermath
The ping of her phone was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Alana stared at the screen, the blue light washing over her face in the dark. His reply was immediate. No hesitation. ‘Then don’t. Meet me at the garage. Please.’
The ‘please’ did it. The old Jeremy didn’t say please. He demanded, he took, he shattered.
Her heart was a frantic animal against her ribs. This was insanity. She was leaving in less than twelve hours. Her carry-on was zipped, her toiletries bag sitting on the dresser next to a bottle of water and a melatonin gummy she hadn’t taken. Going to him now was like willingly walking into a minefield she’d spent half a decade mapping.
But she was already swinging her legs out of bed. The floorboards were cool under her feet. She pulled on the jeans she’d worn earlier and a soft, worn sweatshirt, not bothering with a bra. This wasn’t a date. This was a… surrender. Or a confrontation. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
The house was silent, her parents asleep down the hall. Mark and Clara were at the airport hotel for their early flight to Jamaica. Her sneakers were by the back door. She slipped out, the screen door sighing shut behind her.
The night air was cool and heavy with the scent of cut grass and distant rain. Her car, a rental sedan, felt like a spaceship in the stillness of her parents’ driveway. The engine turning over was too loud. She winced, easing down the street until the houses gave way to fields, the dark outlines of silos against a sky bruised purple with clouds.
Cole’s Auto was on the edge of town, a low-slung building of corrugated metal behind a chain-link fence. A single floodlight buzzed over the main bay door, throwing a stark white puddle onto the oil-stained concrete. His truck was parked to the side.
She killed the engine and sat there, watching. The large door was rolled halfway up, and she could see him inside. He had his back to her, bent over the engine bay of a classic Mustang, a rag hanging from his back pocket. A portable radio played classic rock softly, the tinny sound of a guitar solo scratching the air.
He moved with a kind of focused grace she remembered. The deliberate placement of a wrench, the tilt of his head as he listened to something in the machine. This was his language. Not words. Mechanics.
She got out. The sound of her car door made him straighten. He didn’t turn around. He waited.
Alana ducked under the half-open door. The garage smelled like gasoline, metal, and citrus cleaner. It was a familiar smell, one that used to cling to his clothes, to his skin. It unlocked a vault of memories she’d sealed shut: falling asleep in the passenger seat of his old Camaro while he worked late, the radio humming; the way he’d wipe his hands meticulously before he touched her.
He finally turned, tossing the rag onto a workbench. He was in a faded black t-shirt and jeans, a smear of grease on his forearm next to the intricate web of a tattoo. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it.
“You came,” he said. His voice was flat, careful.
“I don’t know why.”
“Yeah, you do.”
He didn’t move toward her. He leaned back against the Mustang, crossing his arms. Giving her space. The gesture was so intentionally non-threatening it made her anger flare.
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“The act. The careful, reformed guy. I saw the real you, remember? The one who could say the most beautiful thing and then ghost me for a week. The one who thought ‘working on himself’ meant getting into a bar fight and showing up on my porch with a busted knuckle and no explanation.”
He flinched. Good. She wanted him to feel it.
“That’s fair,” he said, nodding. “That’s all true. And if you need to list every shitty thing I ever did, I’ll stand here and listen. I remember them all. I have a ledger in my head, Alana. It’s got one column.”
“Then what’s this? A last-ditch effort to clear your conscience before I disappear again?”
“No.” He pushed off the car, took one step, and stopped. “My conscience is never getting clear. This is about tomorrow. And the day after. You asked me in the truck what I wanted. I didn’t have the guts to say it then. I’m saying it now. I want a chance to show you who I am without the poison in him. Not for a night. Not for a secret. For keeps.”
The word reverberated in the hollow garage. For keeps. A child’s promise. A forever vow.
“You don’t get to just decide that,” she whispered, her throat raw.
“I know. I’m asking. I’m on my knees asking, okay?” His voice broke, just a crack. He didn’t move, but she saw it, the tremor in his jaw. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what proof you need. Do you want bank statements? I own this place, outright. Do you want references? Talk to Mark, talk to my probation officer from six years ago—she’s weirdly proud. Do you want me to get on a plane to Chicago once a month? I will. Do you want me to leave you alone forever? Then say the word. Look at me and say it, and I’ll walk back into this bay and you’ll never hear from me again. But if there’s one single part of you that’s still curious… don’t get on that plane tomorrow.”
A tense silence stretched between them, thin and sharp as a wire. The radio played a sad, slow song.
“I have a client presentation on Tuesday,” she said, the words automatic, a lifeline to her real world.
“Okay.”
“My ugly cat needs his special prescription food.”
“I’ll buy a case and ship it to you.”
“I’m scared,” she admitted, the confession leaving her defenseless.
He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, they were glistening. “I’m terrified. But I’d rather be terrified with you in the room than safe without you.”
Headlights suddenly swept across the open bay, blinding them both. A county sheriff’s SUV pulled up just outside, engine idling. A deputy got out, a broad-shouldered man Alana vaguely recognized. He hitched his belt and walked to the door, his expression grim.
“Jeremy,” the deputy said, nodding. His eyes flicked to Alana, a flicker of recognition and pity. “Sorry to interrupt. We got a call. It’s about Mikey.”
Jeremy’s whole body went rigid. “What about him?”
“Picked him up an hour ago. DUI out on Route 9. He’s okay, car’s a mess. He’s in lockup, sobering up. He asked for you. Wouldn’t call his dad.”
Mikey. Jeremy’s younger brother. The wild one, the one still deep in the spiral Jeremy had climbed out of.
Jeremy swore softly, rubbing a hand over his face. The raw vulnerability she’d just seen vanished, replaced by a weary, practiced responsibility. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll come down. Let him cool off a bit first.”
“Figured you’d say that. Take your time.” The deputy touched his hat, gave Alana another nod, and walked back to his car.
The silence after he left was different. Charged with a new, brutal reality. This was his life. The mess, the obligations, the late-night calls. It wasn’t just a garage and a suit. It was a brother in a jail cell, a legacy of chaos he was still cleaning up.
He looked at her, exhaustion etching lines around his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. “See?” he said, his voice hollow. “This is it. This is the real deal. It’s not just me. It’s my whole… ecosystem of damage. You got a taste of it before. This is what you’d be signing up for.”
He was giving her an out. Showing her the worst of it, right now, to see if she’d run.
Alana looked at his hands. They were clenched at his sides. She looked at the Mustang, his sanctuary. She looked at the open bay door, the dark road beyond it that led to the airport, to safety, to her hairless cat and client presentations.
She walked past him, toward the cluttered workbench. She picked up a clean-ish rag and handed it to him.
“You’ve got grease on your face,” she said quietly.
He took the rag, his fingers brushing hers. He didn’t wipe his face. He just held it, watching her.
“What time does your flight leave?” he asked, the hope in his voice so fragile it could dissolve.
“Three,” she said. She took a deep breath, the smell of the garage, of him, of old mistakes and desperate repairs filling her lungs. “I’ll need to make a call.”