New Year's Eve, 1985, was a cold, wet slap in the face.
The office was a tomb—Marlene and Hank and Joe and Steve long gone to parties or bars, leaving me with a stack of loan files and Marlene's tiny TV playing Beverly Hillbillies reruns, Jed's down-home naïveté a mockery of my empty night. I could've left hours ago, but my apartment offered nothing better: a frozen dinner and Dick Clark's fake cheer.
Still, I found myself lingering over files, reading the stories behind the numbers. Divorced mother of three, laid off from Wittelsey Steel after twenty years. Elderly couple, medical bills from a heart attack. College kid, car broke down, needed cash for tuition. Each loan a story, each story a trap.
I was locking up when I saw her.
The checkout girl from Food Emporium—Lucy, her nametag read—was pressed against the concrete under the narrow canopy between the grocery and a boarded-up shoe store with a faded, barely legible sign. She hugged her arms, breath clouding in the sleet.
I stepped outside, the cold biting my face. "You okay?"
She flinched, then relaxed when she saw me. "Yeah. Waiting for my mom." She couldn't have been more than eighteen—straw-colored hair soaked by sleet, eyes older than they should be.
"In this?" I waved at the freezing rain.
She shrugged, her jacket too thin for the weather. "She was supposed to get me an hour ago. Probably at the bar. Maybe met someone." Her tone said this wasn't new. She had the weary resignation of someone who'd been disappointed too many times to count.
"You got a dad to call?"
She snorted. "Long gone."
The sleet thickened, soaking her hair. "Come on," I said. "I'll drive you."
She hesitated—understandably—but the wind made up her mind. She climbed into my Honda, sitting stiff as a board, hands knotted in her lap.
Her trailer was in the same park where I'd repo'd Eddie's car. The ride was silent except for the wipers' thump. When we pulled up, she exhaled. "Thanks."
"Hey." I waited until she looked at me. "Be careful with rides from strangers. Some guys might try to… you know. Grope you."
She blinked. "Grope?"
"Feel you up. Molest you."
She burst out laughing, a bright, startled sound. "Okay, Grandpa."
Before I could respond, she was out, sprinting through the rain to her door.
I waited until her light flicked on, then drove home. My reheated mac and cheese tasted like glue. Dick Clark beamed on TV, counting down to 1986.
Somewhere, Lucy was probably giggling about the weird loan guy who warned her about perverts like it was 1950.
I cracked a beer. Happy frickin' New Year.
But as I watched the ball drop in Times Square, I realized hers was the first genuine laugh I'd heard in months. The sound stuck with me, bright and real against Wittelsey's gray backdrop.
I didn't expect to see her again so soon.
Two days later, she was ringing up coffee and a pack of danish for the office. She smirked when she saw me. "No grope attempts today?"
My face burned. "I wasn't—"
"Chill, Grandpa. Kidding." She bagged my stuff with quick hands. "You're, like, the least sketchy guy who's ever driven me home."
I nodded, unsure what to say. Up close, I could see the shadows under her eyes, the chapped skin of her knuckles. Her name tag was pinned crookedly to her faded polo shirt.
She paused, sliding my receipt over. "Hey. You guys hiring at Tristar?"
I froze. "Why?"
"This place pays dogshit. And my mom's boyfriend's moving in soon. I need out."
I studied her—round face, still chubby from baby fat that would either melt away in the next year or take up permanent residence. Her nail polish was chipped, her eyes shadowed.
Tristar would chew her up.
"You eightteen?"
"Yeah, but still in high school. I got held back a year in middle school after my dad split."
"Tristar's not what you think," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Loans, right? Money out, money back with interest. I'm poor, not dumb."
"There's more to it than that." I thought of Eddie Morales, his son, watching from the window. "It gets ugly sometimes."
She leaned in, her voice dropping. "You think this doesn't? Yesterday, some drunk guy grabbed my ass while I was stocking frozen peas. Manager said I shouldn't have bent over that way." Her eyes held mine, challenging. "At least at Tristar, I'd have a desk between me and the creeps."
I wanted to tell her about the repos, the late-night calls, the way Hank smirked when clients cried. Instead, I said, "Come by after your shift. We'll talk."
Her smile was a knife in my ribs.
All day, I told myself I'd scare her off. But I knew better. Wittelsey didn't offer many escape routes. You took what you could get.
Her name was Lucy Larkin, and she walked into Tristar like she owned it.
Still in her Food Emporium polo, she sat in the break room—a closet with a coffee maker that reeked of burning plastic but miraculously never caught fire—and listened as I tried to talk her out of it.
"You don't want this," I said, pouring her a cup of sludge.
She dumped four sugars in, stirring with a plastic spoon. "Why? Because it's shady?" She shrugged. "I cleaned rooms at the motel no-tell out on Route 6 when I was fourteen. Shady's right in my wheelhouse."
"It's not just paperwork. You'll be taking cars, furniture—people's lives."
She sipped her coffee, unfazed. "My mom's boyfriend, Ray? He's moving in next month. I'll be sleeping on the porch unless I get full-time work. Dental's a bonus."
