18. Daryl
Chapter 18
Daryl
T he clatter of tools echoed through the garage as I worked on the Impala. Grease stained my hands, a familiar, comforting sight. The day wore on, but my mind wasn't on the car in front of me. It was back at my place, with Beth and her bright smile.
Beth Morrison had a way of getting under my skin. I'd seen her bubbly types before—too many to count—but she was different. That damn determination of hers. She'd pushed past every wall I put up, even after I made it clear I wasn't interested in Christmas cheer or cookies.
I tightened a bolt under the hood, but my thoughts drifted again to a couple of days ago. Her car had stalled, and I'd offered to help despite my better judgment. While I worked, she sang softly—like she always did—and it struck a chord somewhere deep inside me.
When she spotted that old guitar, she'd asked about it. I brushed her off like usual, but there was something in her eyes, something that told me she saw through the tough exterior I put on.
The Impala's engine purred to life as I turned the key, but the satisfaction of a job well done couldn't erase Beth from my mind. Moving back to this small town was supposed to help, not complicate things.
Beth complicated everything.
I set my wrench down and wiped my hands on a rag, looking around the garage filled with tools and memories. She'd spent the night last night, asking me to take her home. We'd talked—or rather, she'd talked while I listened—and for a moment, it felt like something shifted between us.
And that wasn't even counting the kiss in the snow.
That kiss lingered in my thoughts more than I'd like to admit. It wasn't planned; nothing about Beth ever was. Her lips were soft and tasted faintly of peppermint from the cookies she'd brought. I'd pulled away too quickly, afraid of what it meant.
Until she kissed me again, and then it was easier to lose myself in her.
Shaking off the memory, I went back to tinkering with the Impala's wiring. The logical part of me knew better than to get involved with someone like Beth. But logic had no place when it came to matters of the heart—something I'd learned all too well after losing family.
Her persistence had cracked open something inside me, something I wasn't ready to face yet.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the garage floor. I wiped the last bit of grease from my hands and tossed the rag aside. The Impala was running smoothly now, purring like a contented cat. I glanced at the clock—time to head home.
Locking up, I couldn't shake the thought of Beth's Christmas Eve party. She'd invited me, her eyes bright with hope. Attending meant something—an unspoken confirmation, a step towards... what? Something more than just fixing cars and staying hidden.
Driving through town, memories of earlier at the café floated back. The way folks looked at me, eyes filled with confusion and judgment. What was a guy like me doing with someone like her? They didn't get it. Hell, I barely got it myself.
Beth was sunshine and laughter; I was grease and grit. The attention made my skin crawl. I didn't want to drag her into my mess, to have people question her choices because of me.
But damn it, I wanted to go. To see her face light up when she saw me walk through that door. To feel like maybe, just maybe, I could belong somewhere other than this garage.
Pulling into my driveway, the engine's rumble faded into the quiet evening air. The decision gnawed at me. Go or stay? Her invitation hung in my mind like an unanswered question.
The truth was simple: I wanted her to be mine. To be someone she could lean on without worrying about what others thought.
The answer wasn't clear yet as much as I wished it were.
I stepped out of the car, my eyes immediately drawn to the door. That damned wreath. Bright red and green, with a ridiculous oversized bow.
I couldn't believe I actually hung it up.
Fuck, what was going on with me?
The cool air nipped at my skin as I walked to the door, each step echoing the confusion in my mind. Pushing it open, I stepped inside. The familiar scent of motor oil and old leather filled the space, but something felt off. It felt heavy, oppressive, without her presence. The walls seemed to close in on me.
Beth had been here, laughing and filling the space with her endless chatter. Now, without her, it felt... lonely. I used to be fine on my own, but now, I hated how empty it felt without her.
Dropping my keys on the counter, I ran a hand through my hair. The grime from a day's work clung to me like an unwelcome reminder of who I was—who I'd always been. Maybe that's why Beth's presence was so jarring. She was everything bright and new; I was everything dark and worn.
