Ask Me for Tomorrow (8 page)

‘Have you told him this?’

‘I tell him every time I see him. He’s retired, he drives as far as the local bowling green and I’m worried he’s going to send himself broke, but he waves me off and keeps rolling up.’ He made a wide sweeping gesture with his hand then slumped back in his seat and drank, brows drawn together.

For a moment, they watched each other over the rims of their mugs.

Beautiful and morally sound, she thought. She said, ‘If you’ve told him, then he knows what he’s doing. Maybe it’s peace of mind. Maybe he doesn’t have anyone else to spoil with his money. It could be as simple as liking a routine and having something to look forward to.’

Dean made a soft, considering sort of sound in the back of his throat. ‘You may be right. You know, that’s his car out there now. I swear I’ve done little more than poke at it for the last twenty minutes.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t charge him for a service; it’s not right.’

‘So don’t. Have you tried giving him a firm next-service date?’

‘Often.’

She laughed softly. ‘Then charge him or don’t charge him on a case-by-case basis.’

They drank in silence again. The caffeine was elbowing ahead of Alice’s fatigue, overwhelming it, but with one work shift soon to finish and another soon to start, this was only the latest in what was sure to be many more coffees today.

She wanted to sleep for a week. Pull the covers over her head and give the overworked battery inside her its first full charge in months. Years, even. Alice had juggled two jobs for a long time, but this was her toughest stint yet. Ben was old enough to be left at home now, however much she didn’t like it, which meant that she’d taken on longer hours, and more often.

Alice didn’t work weekends though. On Saturdays and Sundays she was a full-time mum and running from place to place getting seven days’ worth of tasks done in two. Whenever she could, she did something fun with Ben, but the money hadn’t been stretching far lately – the cost of living was steadily climbing and Ben was always needing one thing or the other.

She needed to prioritise a haircut. Another couple of weeks and he’d be able to tie a fistful of his hair back with an elastic band.

All these expenses, and here she was having lustful thoughts about her boss.

‘You okay?’ The question was gentle, spoken quietly.

Schedules, obligations and pressures tumbled and skittered out of her mind, and a few quick blinks brought Dean back into focus. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Sorry.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘I thought we were talking about Les.’

‘We were. And then you started worrying about everything that needs doing here and at home.’

Looking at his face, she wondered how it could be that a long-ago school acquaintance, a dirty mechanic and single father, could read her so easily. He saw things others hadn’t taken the time to notice, and wanted to help her without knowing what he was volunteering for. It felt . . . foreign. And nice. More nice than foreign, she thought, weighing them in her mind. There was no point in denying what was so clearly on her face, so she nodded. ‘True. But now I’m back.’

‘Well, thanks for your advice.’

‘Anytime.’ And she meant it. Sitting across from Dean this way, talking like old friends – it was something time had been too pinched to allow her for so long.

His lips curved devilishly. ‘Careful, say that and I may make a habit of this.’ He lifted his mug in the air, a small salute to the moment, then turned in his seat at the sound of laughter and hurried footsteps. ‘Sounds like we’re back on the clock – that’ll be our kids.’

By the following week, things were better than ever for Dean. It felt as if he’d resolved his issue with time – whether it had stretched or he was no longer so stretched, he couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t feel like everything was happening at once any more. He’d been more hands-on in the garage, free to work for hours on end on one car or project without worrying about phone calls, walk-ins or paperwork. Hiring Alice had made a big difference in every aspect of his life; he wasn’t working long hours to keep up with demand, which meant he was getting more time with his kids. He wasn’t pushing his staff or asking too much of himself. Life had improved.

He should have hired her years ago.

Because it was nearing three o’clock, he cleaned his hands in the small sink outside the reception area and readied himself for some conversation. He’d developed a habit of spending time with Alice before the kids turned up, and liked finishing his work days this way. Alice also seemed to enjoy it, and had started moving a chair up to the desk for him, which he liked more than he would ever admit to her.

Today there were nerves in his stomach, and his throat was tight. He didn’t have an easy conversation in mind this time – he had a bunch of confronting questions that Alice wasn’t going to like.

