Chapter 3
When the Lights Go Down
We only live about ten minutes from Pop’s, but it feels like I’ve been listening to Daniel sing for much longer.
Did I fall asleep?
I open my eyes to see his left hand with the bracelets draped over the steering wheel, and my gaze slides over the band of ink around his arm, angled so I can see the cross on the underside.
Following the sound of his voice, I watch his mouth form each word with a soft smile under the glow of a red light.
I realize he’s watching me when he puckers up and makes kissing noises to jolt me awake.
“You’re staring, baby. Any confessions? Comments? Complaints?”
Don’t read into it. He always messes with me when I’m groggy.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Did you want to do something?”
Sometimes we make late-night grocery runs or get a cherry limeade before we head home, but I’m so sleepy, and the music is so soothing. It’s his voice more than the music, which is a completely irrelevant observation. But I could listen to him sing all night.
It’s pitch-black other than a few streetlights dotting the businesses along the road. It could’ve been minutes or hours. I don’t remember if I even spoke to him.
“No, but you were snoring so peacefully, I decided to drive over and check the other properties. Late-night car sleep is the best sleep.” He quickly squeezes my knee without looking away from the road.
Properties?
“Wait … snoring? How long?”
His amused smirk glows in the light of the dashboard. He’s always so proud of himself.
“Maybe an hour. I told you—car sleep is the best sleep. I got you a diet cherry limeade and a pretzel, but you never flinched.”
“You did? Thank you.” I sip my favorite non-caffeinated beverage and pull off a piece of the buttery soft pretzel twist from the small bag in the console.
“You’re welcome.”
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to his random acts of thoughtfulness. Annie says he penguin-pebbles me—like the way penguins bring pebbles to potential mates. I think Annie spends way too much time watching videos.
“So, you have other properties?” I ask.
“Didn’t you think I had a real job? As much as I love being your personal assistant, I can’t live on that.”
“I know. I’m high-maintenance.” I put my hand over my face.
It kills me to be a burden even if he’s teasing. I’m well aware that I bring very little to this friendship.
“Good thing maintenance is in my job description.”
“I thought maintenance was your job. I know you’re the facilities manager at The Village, but you work for your mom too, right? And don’t you still take classes?”
“No, well, yes, I help my mom, and I take classes occasionally. That in-depth study of statistics, for instance,” he deadpans.
“Ha ha. Funny.” I definitely would’ve failed Statistics without him. “Are you working on a master’s or something? What’s your degree?”
I know it’s business something. I’m trying to remember everything we’ve talked about over the last year, and I can’t come up with a lot of personal details. I’m still half asleep, but I may not know as much about Daniel Crawford’s life outside our little bubble as I thought.
I know he likes his music on vinyl, he’s replaced the same Vans sneakers three times, and he only uses guitar strings from Mapes.
He also likes cult-classic movies and food with spicy sauces—easy to remember since he introduced me to some of the things we now have in common.
But maybe we never got around to discussing his degree.
“I have an associate’s degree in business and a finance BBA with a real estate concentration.
I have a real estate license too. I don’t need a master’s degree, but continuing education is required for work, and I need to get my broker’s license soon.
That’ll be six mind-numbing weeks of classes.
Oh, and I have welding and electrical maintenance certificates if you want to count those. ” He shrugs.
“Holy crap, DC.” My eyes widen. For some reason I thought he might be in his last year of undergrad or possibly working on a master’s—just taking it slow while he works. “When did you graduate? What was that paper I helped you with?” Suddenly I have a million questions.
“You helped with my last business ethics paper. My last paper ever, so thank you for that.” He nods my direction.
“I took my time—took breaks for family things and sometimes for work. Not long after my sister moved back home with Kami, I moved out to do on-site maintenance at The Village and give them more space.”
Daniel keeps his eyes on the road while I watch his profile. He’s not secretive, but he doesn’t share a lot about himself unless we’re alone—which isn’t often. I’ve met his younger sister, Sydney, and his brother, Evan, a few times, but I see Kami more often when he picks her up from school.
I’ll never forget the look on Daniel’s face the first time I noticed the booster seat in his SUV.
Mr. Cool, Calm, and Calculated sputtered out a nervous explanation like a mere mortal, and it was adorable.
