12. Ben
BEN
Morning hangs grey and drizzly over the Blue Ridge peaks.
Beneath the raised frame of Chasity’s Civic, I run through the alignment measurements for the third time.
The digital readout gleams green—perfect, just like it was the last two times.
The hiss of the hydraulic lift is a slow sigh in the quiet shop.
My hands, slick with a thin film of oil, tighten on a wrench I don’t need to use.
A knot of guilt has taken root in my gut over the last forty-eight hours.
It’s a low, persistent thrum beneath the surface of my day.
I tell myself I’m being thorough. Her car took a hell of an impact, and front-end damage demands precision.
That’s the truth, just not the whole truth.
The whole truth is I find another bolt to check, another wire to trace, because I’m not ready for the day she gets in this car and drives her life right back out of town.
The bell over the office door jingles, a sound that breaks through the hum of the ballast lights.
I slide out from under the car on the creeper and sit up.
Chasity stands there, a paper bag from Rosa’s in one hand and two coffees in the other.
A faint dusting of rain glistens in her brown hair.
She offers me a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes but lands somewhere in my chest anyway.
“Figured you hadn’t had a break yet,” she says, setting the coffees on the workbench.
Micah, my seventeen-year-old apprentice who thinks he’s a comedian, pokes his head out of the supply room. “Is that bacon I smell? You’re an angel, Chasity.”
“Sausage, actually,” she shoots back, pulling grease-stained foil packets from the bag. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
She hands one to him and then passes a warm weight to me.
While Micah inhales his sandwich, she leans against my main toolbox, her hip brushing against a stack of invoices.
Without a word, she picks them up and starts sorting them into two neat piles: paid and pending.
She just fits. Here, in the organized chaos of my garage, surrounded by the smell of exhaust and old coffee, she fits.
She passes me a 14mm socket moments before I even realize I need it.
Later, watching her laugh at some stupid story Micah is telling about his truck, a strange ache blossoms behind my ribs.
It’s a sharp, unfamiliar pang that feels dangerously close to wanting something I have no business wanting.
The day settles into a steady rhythm. Rain taps a constant beat against the garage’s corrugated roof while George Strait croons from the small radio on my desk.
Cars with sputtering engines and worn brake pads cycle through the bays, their owners shuffling into the office with dripping jackets and complaints about the damp mountain air.
Chasity moves through it all with a quiet confidence that wasn’t there yesterday.
She greets Mrs. Gable by name when she drops off her sedan for an oil change.
She offers Mr. Jennings a cup of the burnt coffee I keep in the pot, and he actually thanks her for it.
I watch her straighten a leaning tower of receipts on the front counter, her fingers a blur of efficiency.
She anticipates what I need before I do, her hand outstretched with a rag or a customer’s keys just as I turn to ask.
I take them without thinking, and the ease of it all sends a jolt through me. It's too comfortable. Too right.
Late in the afternoon, the front bell chimes frantically. Old Man Wheeler bursts in, his face pale and his hands shaking.
“Ben, you’ve got to help me. There’s a rattle. A terrible grinding sound, coming from the engine.” His voice is thin with panic. “I have an appointment with the cardiologist down in Asheville tomorrow. The big one. I can’t miss it.”
“Let’s have a look, Henry,” I guide him toward a chair. “Pop the hood for me.”
As I slide under his ancient Ford, Chasity pulls up another chair next to him.
I can hear her voice, a low and steady murmur beneath the clatter of my tools.
I can’t make out the words, but I see Henry’s knotted hands slowly unclench from his knees.
He leans forward, talking to her. He gestures with one hand while the other smooths the fabric of his slacks.
Through the open doorway, I watch as his shoulders drop, the panic draining from his face and replaced by a simple, tired resignation.
Chasity just listens, her head tilted, a small, genuine smile on her face.
It hits me then, clear as a bell. This is her default setting.
Taking care of people. It’s not something she learned; it’s woven into the very fiber of her being. Kindness is her instinct.