Her voice was flat, like losing her home was just another Tuesday.
It hit me harder than Eddie Morales' keys.
I took her résumé—one page, typed at the library. Cashier, babysitter, that summer scrubbing motel toilets. Skills: fast learner, good with people.
Hank would love her.
She glanced at the commission board, my name near the top. "You make that much?"
"With time," I said. "And a piece of your soul."
Her grin didn't waver. "Bet I'd be better at it than you."
Behind the bravado, though, I caught something else—a flicker of vulnerability, quickly masked. She was running from something more than just a cramped trailer. I just couldn't see what yet.
"What about school?" I asked. "You're still in high school?"
She scoffed. "Barely. I got work-study early release. I go to class until noon, then I'm done."
"What about after? College?"
Something passed across her face—quickly replaced. "Yeah, right. With what money? Besides, I'm not exactly honor roll material."
"You seem smart to me."
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a blush. "Save it for the loan suckers, Grandpa."
I hesitated, then slid the application form across the table.
"Come back tomorrow and talk to Hank. He runs this shit show. I guess if you hate it, Food Emporium will take you back."
Her hand closed on the paper like it was a winning lottery ticket.
"I won't hate it."
As I walked her out, I spotted Marlene watching us, her eyes narrowed with something between amusement and warning. She'd been at Tristar for fifteen years, seen managers come and go. She knew the patterns.
"That your girlfriend?" she asked after Lucy left, her tone acid-sweet.
"New applicant," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
Marlene clicked her tongue. "Sure, honey. Just be careful. Hank doesn't like a mess."
She turned back to her soap opera, but her words lingered. I wasn't sure if she was warning me about Hank or Lucy. Maybe both.
Hank ate Lucy up, belched, and went back for seconds.
"Got spunk," he said after her interview, chuckling like she was a shiny new toy. She'd worn a thrift-store dress, too tight at the shoulders, and answered his questions with the measured charm of someone who'd been talking up older men since puberty.
I stood silent as he offered her $50 a week plus commissions—the going rate for newbies. "Training starts Monday," he said, shaking her hand. "Chet'll break you in."
The second Hank's door closed, Lucy fist-pumped. "Told you I'd nail it."
I should've been happy. Instead, I felt like I'd pushed her off a cliff.
"Listen," I said as we walked out the lock-encrusted door. Hank's not... he can be..."
"A sleaze?" she finished. "I got that from his wandering eyes. But I can handle guys like him." This confidence wasn't bravado—it was armor, built from years of necessity.
"Just be careful," I said. "This place changes people."
She studied me, her head tilted. "It changed you?"
I thought of Eddie Morales, of the half-dozen repos since. Of how easy it had become. "Yeah."
"For better or worse?"
The question hung between us. I didn't have an answer that didn't sound like an excuse.
She nodded, like my silence told her everything. "See you Monday, Grandpa... I mean, Boss."
As she walked away, I wondered what she saw when she looked at me. A mentor? A cautionary tale? Something else entirely?
The question bothered me more than it should have.
Lucy was a natural.
By week two, she knew APR rates like a Catholic knows the Hail Mary. By March, she'd outsold everyone but Hank and me. Clients loved her—her quick laugh, the way she leaned in like she cared. I watched her close a deal with a factory worker, promising he'd "get back on his feet," and felt a chill. She was too good.
"You're scary," I said one slow afternoon, watching her file contracts.
She smirked. "Mom taught me how to tell a sob story. Opens wallets every time."
But there was more to it than that. Lucy could read people—their weaknesses, their hopes, their breaking points. She knew when to push and when to back off, when sympathy would work better than pressure.
During breaks, I'd catch glimpses of the person beneath the saleswoman. She'd bring in paperbacks—dog-eared Stephen King novels, the occasional Danielle Steel—and lose herself in them, fingertips tracing lines she particularly liked. She hummed when she worked—old Motown songs her mother played, she said. Once, I heard her talking to an elderly client about gardening; her knowledge was surprisingly deep. "Grandma taught me," she explained later. "Before she died."
Her first repo came in April. Mrs. Grady, three months behind on $1,500. Hank tossed Lucy the keys. "Showtime, kid."
I insisted on driving. Mrs. Grady's duplex was a wreck—broken toys in the yard, a toddler at her leg when she answered. Lucy froze, her usual swagger gone.
Mrs. Grady stared at her. "You're Darla's girl, ain't you?"
Lucy swallowed. "Yeah."
The keys hit my palm without a fight. In the van, Lucy gripped the dashboard, her knuckles white. "She used to watch me when Mom was… out."
I didn't know what to say. So I did what Hank would've done—pulled into the 7-Eleven and bought us both Slurpees. Lucy sipped hers slowly. "Does it ever get easier?"
The lie came automatically. "Yeah."
She nodded, like she'd expected nothing else. We sat in silence as the sun set over Wittelsey, the cherry-red stain on her lips the only color in the gray.
Later that week, I caught her slipping a new loan application to Mrs. Grady—a "friends and family" deal with better terms. When she saw me watching, she just shrugged. "She's got kids."
