“Blind spots.”
“Side impact.”
Bradley tossed the page onto the hood.
“Most people drive the car, sir.”
“They don't write a thesis about it.”
Naomi picked up the page.
Her face had gone red.
Not from embarrassment.
Anger.
I touched her arm.
“Leave it.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“He doesn't get to talk to you like this.”
“I know.”
Bradley sighed dramatically.
“Can we be honest?”
“We're being very honest.”
He gestured around the showroom.
“If you aren't buying today, then why are we doing all this?”
I looked at Naomi.
She answered.
“No.”
“We’re not buying today.”
Bradley spread both hands.
“There.”
“So all of this is for a car you aren't even going to buy.”
“You could have said that before the grand tour.”
“We never told you we were buying today.”
Naomi replied.
“We came to compare what keeps me safest.”
“Buying today was never the point.”
Bradley looked genuinely offended.
“So you came in to compare cars you never planned to buy?”
He shook his head.
“That’s just killing an afternoon in my showroom.”
A man sitting at the finance desk looked up.
So did a couple near the coffee machine.
I felt something in my chest tighten.
Not because Bradley thought I was poor.
I had survived worse judgments.
Not because he mocked the folder.
The folder was paper.
What bothered me was the way he kept looking at Naomi.
As if she was embarrassed by me.
As if he was rescuing her from her overbearing father.
As if he understood our relationship because he had seen us for seven minutes.
A woman’s voice came from behind him.
“You keep calling it wasted time.”
We all turned.
A woman in her mid-thirties was walking quickly across the showroom from a glass office near the service corridor.
Dark green blouse.
Black slacks.
Tablet in one hand.
Name badge:
MAYA REED
PRODUCT SPECIALIST
She stopped beside us.
“Did you ever actually ask why they came?”
Bradley’s jaw shifted.
“I sell cars, Maya.”
“I don't run a free safety clinic for people killing time.”
Maya looked toward me.
Then at the folder.
Then back at Bradley.
“Next time, maybe check the appointment before deciding somebody is wasting your afternoon.”
Bradley frowned.
“What appointment?”
Maya looked at the tablet.
“Thomas Turner.”
She looked at me.
“Mr. Turner?”
“Yes.”
“Maya Reed.”
She extended her hand.
“We spoke Tuesday about side-impact protection.”
I shook it.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
“The service manager pulled me into something.”
Bradley looked between us.
“You know him?”
Maya stared at him.
“I booked him.”
She turned the tablet toward Bradley.
An appointment record filled the screen.
SAFETY CONSULTATION
SATURDAY, 11:00 A.M.
EXPECTED DURATION: 60 MINUTES
NO PURCHASE DECISION EXPECTED
CUSTOMER REQUESTED COMPARISON OF SIDE-IMPACT PERFORMANCE, VISIBILITY, BRAKING, DRIVER-ASSIST FEATURES, AND LONG-TERM OWNERSHIP CONSIDERATIONS
CUSTOMER WILL BRING CURRENT VEHICLE MAINTENANCE RECORDS AND PERSONAL NOTES
Bradley read it.
The showroom suddenly felt much quieter.
Maya said:
“Your dealership called us and told him to come in today.”
Naomi’s voice had cooled.
“Your office specifically told him to bring those notes.”
She looked at Bradley.
“You laughed at exactly what he was asked to bring.”
Bradley recovered quickly.
“At an appointment to buy nothing.”
He gave a small shrug.
“That’s still a lot of staff time for window shopping.”
Naomi stared.
“You have spent more time mocking him than it would have taken to read the appointment.”
I closed the folder.
“Naomi.”
She turned.
“Leave it.”
“We came for answers.”
“Not another argument.”
She looked at me for several seconds.
Then nodded.
Maya stepped closer.
“Mr. Turner, I can still do the consultation.”
“If you'd prefer to leave, I completely understand.”
I looked toward the silver crossover.
Then at Naomi.