I decided to shower. Not because I planned on going to her party—hell no—but because I felt dirty. The water roared as I twisted the knob, steam filling the small bathroom. Stripping off my clothes, I stepped under the spray and let the heat work its way into my muscles.
As the water washed away the grease and grime, my mind drifted back to Beth again. Her laughter echoed in my head, filling up the silence that now surrounded me. She'd wormed her way into my life despite all my efforts to keep her out.
Rubbing shampoo into my hair, I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. Maybe Ellie was right; maybe Beth did have some sort of magic that made people feel alive again. But magic wasn't real—life had taught me that lesson well enough.
Still, as the water cascaded down, rinsing away the soap and dirt, a small part of me wondered what it would be like to let Beth in fully. To allow her light to chase away some of my darkness.
But that wasn't something a shower could fix.
Stepping out of the stall, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself. The mirror fogged up instantly, obscuring my reflection—perhaps for the best.
In this moment of clarity brought by simple water and heat, one thing was clear: life felt different now that Beth was around.
And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing after all.
I headed to my bedroom and started rummaging through the closet. My fingers brushed over the worn leather jacket, the one I wore when I first moved back. But it wasn't right for tonight.
Who was I kidding? Of course, I was going to the party.
I grabbed a clean pair of jeans and a button-up shirt that didn’t look too bad. The mirror showed a man I barely recognized, clean-shaven, hair still damp from the shower. Maybe Beth's magic had worked on me after all.
Buttoning up the shirt, I stepped into the living room, my mind still tangled with thoughts of her.
Then I saw Connor.
"What the fuck is this?" he asked, holding up the wreath I'd hung on my door. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. "And what the fuck are you wearing?"
I stood there, stunned into silence. Connor’s presence hit me like a punch to the gut. His tone dripped with disdain, his gaze piercing through me like I was some kind of joke.
"You look like you're going to some... Christmas party or something," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Didn't take you for the festive type."
"Connor—"
He cut me off before I could even start. "What happened to you, Daryl? Used to be tough. Now look at you—clean clothes, hanging up wreaths like some suburban dad." He sneered, tossing the wreath aside. "What's next? Baking cookies?"
I clenched my fists at my sides, feeling a mix of anger and shame rise up in my chest. "It's just a party."
"Oh sure," Connor said with a mocking grin. "A party with all your new friends? What happened to staying out of people's business?"
His words stung more than they should have. "It's not like that."
"Isn't it?" He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "You think these people give a damn about you? They’ll use you up and spit you out just like before."
"Enough." My voice came out harder than I intended.
"Is this about the girl?" Connor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "The blonde girl way too young for someone like you? With her cookies? Are you... are you falling for her?"
"Connor," I warned, my fists clenching tighter.
"Wow." He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're serious, aren't you? Falling for some little café owner? This is rich."
"Shut up," I said, my voice low and dangerous.
"What's next, Daryl?" he snapped. "Gonna start writing love songs and serenading her? Maybe you can help her bake cookies too. Bet she'd love that."
My jaw tightened. "Don't."
But Connor didn't stop. He never did. "You think she's gonna fix you, huh? Think a few smiles and some baked goods will make everything better? Pathetic."
I stepped closer, the air between us thick with tension. "Watch your mouth."
"Oh, I get it," he said with a cruel smile. "You think she's different. Special. But she's just another pretty face that'll get bored with you once she sees the real you."
"Connor—"
"Face it, Daryl," he interrupted, his voice rising. "You're a mess. Always have been, always will be. And that girl? She's too good for someone like you. She'll realize it soon enough."
"Shut up." My voice shook with barely controlled rage.
"You really think she'll stick around?" Connor continued, relentless. "She's probably just playing with you, feeling sorry for the sad mechanic."
My blood boiled as he went on.
"And that singing?" He laughed harshly. "You probably think it's sweet or something. But it's just a game to her. She doesn't care about you."
"Enough!" I roared.
But he wasn't done yet.
