Chapter 18

Calla:

The bridge into Eastside always felt like crossing into somebody else's life. The Riverside side was cracked pavement, bait shops, shrimp boats tied to weathered docks, and old houses that had survived more hurricanes than they could count. Eastside? Palm trees lined every median. Landscapers somehow managed to keep flowers alive in July. Luxury SUVs filled every driveway. The sidewalks looked cleaner than my kitchen counter. I hated that I knew exactly where every pothole disappeared.

My Mustang growled through the gated entrance of Pelican Point, drawing more than a few sideways glances from neighbors unloading groceries out of Range Rovers. Bubblegum had never belonged here. Neither did I. The condo towers overlooked the ocean, all glass balconies and white stucco, like something ripped straight out of a vacation brochure. I parked beside Dad's black Denali. Mom's white Mercedes sat beside it. Typical.

I climbed out wearing exactly what I'd changed into after work. Black cargo pants. A loose charcoal T-shirt tucked into the waistband. An oversized green flannel hung open over it. My Nike Dunks were still dusty from the garage parking lot. My hair was damp from the quick shower I'd taken before driving over. Grease was gone. Mostly. The tiny scar across my knuckles never was.

I grabbed the homemade brownies I'd picked up from the bakery in Riverside. Mom liked them. It was easier than showing up empty-handed. The condo smelled like lemon polish and expensive candles. Everything inside matched. Cream-colored furniture. Blue coastal artwork. Perfect throw pillows nobody was allowed to touch. Not a wrench in sight.

Mom looked up from arranging flowers on the kitchen island. Her face brightened. "Calla." She hurried over and hugged me. "You look tired."

"I am."

She stepped back, smiling softly. "I made sea bass."

"Trying to bribe me?"

"Is it working?"

"I'll let you know."

She laughed quietly. God. I missed hearing her laugh more often. She'd smiled less since Camden died. We all had. 

She noticed the bakery box. "You brought brownies?"

"They're from Miss Evelyn."

"Oh." Her eyes lit up. "The caramel ones?"

"I remembered."

She squeezed my arm. "Thank you."

For a few peaceful seconds… It almost felt normal. 

Then— "You're late." Dad's voice carried from the dining room.

Of course. I looked over. Tom Vance sat at the head of the table in a pressed polo shirt and khaki shorts, reading something on his tablet. He didn't even look up. "I said six."

"It was six-thirty."

"It was six."

I checked my watch dramatically. "Huh."

"Time still exists."

Mom shot him a warning look. "Tom."

"What?"

"She just walked in."

Dad finally lowered the tablet. His eyes landed on my clothes. He frowned almost immediately. "Do you own anything without grease stains?"

"I changed."

"Barely."

I looked down at my clean shirt. "You seeing ghosts?"

"The flannel."

"What about it?"

"It looks like you slept under a bridge."

"I might've."

Mom sighed. "I'm setting the table." Translation: Please don't start.

Dad ignored the hint. "You know..." Here we go. "...I've been thinking."

"Dangerous."

His jaw tightened. "The garage."

I leaned back in my chair. "What about it?"

"You're wasting money."

"No."

"Riverside traffic's down."

"We're busy."

"You could be busier."

I already knew where this conversation was headed. "No."

"I haven't said anything."

"You don't have to."

He folded his hands together. "Move it."

There it was. "Eastside needs another performance shop."

"No."

"You'd triple your customer base."

"No."

"You'd make more money."

"I don't care."

"You should."

"I don't."

He leaned forward. "Calla."

"No."

"You haven't even thought about it."

"I've thought about it every time you've brought it up."

"And?"

"And my answer hasn't changed."

His voice remained calm. Almost too calm. "Riverside's dying."

"It isn't."

"The future's here."

He gestured toward the ocean beyond the massive windows. "The money's here."

"The people who built that shop aren't."

He sighed heavily. "You're sentimental."

"I'm loyal."

"To what?"

My eyes narrowed. "To Camden."

Silence. Mom stopped setting plates.

Dad looked away for a second before meeting my eyes again. "He'd understand."

"No."

"He'd want what's best."

"He'd want his garage."

Dad pushed his chair back. "The building's worth a fortune."

"It isn't for sale."

"I never said sell it."

"You implied it."

"I said relocate."

"So it can become another waterfront brewery?"

His jaw flexed. "That's unfair."

"Is it?"

"You're letting emotion cloud business."

I laughed once. "That's rich."

His expression hardened. "The garage is just a building."

"No." The word came sharper than I intended. "It's not. It represents Camden. No."

I shook my head. "It is Camden."

Every scrape on those walls. Every stain on that concrete floor. Every dent in every toolbox. He'd put them there. He'd dreamed that place into existence. He'd stood in the middle of that empty warehouse with sawdust covering his boots and smiled bigger than I'd ever seen. "Can you believe it? It's ours."

Dad rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You can't spend your life living in the past."

"I spend my life fixing cars."

"In Riverside."

"Exactly."

"You're limiting yourself."

"I'm choosing."

"The same thing."

"No." I stood. "It's not."

Mom looked between us nervously. "Maybe we should eat."

Neither of us moved.

Dad stood too. "You know why that garage survives?"

I frowned. "Because I pay half the taxes."

The words hit like a slap. I stared at him. "...What?"

"You heard me."

"No." I shook my head slowly. "Camden paid those."

"He did." Dad nodded once. "Now I do."

My stomach twisted. He continued. "You think sentiment keeps lights on?"

"I do."

"You think memories pay insurance?" I clenched my jaw. "If I wanted that shop gone..." He looked directly at me. "...it'd be gone."

The room fell silent. 

Mom whispered, "Tom..."

He ignored her. I looked at the man standing across from me. The man who taught Camden and me how to change oil. The man who'd let neighborhood kids take over his garage every summer. The man who used to laugh with grease on his face. I barely recognized him anymore.

"I'll pay you back."

He scoffed. "With what?"

"I'll figure it out."

"You don't make enough."

"I will."

"You can't."

"I can."

"You won't."

Something inside me snapped. "You know what?" I grabbed my keys from the counter. "I'm done."

"Calla—"

"No." I pointed toward the ocean. "You love this place? Great. You love Eastside? Fantastic. But don't ask me to abandon the only place that still feels like Camden."

I turned toward the door.

Mom hurried after me. "Sweetheart—"

I hugged her quickly. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I know." I kissed her cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow."

She nodded sadly.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Behind us, Dad didn't say another word. I walked out. The heavy condo door closed behind me. The humid evening air hit my face. For the first time all day… I could breathe. I climbed into Bubblegum. The familiar scent of old leather, gasoline, and vanilla air freshener wrapped around me. Nothing fancy. Nothing polished. Just mine. I rested both hands on the steering wheel. Closed my eyes. The image of Camden standing inside the garage flashed across my mind. Smiling. Proud. Hopeful.

"They're not taking it." My voice was barely a whisper. "I don't care how much money they have."

The engine rumbled to life. I shifted into gear. As Bubblegum rolled out of the pristine Eastside neighborhood, the towering condos disappeared in my rearview mirror. Ahead… The lights of Riverside flickered to life along the river. And for the first time since leaving work… Home didn't feel like a place. It felt like a promise.