Chương 12
Mike disappeared into the service bay for several minutes and returned with red eyes, which everyone had the good sense not to mention.
Mia gave Leonard a small potted cactus.
He stared at it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Water it.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“Excellent gift.”
She hugged him.
Noah watched.
He had expected Leonard’s departure to feel like victory.
It felt like loss.
That surprised him.
Outside, Noah placed the boxes in Leonard’s trunk.
Rain tapped against the pavement.
Leonard stood beside the open driver’s door.
“What happens now?” Noah asked.
“I sleep.”
“No. With the dealership.”
Leonard looked through the glass building.
“Now you find new problems.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“There are always new problems.”
“I thought we fixed it.”
Leonard smiled.
“You fired one salesman.”
Noah laughed.
“Laura Kim said the same thing.”
“Smart woman.”
“You’ve never met her.”
“I don’t need to.”
Leonard got into the car.
Before closing the door he looked at Noah.
“You did one thing right.”
“One?”
“You didn’t enjoy firing him.”
Noah stood in the rain.
Leonard continued.
“Remember that.”
Then he drove away.
In December, Noah finished his last exam in the dealership customer lounge.
Mia found him asleep beside the laptop.
A statistics textbook was open under one arm.
The worn black backpack sat beneath the table.
She took a photograph.
When Noah woke, he saw her phone.
“Delete that.”
“No.”
“I own your phone.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I’ll buy it.”
“No.”
“Name a price.”
“Your dignity.”
“Too expensive.”
She smiled.
“You done?”
He looked at the laptop.
The submission page showed CONFIRMED.
“I think so.”
“With school?”
“Unless they fail me.”
“Can they?”
“Definitely.”
She handed him a coffee.
He took it.
“Thanks.”
“Your mother called the dealership.”
He closed his eyes.
“Why does everyone talk to my mother?”
“She wanted to know if you submitted the exam.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you were sleeping on it.”
“Great.”
“She likes me.”
“Everyone likes you.”
“That sounded resentful.”
“It was.”
The showroom had changed in small ways.
The cars were arranged differently.
The sales desks were no longer in a straight line.
Mike claimed that was because the old layout wasted space.
Noah suspected he simply wanted physical evidence that something had changed.
The McLaren remained by the glass wall.
Ninety-eight days in inventory.
The flooring cost bothered Noah every morning.
He had lowered the price twice.
No buyer.
At noon, a teenager walked into the showroom wearing a faded hoodie, loose jeans, and a canvas backpack.
Noah noticed him because everyone noticed backpacks now.
The kid stopped beside the McLaren.
He did not touch it.
He stood with his hands in his pockets and stared through the window.
Carlos was with a customer.
Jasmine was on the phone.
Mike was in finance.
Mia looked at Noah.
Noah looked at her.
“No.”
She smiled.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a face.”
“I have a face.”
“That’s my line.”
The teenager took out his phone and photographed the car.
Noah walked over.
The kid glanced at him.
“You work here?”
“Sometimes.”
“Oh.”
He looked back at the McLaren.
Noah waited.
After a few seconds he said, “You like it?”
The teenager shrugged.
“It’s okay.”
Noah looked at the car.
“Brutal.”
The kid smiled.
“My brother likes McLarens.”
“What do you like?”
“Porsche.”
“Better answer.”
“You own one?”
“No.”
The kid looked at Noah’s white sneakers, gray T-shirt, dark pants.
Then at the backpack under the lounge table.
“You don’t look like you work here.”
“I get that.”
“Can I take pictures?”
“Sure.”
“Inside?”
Noah almost answered immediately.
Then stopped.
The old problem was not saying yes to everyone.
It was having a reason.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You have a license?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t drive here?”
“My mom’s outside.”
“Bring her in. You can sit in it.”
The kid’s face changed.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He ran toward the door.
Not literally ran.
Walked very fast while trying not to look like he was running.
Noah smiled.
Mia came over.
“You know his mother’s going to think we’re selling them a McLaren.”
“We can try.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Sales culture.”
The kid returned with a woman wearing medical scrubs under a winter coat.
She looked exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “He said you told him—”
“I did.”
“He’s not buying anything.”
“That’s fine.”
“He doesn’t even have a job.”
The kid groaned.
“Mom.”
Noah opened the McLaren door.
“Then we won’t discuss financing.”
The woman looked at him carefully.
Recognition arrived.
“Oh my God.”
Noah closed his eyes.
“Please don’t.”
“You’re the backpack guy.”
Her son looked at him.
“What?”
“No.”
His mother was already pulling out her phone.
Noah pointed at the car.
“Pictures of that.”
She laughed.
The boy stared.
“You own this place?”
“Yes.”
“No way.”
“Unfortunately.”
The boy looked at the McLaren.
Then at Noah.
Then at his own backpack.
A strange expression crossed his face.
Noah knew what conclusion he was making.
He interrupted it.
“The bag isn’t magic.”
The kid laughed.
“I know.”
“Good.”
He sat carefully in the driver’s seat.
His mother took pictures.
Mia walked back to her desk.
The showroom continued around them.
Phones rang.
A service advisor argued quietly with someone about brake pads.
Coffee hissed from the machine.
Outside, traffic crawled along the boulevard.
Nobody stopped to watch.
That was what Noah liked most.
Three days later, the McLaren sold.
The buyer was a fifty-eight-year-old anesthesiologist who arrived in paint-stained sweatpants because he had been renovating his daughter’s bedroom.
Carlos greeted him.
Asked what he was looking for.
Asked what he drove now.
Asked what he liked about it.
Asked what he disliked.
No mention of clothes.
No mention of whether he could afford the car.
No performance.
