"Slipped with a wrench," she said, dropping into the exam chair. "Don't make a big deal out of it."
I pulled on gloves and examined the cut. Deep enough to need stitches, but clean. "This is going to need about six sutures."
"Great. Do it fast. I've got a Jeep waiting."
I prepped the wound, working efficiently while June watched. She had purple streaks in her dark hair and tattoos covering both arms and grease under her fingernails. The kind of woman who looked like she'd seen some shit and come out swinging.
"You're Cal's niece," she said.
"That's me."
"The one who dated Knox Parker back in the day."
My hand stilled on the needle. "We didn't date."
"Right." June's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "My mistake."
I focused on the stitches. In and out. Clean, even lines.
"He's not what people think, you know." June's voice was casual, like she was commenting on the weather. "Knox. Everyone sees the fights, the attitude, the chip on his shoulder. They don't see the rest."
"I'm not sure why you're telling me this."
"Because you're stitching my arm and I'm bored." She shrugged with her good shoulder. "And because I've known Knox for five years, and I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you in Mae's the other day."
I tied off the last suture. Snipped the thread and kept my face blank.
"You're imagining things."
"Honey, I fix cars for a living. I know when something's broken, and I know when it's just stuck." June hopped off the table, flexing her arm experimentally. "Nice work. You're good at this."
"Thanks."
She headed for the door, then paused. Looked back at me with those sharp eyes.
"Word of advice? Whatever happened between you two, whatever you think you know? Ask him. Actually ask him. Because the story you're telling yourself?" She shook her head. "I don't think it's the whole truth."
She left as I stood there for a long moment, gloves still on, the sharp smell of antiseptic filling my nose.
The story I was telling myself.
Like there was another version. Like the facts I'd lived with for eight years might not be facts at all.
***
That night, I made dinner for Cal.
It was something I'd started doing the second week, partly because I needed to contribute, partly because if I didn't feed the man, he'd live on coffee and Mae's pastries. Tonight it was chicken and vegetables, simple and hot, the kind of meal that felt like taking care of someone.
Cal came in from his shift looking tired. He hung his jacket by the door, kicked off his boots, and settled into his chair at the kitchen table like a man who'd been on his feet too long.
"Smells good," he said.
"Eat it while it's hot."
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Cal wasn't a talker, and I'd learned to appreciate that about him. No small talk. No prying questions. Just presence.
"Got some news," he said eventually, pushing his empty plate back. "The deck's worse than I thought. Structural issues. Needs to be rebuilt before winter or the whole thing's coming down."