It wasn’t that I didn’t like work. I’d held the position of office manager at a garage called Beach Body Auto for three years, although my job title sounded more glamorous than the reality, not that I cared. My daily routine consisted of answering the phones, booking appointments and issuing invoices, and the latter had dwindled considerably since a big franchise opened its doors a couple of blocks away, luring people in with bargain prices and a shiny coffee machine churning out custom-made drinks faster, and, if rumors were to be believed, way tastier than Starbucks. My boss, Mike, the sixty-five-year-old owner of Beach Body who still maintained it was the best garage name ever, remained convinced his shop would survive because of its decades-long history, customer loyalty and quality of service. The empty hoists, dwindling profits and the fact we’d lost another mechanic to our competitor all told a different story, which Mike had thus far chosen to ignore, except for us now opening on Sundays. I’d tried talking to him about it, offered to bump up our presence on social media, but Mike was old-fashioned and, other than a website, wanted nothing to do with “that stuff” because he “didn’t see the point.”
“Things will be fine, Lily,” he’d said before telling me he’d been through recessions before and come out the other side. I didn’t have the heart to keep arguing, tabling the conversation for another day instead. Mike had been good to me, given me a job after we’d struck up a conversation one morning when I’d gone to the beach to watch the sunrise, which still had me in awe every single time. We’d sat on the same bench in silence before introducing ourselves and chatting about where we were from and finding out we’d both been born on the same day in Buffalo, thirty-five years apart. He hadn’t asked for a reference, or probed much into my past, but offered me a week’s trial, after which I could tell him if I wanted the job permanently. It never seemed to occur to him he might want to let me go. As far as he was concerned, we were a perfect professional fit.
As much as I liked working for Mike and respected him as my boss, the prospect of going to the garage now and sitting at reception, smiling and forcing myself to be friendly when all I wanted to do was scream, made my skin crawl. I grabbed my phone, sent Mike a text saying I wasn’t well. Not long after he replied, hoping I’d feel better soon. Instead of his message giving me relief, it made me feel like a selfish jerk because I knew he’d end up doing my work for me. I’d explain everything to him tomorrow, I decided, knowing he’d understand and offer a comforting shoulder once he found out about Jack, but right now I couldn’t face telling him.
I soon knew I’d made a mistake. Without work, the entire day stretched out ahead of me, time I didn’t know how to fill. I headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, but when I opened the fridge and saw a plastic container with the leftovers of the last meal Jack and I had shared—butter chicken, his favorite—I burst into tears. How could he be gone? Disappeared without a trace from one moment to the next, leaving nothing behind but clothes on a beach?
Although I tried to push the disbelief, anger and fear away, it all slipped through nonetheless, burrowing deep into my heart. Perhaps going back to Jack’s apartment would ease the pain somehow, because not doing so and avoiding the place altogether would make me feel as if I were abandoning him all over again. I pulled on some clothes, tied up my hair and put on my shoes, forgoing the shower and makeup because what did it matter?
I sighed with relief when I got to Jack’s apartment and saw that Sam, good as his word, had fixed the broken kitchen window. I fired off a quick text, not expecting a reply because he was on his way to Chicago, but within a few seconds the three telltale dots appeared and he replied Call me if you need me, to which I responded with a simple thumbs-up. I wandered through to Jack’s bedroom, where I stared out the window. From my vantage point I saw a blue Dodge Charger crawl down the road and up to Sam’s driveway. I couldn’t see the number plate, but as I watched it sit there for a good minute, something started to feel off. I snapped a couple of pictures with my phone and waited until the car took off again. The windows were heavily tinted, and I hadn’t been able to spot who was in the vehicle, but coupled with the guy showing up at the house the night before, a feeling of unease dug into my stomach.
Needing to restore some sense of calm, I went back to the kitchen, where I filled the kettle and fetched a mug from the cupboard, into which I dropped a spoonful of instant coffee. My stomach let out a long, high-pitched wail, and I admitted defeat, deciding a piece of toast might keep it quiet for a while. When I opened the bread box, my eyes landed on the stack of mail on top of it, the one I’d teased Jack about a few weeks ago, as we were cooking pasta.
“You do know it’s the only thing in your entire apartment that’s untidy?” I’d said with a laugh. “I mean, everything’s pristine, your dishes are always done.”
“Why would you leave them lying around for the flies to get to?”
“Your bed’s always made.”
“The advantage of having a duvet, not sheets.”
“I like my sheets. Anyway, I thought you were trying to impress me at first, but I’ve never seen you leave as much as a dirty sock lying on the floor.”
Jack pulled me close, kissed
