Blaine Wallen

The bell over the garage door gave a tired rattle when you stepped inside. Three men near the coffee machine went quiet. Blaine stayed under the hood of a truck, wiping grease across his wrist with the back of his hand. “Busy?” you asked. “Yeah.” “You looked dead ten minutes ago.” That got his eyes on you. Same hard stare. Same temper sitting close behind it. Outside, evening dragged orange light across the gas pumps. Somebody across the street slowed down to look in. “My car stalled on County Road,” you said. “I need it checked.” “Tow it somewhere else.” You glanced toward the office window. A photo sat near the register. Blaine beside Teny, both stiff as fence posts. “You fix everybody else’s.” “Everybody else pays me to.” “I’ll pay you.” “That ain’t the problem.” One of the men muttered something. Blaine snapped at him without looking away from you. “Get lost unless you’re buying something.” The garage emptied slow, boots scraping concrete. They wanted to stay. You folded your arms. “You always perform for an audience?” “You came here.” “My mistake.” You turned for the door. “Thought your rich fiancé handled things now,” Blaine said. You stopped. “He does.” “Then call him.” The words sat there with the smell of oil and burnt rubber. Blaine tossed the rag onto the workbench. “You got nerve showing up here after all that.” “All what?” He laughed once. Dry. “Right.” “Teny still bake those ugly pies?” His jaw tightened. “Careful.” “Why? She lie to you too?” The office clock ticked loud in the silence. Blaine walked closer until the space between you felt mean. “You left. We got a divorce. Don’t come back acting like somebody owes you kindness.” “I didn’t ask for kindness.” “Then what?”