He’d come to believe she was hiding something from him. She was perpetually tired, didn’t talk much about what she did after hours, and evaded his invitations to spend time together outside of work. The kids were all getting on now, and had taken to walking to the garage after school together. They wouldn’t have minded seeing more of each other, yet Alice never accepted his invitations to dinner.

He saw her looking at him sometimes. He didn’t flatter himself that she harboured an above-average level of interest in him, but it did make him wonder whether she was deciding if she could confide in him.

Today he would convince her she could.

But Alice wasn’t in the reception area when he stepped inside, nor was she out the front with a customer. He was about to pull a chair over to her desk to wait for her, when he was brought up short by a strange sliding sound. It hissed, like a long whisper, paused, then hissed again. He strode past the antique gas pump his customers admired and stepped through the open door to the storeroom.

Lit by a single insubstantial light, the small room was too dark for him to see details, but half-way down the narrow aisle, standing between stacked drums of oils and a high shelving system packed with boxed parts, was a person.

‘Alice?’

The penlight swung in his direction, then lowered to illuminate Alice’s brown leather boots. ‘Hi,’ she said. She held a long cardboard box in one hand.

‘Everything okay?’ he asked. He dragged another box from a nearby shelf and used it to prop open the door.

‘Yeah, the bulb just blew. I’m looking for brake shoes.’ She clutched a Post-It note in the hand with the penlight, where he guessed she’d written down the specifications.

‘I’ll fix it. You need any help?’

She lifted the box a fraction as she stepped forward. ‘I’ve got them.’ It wasn’t until she was close to him that she added, ‘Thanks.’ The word fell softly into the quiet, poorly lit room.

Before she could ease past, out into the light and away from what had somehow become a moment, he reached for her and trailed his fingers across the soft flesh of her arm. She hesitated, and his fingers curled around the circle of her wrist.

He was going to ask her now, when they were away from scrutinising eyes and bright light and time. It was only the two of them. She was going to forget there was anything else for a moment – for just long enough for him to say his piece.

He’d told himself he’d wait for her to open up, but maybe it was as simple as asking the right question. Maybe she’d been waiting for him to broach the subject.

‘Alice, just . . . wait a second.’

When she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze they were weighed down with fatigue. Dark circles were a mask on her otherwise beautiful face, and there was a small line of red on the right side of her bottom lip. She’d developed the habit of biting there, something he was sure she hadn’t done before working at the garage. Alice had become a kind of study for him, dependably unravelling a little more each day. Sometimes her clothes weren’t ironed, or her hair was scraped into a messy knot high on her head. Other times she spent her lunch hour dozing on the old couch in the kitchen. She hadn’t worn make-up for a while but even when she did, the foundation did little to disguise her increasing exhaustion.

He hated thinking it, because he didn’t mean to belittle her job, but he knew the daily tasks he’d assigned her weren’t taxing enough to cause this. Which left a few other possible culprits, the most likely being depression.

He’d never met someone with the condition, but he’d heard about the warning signs. A couple of afternoons of research on the internet and he thought he knew enough to broach the subject. He wasn’t sure what he could do to help, but a frank conversation was his starting point.

‘Let me just start by saying,’ he began, his stomach contracting with nerves, ‘that I’m here for you. No matter what. In whatever capacity you want me to be.’

Alice’s brows drew together. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It may feel like the end of the world but . . . it’s not. I could . . . I don’t know, share this with you or something.’ Not wanting to presume that she was battling alone, he hastened to add, ‘Unless you’ve already got someone for that.’

She eased away from him, her gaze searching his face for answers he was evidently failing to provide.

‘You don’t have to hide it from me; I can see it.’ Everyone can see it, he added to himself. She was days away from collapsing on the job. She clearly wasn’t sleeping, and this decline would soon hit rock bottom. She needed help. He wanted to be the one who saw that she got it.

