8. Daryl
Chapter 8
Daryl
T he ceremony ended with a burst of applause and a shower of twinkling lights from the town's grand Christmas tree. The sight was... unexpected. Despite my reluctance, I found myself lingering near Beth, feeling a strange warmth that had nothing to do with the chilly air.
"Did you enjoy it?" she asked, her eyes sparkling like the lights above.
I grunted, looking away. "It was all right."
Her laugh echoed softly in the night. "I'll take that as a yes."
We made our way back to her car, parked at the edge of the lot. I could see my breath in the cold air, and my hands felt stiff. When we reached the car, I opened the passenger door for her.
"Thank you," she said, her voice softer now.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. She slid inside, and I walked around to the driver's side. The engine sputtered before it finally roared to life, but the heater seemed to have missed the memo about warming up quickly.
"It's freezing in here," I muttered, rubbing my hands together.
Beth wrapped her coat tighter around herself and smiled. "It always takes forever to warm up."
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed unaffected by the cold or maybe she was just better at hiding it. Her fingers tapped absentmindedly on her knee, probably playing some silent tune in her head.
"You know," I began, my voice sounding gruff even to my own ears, "you should get this looked at."
Her eyes met mine, a mix of surprise and gratitude in them. "Maybe you could take a look at it sometime?"
I shrugged. "Sure."
Silence settled between us again, but it wasn't uncomfortable this time. The warmth from the heater finally started seeping into the car, making it a little more bearable.
I didn't understand why I was even offering to help her in the first place. The car drove better than before. It was fine.
And yet…
I didn't like the thought of her being cold. Something about her shivering in that coat, trying to stay warm, bugged me. Maybe it was just the way she smiled through it, like it didn't bother her.
I pulled up to the side of the garage, the familiar creak of the engine filling the silence between us. "You can bring the car in whenever," I said, keeping my tone even. "I'll get a new heater in for you."
Beth's face lit up, her smile so bright it was almost blinding. I found myself staring, caught in the warmth she radiated.
"You have a way to get home?" she asked, breaking the spell.
I nodded. "Truck's in the garage."
I turned to head inside, but her hand caught my wrist. Her touch was gentle but firm, sending a jolt through me. Her fingers were warm despite the cold night, her skin soft against mine. I froze, every nerve in my body suddenly hyper-aware of that small point of contact.
"Wait," she said.
I looked at her, waiting, my breath hitching in my throat.
"I host a cookie contest in a few days," she said, her eyes searching mine. "I'd love for you to come."
I hesitated. Her invitation hung in the air between us, mingling with the warmth finally spreading from the heater. The idea of spending more time with her gnawed at me. I wanted to say yes, wanted to be around her light, her warmth.
"Especially since I know you didn't quite like the cookies I made for you," she said, her tone teasing but gentle.
I furrowed my brows. "What?" I remembered them being in the trash, untouched but not unwanted. "It wasn't like?—"
"It's okay, Daryl," she continued, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "My cookies aren't for everyone. You don't have to like them. I'm just teasing you."
I looked at her then, really looked at her. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous light, her cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement. Her hair framed her face in loose waves that caught the faint glow of the streetlights outside. She was beautiful, but more than that—she was real, tangible in a way that made my heart ache.
I realized I wanted to kiss her.
The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless and scrambling for control. I pulled away quickly, almost too quickly, and got out of the car without a word. The cold night air slapped me back to reality as I closed the door behind me.
I knew I hadn't given her an answer about the cookie contest, but I couldn't bring myself to care in that moment. The flood of emotions coursing through me was too much to handle.
As I walked towards the garage, my footsteps echoing on the pavement, I could still feel the warmth of her touch on my wrist. It lingered there like a ghost, reminding me of what I'd just walked away from.
But I couldn't face it—not yet. Not when everything felt so raw and exposed.
I opened the garage door, the metal groaning in protest. I leaned against the frame, watching Beth's car idle for a moment before she finally drove off. The taillights disappeared around the corner, leaving a strange emptiness in their wake. I rubbed my wrist where she'd touched me.
Once she was gone, I closed the door and locked it. The garage felt colder and lonelier without her presence. The office light flickered as I walked through, casting shadows that danced across the walls. I glanced at the old guitar Beth had pointed out earlier.
