NOVEL NEXT Chapter 129: Dealership
The moment we stepped onto the luxury automotive floor, I felt it. That full-body jolt of culture shock radiating off my family like static cling on a cashmere sweater. This wasn't a dealership—it was a cathedral built to worship horsepower and bank accounts. The kind of place where even the floors flex on you. Polished marble so expensive, it probably had a mortgage.
Everything gleamed like it was allergic to fingerprints, and I swear the marble floor was judging our Payless shoes in real time.
Mom froze like she'd just wandered into the Queen's private vault. Her nurse-brain immediately tried to put a price on everything, failed, and quietly panicked.
Her nurse instincts kicked in, eyes scanning the showroom like she was triaging a trauma ward—except instead of broken bones, she was processing six-figure price tags.
"Peter," she whispered, like we were trespassing in a billionaire's garage. "We don't belong here."
Ah. And there it is—Mom's good ol' working-class guilt, showing up like it pays rent. Always ready to remind us we're humble, grateful, and allergic to luxury.
Meanwhile, the twins were doing their own thing. Emma looked like she'd just walked into a real-life Barbie dreamscape—bouncing on her toes, eyes wide, already mentally picking out her future ride. Probably something pink and fast enough to get her grounded.
Sarah, on the other hand, had her laser-focused face on. That girl could study a room like it was a crime scene. I'd bet money she was cataloging features, interior options, resale values—because that's just how her little brain works. No chill. No sparkles. Just analysis.
"Language," Mom said reflexively, but her voice was too distracted to pack any heat. She was staring at a white BMW like it had just winked at her and asked if she wanted to upgrade her entire existence.
Then came the staff.
You could spot a luxury car salesman by the way his smile said "Hello!" and his eyes said "Please don't touch anything, peasant."
One of them—a walking Hugo Boss ad with a bluetooth headset and no soul—peeled off from the rest and headed our way. Smile too polite. Shoes too clean. Voice pre-programmed for passive aggression.
"Can I help you folks find something today?" he said, all customer-service frosting with a center of please don't breathe on the leather.
Translation: "Are you lost? Should I call security or the food court?"
'Ah yes. The signature condescension of rich people's minions. It's like they train for this. Smile, judge, eject. Rinse and repeat.'
He didn't say "you look lost," but his tone did. We were the plot twist in his perfect showroom fantasy. And I could already tell—he had no idea who he was talking to.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny—because it was predictable. This whole scene was a rerun. And this time? I had the remote.
Before I could even throw out a smartass comeback, Charlotte materialized like some kind of retail archangel—if archangels wore heels sharp enough to slit throats and carried Black Cards with no spending limit.
And just like that, the vibe flipped harder than a Kardashian on a PR crisis.
The salesman—call him "Discount Patrick Bateman"—went from cool disinterest to full-on panic mode in 0.2 seconds. Impressive speed for someone who looked like he thought wearing a pocket square made him better than God.
"Ms. Thompson!" he blurted, eyes wide, voice cracked. "I—I didn't realize… how can we assist you today?"
Charlotte smiled. Not a warm smile. A 'try me, I dare you' smile that could shatter wine glasses and careers.
"I'm here to help my business partner's family pick a car," she said, casually dropping the phrase like a grenade with a Gucci tag. "I trust you'll provide your absolute best service."
Business partner.
'Hell yeah.' That hit different. Not mentee. Not charity case. Business partner. Like I belonged in the same tax bracket as her and didn't still eat ramen out of nostalgia.
Suddenly, it was a whole different movie. Now we had three salespeople orbiting us like we were the damn sun, offering refreshments like we were on a red carpet and Mom had just been nominated for Best Actress in Surviving Shitty Credit Scores.
The original guy—Diaz, according to his suddenly very visible name tag—was sweating like he just got called out on Twitter for saying something mildly racist in 2012. "Of course, of course," he stammered. "What kind of vehicle were you considering?"
Although he had already made a better decision for her we let her make her own choice for now.
Mom looked around like she'd walked into Narnia but everything was plated in chrome. Her hand hovered over the hood of a Mercedes like it might vanish if she touched it wrong. She'd been driving the same car since Obama was in office, and that baby wheezed louder than a vape kid in gym class.
"I've never…" she started, then caught herself, blinking hard. "I've been driving the same car for eight years. I don't even know where to begin."
Shit.
Watching my mom try to process that she was actually allowed to have something nice? That hit me right in the childhood trauma.
Sarah, ever the walking, talking spreadsheet, stepped up to a sleek black sedan like she was already calculating crash test stats in her head.
"The safety ratings must be elite," she said, trailing her fingers across the paint like it was holy water. "Mom, you deserve something that'll protect you during those late-night shifts. You've earned it."
Meanwhile, Emma was doing Emma things—aka being emotionally chaotic in the best way. "Mom, you're gonna look like a straight-up boss bitch rolling into work in one of these! The other nurses are gonna faint."
Diaz—still scrambling to rewrite his internal script from "lowball this lady" to "kiss the ring"—led us through the Mercedes section like he was auditioning for Selling Sunset: Car Edition.
"For someone in healthcare with long hours," he said, pretending to know what empathy looked like, "I'd recommend something that balances comfort, reliability, and of course… elegance."
And then we saw it. Our first choice for her.
The GLE. Midnight black. The kind of SUV that says, I save lives by day and ruin men's egos by night. Big, bold, and begging for a dramatic slow-mo scene with Beyoncé in the background.
Yeah. This one wasn't just a car.
It was a middle finger to every broke-ass moment we'd suffered through before this.
And it looked perfect on her.
The 2024 Mercedes-Benz GLE 350 sat there under the showroom lights like it was about to drop its debut album—metallic graphite dripping so smooth it could've been dressed by Balenciaga. It wasn't just a car. It was a quiet flex, the kind that whispers old money while flicking off your Honda Civic with one chrome-plated middle finger.
"Now this," Diaz said, practically salivating, "is our flagship luxury SUV. Perfect balance of sophistication and practicality."
Practicality? Bro, this thing costs more than many therapists' annual income and looks like something Diddy would drive to brunch in Miami. But hey, let him cook.
Mom circled it like it was a live tiger. Careful. Respectful. Like the kind of beast that could snap its chrome teeth and eat her paycheck alive. But I could see it—the hunger. That unspoken I-wish-I-could glint in her eyes. Girl, let it bite. You deserve it.
'She's looking at it like it's gonna ask her for a mortgage. Time to remind her she's not poor—just mentally blocked.'
Diaz popped the driver's door like it was a red carpet invitation. "It's got the latest MBUX system. Heated and ventilated seats. Panoramic sunroof. Safety features that practically drive the car for you."
Inside? Oh, baby.