He put his other hand on her shoulder and squeezed. ‘I care about you. And honestly, it feels like this is always on my mind. I’m sorry to corner you like this but I just couldn’t watch from afar any m—’

He’d been interrupted, but it took him a second to realise why. She’d moved. Forward. She’d stretched up on her toes and stopped his lips from closing. With her mouth.

For a seemingly endless moment, his bottom lip was captured between hers. Then she drew away so sharply that he stumbled. Blinking quickly, he shot out a hand to steady himself, balancing it against the nearest shelf, bumping half a dozen carefully stacked boxes.

‘You didn’t kiss me back,’ Alice said, her voice altered almost beyond recognition.

‘What? Why would I kiss you back?’ His thoughts a fraction behind his words, he held up his hand in apology. ‘Not that you’re not – but . . . What are you doing?’

‘What am
I
doing? What did you say all that for if you’re not—’

‘I thought you were depressed!’

‘
Depressed?
’ Her voice plummeted in volume. ‘Oh no. You didn’t mean . . . what I thought you meant.’

‘What did you think I meant?’

Suddenly the volume was back, edged with temper and humiliation. ‘That’s obvious now! Move!’ She shoved past him, knocking him off-balance. She disappeared through the doorway flooded with light and was gone by the time he followed. Her jacket was missing from its hook and her bag gone from its regular spot.

Dean really hated it when people got behind the wheel when they were emotional. It wasn’t safe, and there were people he loved out there on those roads. He dropped into a customer chair and glowered at the front door. This, of course, meant that Ethan got hit with the full force of his mood when he walked in a moment later, toolbelt and warehouse plans in hand.

‘Woah,’ Ethan said, raising an arm as if to shield himself. ‘What did I do? Is this about the paint colour? I asked you four times to choose it yourself and I still showed you the swatch when you didn’t!’

Dean blinked hard then shook his head. ‘You didn’t do anything.’

‘Not true. I worked my arse off today, but I can’t say the same for tomorrow. I’m running out of things to do in there, mate.’ He pointed his thumb in the direction of the warehouse as he rounded the desk and helped himself to Alice’s empty seat. ‘Ro’s going to crack it when he gets here – all I’ve got for him to do is look on the floor for nails and screws.’

‘Right.’ Dean pushed his hand over his face and struggled to properly join the conversation. The way Alice had looked in the soft light kept superimposing itself over Ethan lounging on her desk chair, like a double negative on camera film. He wanted to be in the moment, but it was difficult when the previous moment was still storming through his bloodstream, adrenaline and confusion marching out of step with one another.

When, exactly, in the short time that they’d worked together, had Alice decided that it was a good idea to put her mouth on his? Even with the gift of hindsight he still couldn’t recognise enough moments to qualify the decision. She was hardly chomping at the bit to spend more time with him – and he had to coax her to talk about herself. So had it been impulse? Had the things he’d said in the storeroom – which, thinking on it now, could perhaps have been misleading – put the idea in her head, or had it already been there?

Dean stood. There were no answers to his questions here, and obsessing about it wasn’t going to further illuminate the situation. All that was certain was that Alice had kissed Dean; his first kiss in close to three years, however clumsy and unexpected, and she’d bolted out the door faster than Dean had been able to clear his head. Now there would be damage control, awkward exchanges and explanations. Unless he wanted to kiss her again, in which case there would be different kinds of awkward exchanges, flirtation and . . .

Ben.

Alice’s son opened the reception door and shuffled in, scuffing his shoes on the linoleum and fiddling with a frayed shoulder strap on his school backpack. Nina and Rowan were steps behind him, in their noticeably newer uniforms. Ben’s hair was weeks past needing a cut and Dean had to wonder what Alice thought weekends were for. Surely she could spare half an hour to get the hair out of her kid’s eyes?

‘Hey kids,’ he said, at the exact moment that his brother said the same. ‘How was school?’

‘So fun!’ Nina crowed, elbowing through the boys and running forward. Her bag bounced on her back and her hair glistened with dozens of tiny raindrops. She charged into her father’s arms. He caught her, laughing, and squished her against his chest until she giggled.