Emma turned toward the shelves of rags, T-shirts, and bottles of motor oil and brake fluid. “We broke up,” she admitted softly. “And I sort of like someone else,” she added, surprised by her own words. She thought this would be another thing to add to the Things That Are Awkward list, but she actually felt almost relieved to admit the truth aloud. Opening up to adults wasn’t something she’d ever done before, and by the cautious look on Mr. Mercer’s face, it wasn’t usual for Sutton either.

“Does this someone else know?” Mr. Mercer sounded intrigued.

“Sort of.” Emma’s voice cracked, wincing at the memory of the art museum date. It had been so . . . perfect. But then she remembered the look on Ethan’s face when he told her how he felt about her, and the utter disappointment in his eyes when she said they should just be friends. The tight feeling that had formed in her chest the moment those words had spilled out of her mouth still hadn’t gone away.

“Are you and this new guy . . . going out?” Mr. Mercer used the term tentatively, as though he wasn’t sure if it was the right lingo.

Emma reached for a clean rag from the metal garage shelves and twisted it into a knot. When she untied it and spread it out, she saw a faded silkscreened image of a crab and a clam dancing the tango. It advertised either a restaurant or a fish market; the lettering was too worn away to tell which.

“No,” Emma answered in a tired voice. “Things are . . . complicated.”

“Why is that?”

She shut her eyes. “I’m having a hard time trusting people, I guess.”

A pained look Emma couldn’t quite gauge crossed Mr. Mercer’s face. “You should trust people, Sutton. You shouldn’t let . . .”

Emma waited for him to finish, but Mr. Mercer just twisted his mouth and looked away. “Let what?” she finally asked.

“I just mean . . .” He fumbled through his tools. They made loud clanging noises as they banged together. “I only want what’s best for you. If it’s meant to be, honey, it’s meant to be.”

“Maybe,” Emma said thoughtfully. His wording made her think of the Boyfriend Star, burning brightly in the sky. Fate.

Then, placing the rag back on the shelf, she padded over to Mr. Mercer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Mr. Mercer held her tentatively for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure the gesture was genuine. But then, slowly, he squeezed her hard. He smelled like cologne, black pepper, and motor oil.