The man bought the McLaren after a forty-minute drive and thirty minutes arguing cheerfully about the trade-in value of his Audi.
Noah watched from the lounge.
He did not intervene.
After the customer left, Mike walked over.
“Happy?”
“About?”
“Ninety-eight days.”
“Ninety-nine.”
“Of course you counted.”
“Every day.”
Mike sat across from him.
“December numbers will be up.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“You’re learning.”
Noah closed his laptop.
Mike looked toward the empty space where the McLaren had been.
“Derek could’ve sold that car faster.”
Noah looked at him.
Mike’s expression was neutral.
Maybe a test.
Maybe not.
“Probably.”
Mike nodded.
“He was good.”
“Yes.”
“He was also a problem.”
“Yes.”
Both truths sat between them without canceling each other.
Mike tapped his fingers on the table.
“Carlos is getting better.”
“He asks too many watch questions.”
“Customers love watch questions.”
“I don’t.”
“You wear a plastic watch.”
“It tells time.”
Mike shook his head.
Then stood.
At the doorway he turned.
“Derek got a job.”
Noah looked up.
“Where?”
“Mercedes store in Orange County.”
“Sales?”
“Fleet.”
Noah considered that.
“How do you know?”
“He called.”
“What did he want?”
“To complain about you.”
Noah smiled.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“That’s short for him.”
Mike nodded.
“He said he doesn’t touch customers’ bags anymore.”
Noah laughed.
Then stopped.
“Did he say anything else?”
Mike looked at him.
“He said losing the job was the first time in years he went home and admitted to his wife he’d been fired instead of explaining why someone else was an idiot.”
Noah looked down.
Mike continued.
“She apparently told him it was overdue.”
“That’s rough.”
“Marriage.”
Mike left.
Noah sat for a while.
He had no desire to call Derek.
No desire for reconciliation.
Some relationships did not need a sentimental ending.
Sometimes consequence was enough.
At five, Mia came by with the weekly complaint report.
“One weird one.”
Noah took the tablet.
Customer reports sales associate refused to allow his twelve-year-old son to rev a Ferrari indoors. Customer felt employee was “unnecessarily rigid.”
Noah looked at her.
“Who handled it?”
“Jasmine.”
“Good.”
“Resolved?”
“Customer still angry.”
“Better.”
Mia took the tablet back.
“You want to know something?”
“That depends.”
“The first day?”
He looked at her.
“When Derek grabbed your bag.”
“What about it?”
“I thought you were going to hit him.”
Noah stared.
“Really?”
“You had a look.”
“What look?”
“Like you were deciding.”
He thought about it.
Maybe he had been.
“I almost did.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I was there.”
Noah rubbed his shoulder unconsciously.
The scrape had disappeared months earlier.
Sometimes he still felt it.
Not pain.
Memory.
Mia leaned against the table.
“Why didn’t you?”
Noah looked toward the showroom entrance.
A customer was leaving with a child holding a dealership brochure.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“What answer did you want?”
“Something profound.”
“You’ve worked here too long.”
She smiled.
Then glanced at the black backpack beneath the table.
“You really aren’t replacing that thing?”
“No.”
“The strap is ripping.”
“I taped it.”
“That makes it worse.”
“It makes it functional.”
“You own a luxury dealership.”
“So?”
“So buy a backpack that doesn’t look homeless.”
Noah looked at her.
Mia froze.
For half a second neither of them spoke.
Then her eyes widened.
“Oh.”
Noah started laughing.
She covered her face.
“Oh, God.”
He laughed harder.
“I did not mean—”
“I know.”
“That was terrible.”
“It was perfect.”
“I’m quitting.”
“No.”
“I have to.”
“No.”
She was laughing now too, embarrassed and helpless.
Mike looked out of his office.
“What’s wrong with you two?”
“Nothing,” Mia called.
“Management,” Noah said.
Mike shut the door.
The laughter faded.
Mia picked up the tablet.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
She walked away.
Noah reached beneath the table and pulled out the backpack.
The torn strap had been stitched badly with black thread after the tape failed.
His mother had offered to repair it properly.
He had refused because he kept forgetting to bring it home.
There was nothing noble about it.
Nothing symbolic.
It was a cheap backpack he had bought during his freshman year because the old one’s zipper broke.
It carried a laptop.
Books.
Chargers.
Receipts.
Usually almonds.
That was all.
Noah slipped it over one shoulder.
The dealership lights reflected across the pale floor.
Near the entrance, Carlos was greeting a couple who had just walked in wearing matching running shoes and rain jackets.
“What brings you in?” Carlos asked.
The man pointed toward a used Aston Martin.
“My wife says I’m having a midlife crisis.”
His wife shook her head.
“I said if he’s going to have one, he should at least negotiate.”
Carlos laughed.
“Then you came to the right place.”
Noah stopped near the door.
He could have listened.
Could have watched.
Could have scored the interaction.
For a moment, the old temptation returned—the urge to know exactly what happened when nobody thought the owner was paying attention.
Then he remembered Derek across the conference table.
You want people to trust you? Don’t make them wonder when they’re being tested.
Noah pushed the glass door open.
Cold evening air moved into the showroom.
Behind him, Carlos continued talking with the couple.
Nobody lowered their voice.
Nobody straightened suddenly.
Nobody checked whether Noah was watching.
He stepped outside.
Through the glass, the dealership kept moving without him.
That had once frightened him.
Now it felt like the closest thing to success he had learned how to recognize.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his mother.
Did you buy a new backpack yet?
Noah looked through the glass at the people inside, then down at the frayed black strap across his shoulder.
He typed:
No.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
May you like
Of course not.
Noah smiled, put the phone in his pocket, and walked toward his car.
