Chapter 8 Marcy
Marcy
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the quiet.
Not the hum of a furnace kicking in at the wrong hour, not the creak of pipes, not the muffled voices of strangers through paper-thin walls. Just…quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around me like a blanket, still and steady.
For a second, I lie there blinking at the slanted morning light spilling through the blinds. It takes me a moment to remember where I am—the bachelor apartment above the garage. My apartment.
The thought is strange, not quite real.
I roll onto my side and grab my phone, checking the time.
The clock reads 7:20. My first day of work.
My stomach tightens with nerves.I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cold under my feet, and hug my arms around myself for a moment.
I take my time, showering and having a breakfast of eggs and toast. I carry my mug of tea down with me when I go down at eight-thirty.
The garage hits me with a wall of scents—motor oil, dark roast coffee, rubber.
I clutch my cardigan tighter against the chill that seeps through the concrete floor.
Behind the counter stands Landon, clipboard tilted toward the light, a pencil balanced behind one ear, his profile cut sharp against the morning.
His eyes flick up. The corner of his mouth lifts—barely there, then gone. "Morning."
“Morning,” I manage, smoothing a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
Before I can say more, the door to the shop bangs open and a man with ginger hair and grease already smeared across his cheek barrels in, grinning. “You must be Marcy.”
He wipes his palm twice against a red shop rag that's more stain than cloth, then thrusts his hand toward me. His grin is easy, boyish.
“Wes,” he says. “Resident troublemaker, part-time mechanic, full-time pain in the ass.”
“Don’t forget comedian,” Landon mutters without looking up.
“Ah, yes. Comedian.” Wes gives me an exaggerated wink. “Welcome to Five Brother’s Garage. I promise we only haze new employees on Fridays.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, tension loosening a notch.
Joon arrives a few minutes later, followed by a man who has to duck slightly through the doorway.
His shoulders stretch his flannel shirt taut across the back, sandy blonde hair gathered in a knot at his nape.
"Becket," he says when Landon introduces us, the single word landing like a stone dropped in still water.
He nods once, eyes the color of worn denim sweeping over me, lingering a beat too long on my trembling fingers around the mug.
I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
“Good to meet you,” Becket says. “We’ve heard a lot about you already.”
I glance nervously toward Landon, but his expression is unreadable.
By the time the introductions are over, the lobby feels full—each man bringing his own energy. Wes tossing jokes like confetti, Joon leaning quietly against the counter, Becket standing solid and still as though he’s holding the floor in place.
I half expect them to start quizzing me on my life, but they don’t. They just fold me into the rhythm of the day as if I’ve always been here.
"Alright," Landon says, turning back to me. "Let's get you started."
He slides a stack of intake forms across the counter, his fingers splayed against the paper.
I lean in as he points to each field—customer name, vehicle make, service requested.
The sleeve of his flannel shirt brushes against my forearm, and I find myself holding my breath, counting the freckles on his wrist instead of listening to his explanation about the computer system.
“You don’t have to memorize everything today,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “One step at a time, okay?”
My throat tightens. I nod quickly, focusing on the neat rows of paperwork instead of his steady presence at my side.
Soon the morning rush it in full swing. A woman with two kids in the backseat drops off her SUV for an oil change.
A farmer comes in about a tractor part. Every time the bell over the door chimes, I flinch just slightly—but Landon is always nearby, his hand brushing past mine as he takes keys, his steady tone guiding me through the process.
By noon, I’ve managed to enter a half-dozen intakes without messing up. My hands still shake when I type, but it’s progress.
“Not bad,” Landon says quietly, setting a fresh mug of tea in front of me. His fingers linger on the counter, just a little too close to mine.
The warmth in my chest scares me almost as much as it soothes.
“Thank you,” I say. He nods, and smiles, the dimple appearing on his cheek.
There’s something in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles that makes me want to lean into his warmth.
But I don’t. I force my eyes away and sit back behind the desk, forcing myself to focus on my work. Or at least I pretend to focus.
The shop quiets to a gentle hum after the lunch rush.
Wes struts between the tool cabinets juggling three wrenches like he was a clown in a past life.
Joon vanishes into one of the bays beyond the partition while Becket hunches over a rusted blue Chevy.
His broad shoulders curve like a protective shell, fingers moving with surgeon-like precision among the engine's guts.
Landon's boots scuff against the concrete as he returns to my desk, a manila folder of dog-eared invoices clutched in his oil-stained fingers.
I notice it when I reach for the mug Landon left.
My hand doesn't wobble as I lift it to my lips.
The tea doesn't ripple against the ceramic.
I type a customer's phone number without having to delete and retry.
When I hand back a receipt, the paper doesn't flutter between my fingers like a trapped moth. Around me, the garage hums—metal against metal, Wes's laughter, the radio's low croon—and somehow I'm part of that rhythm now, not fighting against it. It’s a feeling I’ve missed. Being apart of something. It’s small, but it’s a feeling I want to hold onto for a while.