The sight plants a seed in my mind, one I try to dig out before it can take root.
But it’s already sprouting. I picture snow piling thick against the bay doors this winter, the whole world outside muted and white.
I see her perched on the stool by the front counter, a steaming mug cradled in her hands, her hair a messy knot on top of her head.
In this vision, she laughs at some stupid joke I make over the first coffee of the morning, her presence a steady warmth against the biting cold.
The fantasy arrives so fully formed, so natural, it steals the breath from my lungs.
For one sharp, crystalline moment, I can see her woven into the plain fabric of my ordinary life.
It feels less like a dream and more like a memory I haven't made yet.
I found nothing more than a loose heat shield on Henry's Ford and sent him on his way, his gratitude echoing in the now-empty garage.
The sun dipped below the mountains hours ago, leaving the sky a bruised purple that bled into black.
The soft patter of rain on the metal roof is the only sound, a steady drumbeat as Chasity and I move through the quiet space, closing up.
She works beside me, her movements efficient and sure.
We don't talk much, just a shared word here and there as she hands me a wrench to clean or I point to a tub of grease that needs a lid.
"You know," she wiped a smudge from a chrome socket with a blue shop rag, "I don't think I've ever willingly touched this much grime in my life."
"Looks good on you. Builds character."
She shoots me a look, a small smile plays on her lips. "I think my character is sufficiently built for one day, thank you."
I stack the last of the clean rags on the workbench.
Our conversation drifts, easy and unforced, until a quiet settles between us, comfortable as the worn-in leather of my work boots.
Chasity reaches across the bench for a heavy-looking box of spare gaskets, her arm stretching out.
At the same moment, I step forward to put away a torque wrench.
Her boot slides on a slick patch of concrete, a small gasp escapes her as she stumbles backward.
I react without thinking, my body moving before my brain catches up.
She collides with my chest, the impact soft but solid.
My hands find her waist, my fingers pressing into the cozy fabric of her sweatshirt to steady her.
We both freeze. The rain taps against the roof, the air grows thick and heavy, and all I can feel is the frantic beat of her heart against my ribs.
For one suspended moment, neither of us moves away.
Chasity’s palms rest flat against my chest, her fingers splayed over the worn fabric of my t-shirt.
I feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton.
Outside, the rain patters a steady rhythm on the tin roof, a sound that seems to wrap around us, isolating us in the small circle of light cast by the single work lamp.
Her breath catches hard, a tiny, sharp hitch that I feel like a current running directly from her body into mine.
My grip tightens at her waist. It isn't a decision; it's a reflex, a primal, bone-deep instinct to pull her closer, to keep her anchored right where she is.
My thumbs brush the soft curve of her hips.
Every rational thought in my head screams at me to let go.
With a force that feels physical, I uncurl my fingers and take a stiff step back.
The air rushes into the space between us, cold and sudden.
The silence that follows crackles with unspoken energy.
Her eyes, wide and dark in the dim garage, are fixed on mine.
She doesn’t say anything. She just gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and turns to grab her jacket from the peg by the door.
The loud rasp of the zipper tears through the quiet.
“Bye, Ben.” Her voice is too bright, a fragile shield against the tension.
Then she is gone. The little bell over the office door offers a single, lonely jingle before falling silent.
I stand there, alone under the low hum of the ballast light.
The air still holds a trace of her scent, something clean and floral that cuts through the familiar smells of oil and metal.
I can still feel the phantom press of her palms against my chest. The quiet of the garage presses in, heavy and absolute.
In that crushing silence, the truth lands with the force of a physical blow.
This isn't just attraction. This isn't some fleeting kindness for a woman in trouble. This feeling, this knot that tightens in my gut every time she looks at me, isn’t about fixing her car.
It's about her. I am attached. Deeply, irrevocably attached in a way that feels foundational, like a support beam I never knew my own structure was missing.
And I realize, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that when she leaves—not if, but when—it won't just hurt. It will genuinely wreck me.