“You could’ve become a manager by now,” she would say.

“You could open your own shop. Do something bigger. You’re incredibly good with cars, Craig, and you just keep fixing them for somebody else.”

“I like fixing cars.”

“That’s not the point.”

I never completely understood what the point was.

Then Brent Harlow came back into my life.

Brent and I had gone to high school together.

At sixteen, he drove a brand-new black BMW because his father owned several dealerships in the county.

He played lacrosse.

Wore sunglasses indoors.

Called everyone “bro.”

He was never especially cruel to me.

I simply wasn’t important enough for him to notice.

Years later, I ended up working at one of his father’s dealerships.

Brent went to college, returned home, and eventually took over the family operation.

Six dealerships.

Lakefront mansion.

Private dock.

More expensive cars than anyone needed.

Laura met him at the dealership Christmas party.

I introduced them.

“Brent and I went to school together.”

He shook my hand.

“Craig! You’re still working here? That’s awesome. Somebody has to keep the place running, right?”

Laura laughed at his joke.

Eight months later, she stood in our kitchen with a suitcase beside the door.

“I’m in love with Brent.”

I remember holding a dish towel.