"Once she fixes you, she'll move onto the next guy, and then the next," he said. "Broken's the only thing she wants. She'll fill up her pussy with someone else as soon as?—"
My fist connected with his jaw before I even realized I'd moved.
Connor stumbled back, clutching his face in shock and anger. The room seemed to close in around us as we stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked in a silent battle.
He wiped the blood from his lip and smirked through the pain. "Guess I hit a nerve."
He glanced at the wreath and spit blood.
"You're pathetic," he said, his words like daggers. "You should know better."
My breathing was heavy, each inhale a struggle. Deep down, I knew he was right. I hated admitting it, even to myself. But he always knew how to hit where it hurt most.
"Fucking pussy," he taunted, his voice dripping with contempt.
"Fucking bastard," I shot back, the rage boiling over.
Without warning, Connor swung at me. His fist connected with my jaw, sending a sharp pain radiating through my skull. I staggered back but quickly regained my footing. The garage blurred into a backdrop of shadows and flickering lights.
I lunged forward, landing a punch square on his nose. He grunted, stumbling back into the workbench. Tools clattered to the ground, the sound echoing through the confined space. Connor wiped the blood from his nose and charged at me like a bull seeing red.
We collided with a thud, grappling and throwing wild punches. His fist caught my ribs, and I felt the wind knocked out of me. I retaliated with an uppercut that sent him reeling. My home became our battlefield, every corner a potential weapon or shield.
Connor grabbed a wrench from the floor and swung it at me. I ducked just in time, feeling the rush of air as it whooshed past my head. I tackled him to the ground, wrestling the wrench from his grip and tossing it aside.
We rolled on the concrete floor, trading blows. My knuckles throbbed with each punch I landed on his face. His eyes burned with fury as he fought back with equal ferocity. We were two wild animals, driven by anger and years of unresolved tension.
He managed to get on top of me, pinning me down with his weight. His fists rained down on me like hailstones, each strike sending jolts of pain through my body. But I refused to give up.
Summoning every ounce of strength left in me, I bucked him off and scrambled to my feet. My vision blurred with sweat and blood as I swung at him again and again until he fell back against the wall.
Both of us were gasping for breath now, our bodies battered and bruised. We stood there for a moment in the silence that followed our violent exchange—the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the falling snow.
But there was no victory here—just an overwhelming sense of emptiness and defeat that settled between us like an uninvited guest.
“Fucking pathetic,” Connor spat, blood dripping from his split lip. “Don’t come crawling back to me when she breaks your heart. And you know she will.”
He turned on his heel, leaving me in the aftermath of our brawl. The door slammed shut behind him, echoing in the empty house. I stood there, chest heaving, fists still clenched at my sides. Fury roiled inside me like a storm I couldn’t control.
Because he was right.
Why would someone like Beth want someone like me? She was light, and I was shadow. She couldn’t fix what was broken in me. No one could.
I walked to the fridge, my steps heavy with the weight of my thoughts. Pulling out a bottle of beer, I twisted off the cap and took a long, bitter swig. The cold liquid did little to numb the turmoil inside.
No way I was going to that party now. I had no place among her friends and their cheerful holiday spirit. Might as well rip the bandage off before I did something irreversible—like fall in love with her.
I sank onto the worn couch, the beer bottle cold in my hand. The room felt smaller, closing in on me with each passing second. Beth’s laughter echoed in my mind, mingling with Connor’s harsh words.
“Pathetic,” he’d said. And maybe he was right. What kind of fool thinks a few smiles and cookies could change anything?
Taking another swig, I let out a bitter laugh. Who was I kidding? Thinking Beth could be some kind of savior? She deserved better than a man who couldn’t even keep his own brother from self-destructing.
The beer didn’t help much; it just made everything fuzzier around the edges but sharper where it hurt most. Connor’s voice played on repeat in my head: She’ll move on once she sees the real you.
Maybe it was true.
I drained the bottle and set it down with a heavy thud. No more illusions, no more pretending things could be different just because someone smiled at me and sang pretty songs.
I wasn’t going to that party.
I stood up and grabbed another bottle.