It sat on a worn wooden stand, dust gathering on its strings and body. The wood was dark mahogany, polished to a dull shine that had seen better days. The neck was straight but nicked and scratched from years of use. It had been my brother's guitar—a relic from a time when music filled our home instead of silence.
I reached out, fingers brushing against the strings. A soft, muted chord resonated through the room, stirring memories I thought I'd buried deep. My brother's laughter echoed in my mind, his voice singing songs that made our mother smile despite everything.
Beth's voice had that same quality—light and soothing, cutting through the noise of life with an ease that seemed effortless. She had spotted this guitar in a heartbeat, her curiosity piqued by something I'd tried to forget.
I picked up the guitar, feeling its weight settle into my hands. It felt familiar yet foreign after all these years. I strummed a chord, wincing at the discordant sound it produced. The strings were old, but they still held a hint of their former glory. My fingers hovered over the strings, but they wouldn't move. They felt like lead, unyielding and cold. I couldn't remember the last time I played—probably when Mama was still…
The thought trailed off, swallowed by the silence of the garage. My hands trembled slightly, and I set the guitar down with more care than it deserved. It felt wrong in my hands now, like an artifact from a different life.
What the hell was happening to me?
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up inside me. Beth had stirred something with her damn cookies and her stubborn kindness. And now this guitar—this piece of my past—was staring back at me like it held all the answers I didn't want to find.
I needed a distraction. Anything to get my mind off this mess.
The garage was filled with the comforting smell of motor oil and grease. It usually calmed me, grounded me in the present. But tonight, it felt suffocating.
The Impala sat in the corner of the garage, its sleek lines barely visible under the dim light. I grabbed my tools and got to work, the familiar clink and clank echoing through the quiet space.
I popped the hood and inspected the engine. The smell of oil and metal filled my nostrils, grounding me. I started with the basics—checking the spark plugs, tightening loose bolts, anything to keep my hands busy. Each task required focus, precision, which was exactly what I needed to drown out the thoughts swirling in my head.
Beth’s face kept flashing before me, her smile warm and inviting. Her voice lingered too, that soft laugh that had somehow worked its way under my skin. I shook my head, trying to clear it.
I moved on to the carburetor, disassembling it piece by piece. My hands worked automatically, muscle memory taking over as I cleaned and adjusted each part. The methodical process helped calm my racing mind.
I found myself thinking about that old guitar again. How her eyes had lit up when she saw it. How she asked about it with genuine curiosity. She didn't pry or push; she just wanted to understand. It was something I wasn't used to—someone caring enough to ask but not demanding answers.
The carburetor cleaned and reassembled; I moved on to checking the timing belt. It was frayed at the edges, worn from years of use. I replaced it with a new one from my stockpile, tightening it just enough to keep everything running smoothly.
The rhythm of work was comforting. Each completed task felt like a small victory against the chaos inside me. I could control this; I could fix this car and make it run like new again.
I wiped sweat from my brow, smearing grease across my forehead in the process. The garage had grown warmer from my efforts, or maybe it was just me getting lost in the work.
Time passed unnoticed as I worked through each issue with the Impala. It was late—or early—by the time I finally stepped back to admire my handiwork. The engine purred like a contented cat when I turned the key in the ignition.
Exhausted but satisfied, I leaned against the workbench and took a deep breath. The night's labor had paid off; at least something in this world still made sense when you put enough effort into it.
Beth’s invitation hung in my mind like an unanswered question, but for now, I'd found some peace in the hum of an engine well-tuned.
A few days went by in a haze of grease and gears. I poured myself into Beth’s friend’s grandfather’s car, fixing every little issue it had. A couple of people came in for an oil change, but that was it. The days dragged without Beth’s bright chatter filling the garage.
She'd completely changed everything, and it bothered me. My routine was off, disrupted by thoughts of Beth and her damn cookies. Her laughter echoed in my head, and her smile seemed to linger in the corners of my vision.
Even so, I found myself missing her. I couldn't shake the feeling that I wanted to see her again. Maybe go to that cookie contest she mentioned. But what would I do there? Stand around like a fool?
I wasn't even sure.
Maybe I could bring her that heater she'd been talking about needing for the car. It’d be practical, something useful.
I shook myself out of my head, frustration bubbling up again. I needed to stop this nonsense. But…
Before I knew it, my hand was reaching for my truck keys. My fingers closed around the cold metal, and I didn't give myself time to think. I headed straight for the door and climbed into my truck.
The drive to the Hearth for her, it seemed to be enough.