Chapter 6 - Grease and Grits
Victoria felt her throat tighten, but she forced herself to keep her chin up, looking directly into the old man’s clear, assessing eyes.
""I’m not here to ask for Adrian,"" Victoria said, her voice shaking slightly before finding steady ground. ""And I’m not here to ask for money.""
Thomas picked up a red shop rag and slowly wiped the black grease from between his fingers. ""Then what are you doing in the Blue Ridge mountains, Miss Hale?""
""You said you needed someone to sweep the floor,"" she whispered. ""I need... I need to learn how to be a human being again.""
Thomas looked at her. He didn't laugh. He didn't sneer. He looked at her clean, blister-free hands, her cheap boots that had never seen mud, and the hollow exhaustion carved beneath her eyes.
""Sweeping floors in a diesel shop isn't like dusting a boutique on King Street,"" Thomas said, his voice flat. ""It’s ten hours a day on your feet. You clean oil spills with sawdust until your knees bleed. You scrub parts in kerosene until your skin smells like fuel for a week. And the pay is minimum wage.""
""I don't care,"" Victoria said.
""And there are no cameras here,"" Thomas added, stepping closer. ""Nobody to film you crying for TikTok to prove you’re reformed. Just me, three old mechanics, and twenty-ton trucks that don't care who your ancestors were.""
""Good,"" she said, her voice barely audible. ""Because I don't have any ancestors worth mentioning anyway. My mother cleaned toilets, and my father ran out on us when I was seven. I lied about all of it.""
The admission hung in the damp air between them, raw and ugly and real.
Thomas studied her face for five agonizing seconds. Then, he turned around and kicked a heavy industrial push-broom across the smooth concrete floor toward her feet.
""Bay One through Four,"" Thomas commanded, already walking back toward the Peterbilt. ""Sweep the metal shavings into the bins, dump the sawdust on the transmission fluid by the lift, and when you’re done with that, the bathroom hasn't been scrubbed since Tuesday. Shift starts at six in the morning sharp. Don't be late.""
Victoria caught the handle of the broom. The wood was splintered and rough against her palms.
For the next eight hours, Victoria Hale entered a world she had spent a lifetime avoiding.
Her back screamed within the first forty-five minutes. Dust and fine iron filings coated her skin, mixing with sweat to form gray streaks across her face. When she scrubbed the grease stains near the heavy-duty hydraulic lifts, the chemical fumes burned her nose and throat. Her soft hands broke out into fiery blisters that ruptured beneath the friction of the broom handle.
Twice, she hid behind the oil disposal tanks and wept silently from sheer physical agony. But every time she thought about dropping the broom and driving away, the memory of Thomas Bennett standing calmly beneath the oak trees, holding his baseball cap while she humiliated him, flashed across her mind.
You wanted to decide who belonged, she told herself through gritted teeth. Now earn your place.
At five o'clock, the shop whistles blew. The two other mechanics—rough, quiet men named Hank and Walt who had barely looked at her all day—clocked out and drove off in their pickup trucks.
Victoria was slumped on a wooden bench near the parts counter, her clothes filthy, her hands wrapped in paper towels to stop the bleeding from her burst blisters. She couldn't feel her legs.
Thomas walked out of his small back office carrying two brown paper sacks. He sat down on the bench three feet away from her, handing one sack over.
""Grits, fried ham, and black coffee from the diner down the road,"" Thomas said. ""Eat.""
Victoria looked into the bag. A year ago, she would have shuddered at the sight of greasy paper and diner styrofoam. Now, the smell of salted ham made her stomach roar. She unwrapped the wax paper with shaking, blackened fingers and took a bite.
It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.
She ate in silence, tears leaking down her dirt-streaked cheeks and dripping onto the counter paper.
""You didn't quit,"" Thomas remarked casually, sipping his coffee from a thermos cup.
""I wanted to,"" she choked out, wiping her cheek and leaving a black smear of carbon across her cheekbone. ""Around two o'clock, I wanted to die.""
Thomas let out a short, quiet laugh. ""First day’s always the hardest. Tomorrow your muscles will feel like they've been beaten with a tire iron. But the day after that, they start remembering how to carry weight.""
He stood up, tossing his empty wrapper into the trash can.
""There's an empty trailer behind the shop. Roof doesn't leak, hot water works most of the time. You can stay there instead of wasting your money at that fleabag motel on the highway.""
Victoria looked up, astonished. ""Mr. Bennett... why are you being kind to me? After what I did to you?""
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Thomas paused at the door of his office, his hand resting on the wooden frame.
""Because my boy loved you once,"" Thomas said softly. ""Adrian's a smart man. He doesn't fall for hollow things. Which means somewhere beneath all that expensive paint and cruel talk, there was a real girl in there. I figure it’s worth finding out if she’s still alive.""