“Uh, that’s not … I pick up my niece from school and give her guitar lessons, or sometimes I take her to my aunt’s house for piano, but she’s not mine.
I mean, she’s mine, but my niece, not my kid.
I like kids, though. You’ll love her. I’ll bring her over one day. ” And of course, he did.
I know he went through a breakup around this time last year too. He handles so much responsibility with effortless grace.
“Then after Syd moved back, my dad’s health declined, and Mom needed help driving Evan around,” he continues.
“My dad had encouraged me to go to college part time and play fill-in gigs when I was younger. Just like he did. He said education was important, but the skills I’d gain playing music on stage were priceless.
Then he got sick, and I had to hurry to get specific certifications and take over some responsibilities.
I graduated the spring before you moved in, but I didn’t receive the diploma until December when you helped me finish that last class.
I had an extension, but I was too burnt out until you offered to help. ”
“That’s understandable, but all I did was proofread a paper.”
“Well, you helped, so thank you. Moral support, maybe. Dad was tough on me, but he didn’t care about my GPA or any particular degree.
He just wanted me to be intentional. Every credential I earned had a purpose.
” He holds his hand out, and I slide mine across it like part of our handshake, but he doesn’t let go.
I’ll allow it.
“Do you ever do fill-in gigs now?” I ask.
“Just for Sam if he needs help. I’m too busy now.”
“No kidding.” I gape at him. “How do you manage everything?”
“I have a strong support system. Lots of aunts and uncles who like to feed me and make sure I go to church. Creative outlets. And the sound of a short girl snoring in my passenger seat is surprisingly relaxing.”
I try to jerk my hand away to smack his arm, but he tightens his grip with a wicked grin.
Now that he’s talking, I want to know more. “What other properties were you talking about?”
“In Blountville. Two townhouse villages and an office complex,” he says.
“We’re in Blountville? Now?” Not that I care. He can drive wherever he needs to go.
“We weren’t there long. Just checking the parking lot lights. I’m headed back now,” he assures me, as if I’m worried. This is the least worried I’ve been in a month. I don’t have a care in the world.
“So do you check on maintenance issues there too? Like burnt-out lightbulbs and clogged sinks?”
He tilts his head side to side, like he’s trying to think of the best way to explain it.
“Something like that. Bigger issues like HVAC or roof leaks I evaluate and contract out. I check security, help move-ins, change locks when people move out, submit reports … that sort of thing.”
“You catch short girls falling from counters.”
His mouth twitches before spreading into an impish smile. “Yeah, that’s ‘other duties as assigned.’”
“Are you working now?”
“Are you planning to fall out of the car?”
“Not unless you start driving like Sam.”
He laughs at the mention of our friend’s driving skills. Sam’s the best, but he’s the baby of our makeshift family and still a little wild. He lives in the dorms but can usually be found at DC and Jace’s townhouse when they’re playing music, or with Annie and me when he wants food.
Sam’s steering wheel drum solos are cute until a turn is out of rhythm and he hits a curb.
So. Many. Curbs.
More often than not, he screeches into our parking lot on two wheels and a prayer.
“I promise I won’t drive like Sam. But I always have my phone. I’m always on call.”
“You have a grown-up degree and a grown-up job, yet you still find time to help me with math … and sometimes drive me to work, because I don’t have a grown-up job that would pay for a grown-up car. You do not have time for my shenanigans, DC.”
“You’re doing what you need to do, and I spend my time exactly how I want.” He glances at me and winks. “My job’s flexible. Maybe I like your shenanigans.”
“Well, good. Maybe you should be in charge of my life. Trusting you is easy, and it takes all the pressure off me.” I let my head fall back, and words spill out the way they always do when I’m completely exhausted.
He nods slowly without expression while still staring straight ahead. “Yep, you take care of everyone else, and I got you.”
Oh.
That made my eyes feel funny.
“I know you do. I don’t know when you sleep.”
“I’m not great at it.” He tilts his head and gives me puppy eyes. “Maybe you should help me out again.”
Again. Real smooth.
He just loves to bring up … ugh. It was nothing. Let’s change this subject, shall we?
“Hey, aren’t you about to have a birthday? You’re twenty-five, right?” I hate that I don’t remember the exact date, but I know it’s close.
He scrunches his nose with the cutest grimace, and I can’t hold back my smile.