I should have reported it to Hank. Instead, I processed the paperwork myself, making sure it never crossed his desk.
It was a small rebellion, but it felt like the first real thing I'd done in months.
Hank never said it outright, but I knew he assumed Lucy and I were sleeping together from the moment I brought her in for the interview.
The way he'd smirk when she lingered by my desk, the exaggerated wink when we left for lunch together. I never corrected him. Let him think what he wanted—it kept his hands off her.
The truth was, it took weeks before anything happened. Lucy started crashing at my place when her mom's boyfriend, Ray, made their trailer a minefield. Greasy comments, leering stares, and "packages" in the freezer that weren't groceries. She'd show up at my door with her backpack, sleeping on my couch until she felt safe enough to go back.
One night, we were on that lumpy sofa, Newhart flickering on the TV, a bowl of popcorn between us. She wore this ridiculous sweater—thick, off-white, with a big zipper and a round metal pull that looked like the pendant of a necklace. The sort of thing an eccentric aunt might crochet as a Christmas gift.
I don't know why I did it. Maybe the wine cooler she'd snuck from my fridge. Maybe the way her laugh softened when Bob Newhart tripped over his words. I reached over and tugged the zipper down an inch.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched the screen.
I tugged another two inches.
She turned and kissed me.
It was quick, hesitant, her lips cool and thin. She pulled back just enough to study my face, her breath warm and faintly sweet from the wine she'd been drinking. Then she leaned in again, harder, and didn't stop.
The popcorn bowl hit the floor.
Later, in the blue glow of late-night TV, she traced patterns on my chest. "I've wanted to do that since New Year's," she admitted.
"Why didn't you?"
She shrugged. "Wasn't sure you'd let me."
"Let you?" I laughed. "Lucy, you're..." I trailed off, realizing I had no idea what she was to me. Employee? Friend? Something more complicated?
"I'm what?" She propped herself up, eyes serious.
"Important," I said finally.
She studied me, searching for deception. Finding none, she laid her head on my shoulder. "You're important too," she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.
In the moment, it felt like enough. But lying awake after she'd fallen asleep, I wondered if we were just two drowning people clinging to each other while Wittelsey's undertow pulled us helplessly out to sea.
We had rules.
No hickeys where Hank could see. No flirting at work when others could see. And if Ray's Camaro was in her driveway, I stayed the hell away.
It shouldn't have worked—a 23-year-old repo man and an 18-year-old high schooler—but Wittelsey twisted everything. At the office, she still called me "Grandpa," rolling her eyes at my sage advice. At night, she'd curl against me, her feet ice against my legs.
"This is messed up, right?" she said one night, her nail tracing my collarbone.
I didn't answer. We both knew the score: I was her way out of Ray's shadow, and she was my excuse to feel human again.
She kissed my shoulder. "I don't care."
But I did care. In the quiet moments—watching her sleep, seeing her laugh at some sitcom joke—I caught glimpses of what normal could be. A life outside of Tristar's shadow, beyond Wittelsey's borders.
Slowly, she opened up. Dreams spilled out in the dark—traveling to California, taking art classes at community college, maybe becoming a teacher someday. "Kids listen to me," she said once, surprised at her own admission. "Even the tough ones."
I believed her. Lucy e had a way of seeing through bullshit, cutting to what mattered. It was what made her good at Tristar, but it could make her good at so much more.
In turn, I shared my own fading dreams—the marketing career I'd imagined, the apartment in downtown Columbus, meeting friends at the corner bar after work. The normal life that had seemed just over the horizon in college. She didn't mock them, just listened, her fingers tracing circles on my skin.
"You could still have that," she said.
"So could you," I answered.
We both knew we were lying, but they were kind lies. Lies that get you through another day.
Secrets don't last in Wittelsey.
Hank caught us—not in the act, but close. Lucy fixing her skirt in the break room, me fumbling with my tie like a teenager. He didn't speak, just smirked, and left the door open.
Later, he called me in. "Don't care who you bang, Chet," he said, leaning back. "But corporate gets wind? My neck's on the block." He tapped his desk. "Keep it quiet, or you're both gone. No severance. No nothing."
I nodded, throat tight, and walked out hollowed. Lucy was at her desk, typing. She saw my face and mouthed, Later.
That night, we didn't talk. Just tore into each other like we could burn the fear away, her sweater crumpled on the floor, its zipper glinting like a warning.
After, she broke the silence. "I'm not quitting."
"I know."
"Are you sorry?" she asked, her voice small. "About us?"
I thought about it—really thought. About the complications, the gossip, the way Hank would use it against us. About the age gap that seemed both enormous and meaningless at once.
But then I thought about Lucy's laugh, her dreams, the way she made Wittelsey seem almost bearable.
"No," I said finally. "I'm not sorry."
She studied me, then nodded. "Good. Because I'm not either."
We fell asleep tangled together, the weight of Hank's threat hovering like a storm cloud. But for the first time since arriving in Wittelsey, I didn't feel alone.