11. Chasity
CHASITY
The morning arrives in a wash of pale gold, the sun struggling to burn through the chill that lingers between the mountains.
I follow the crunch of my boots on the gravel road leading down to the garage, the warmth from two cardboard coffee cups seeping into my palms. One for me, one for Ben.
My excuse for the visit—"just wanted an update on the car"—feels paper-thin even in my own head.
Ben is already at work, a hulking shape leaning over the guts of some ancient pickup truck.
The air smells of oil, metal, and something faintly sweet, like antifreeze.
He straightens when he hears my approach, wiping his hands on a red rag tucked into his belt loop.
His blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he sees the coffees.
"Figured I'd save you the trip to the diner." I offer him a cup.
"Appreciate it." He takes a slow sip, his gaze dropping to my Civic, which sits forlornly in the corner of the bay, still looking wounded. "The parts came in. Got the call late yesterday."
The words should bring a jolt of anxiety, a fresh wave of pressure to figure out my next move. Instead, my shoulders drop just a fraction.
"So, it'll be ready soon, then?"
Ben shakes his head, his sandy hair catching the light. "Not quite. The axle and control arm are easy enough, but the frame's a little out of whack. It's going to take time to get the alignment perfect. Another couple days, at least. I won't let you drive it until it's safe."
A strange, guilty relief settles low in my gut. Another couple of days. The thought should terrify me. It doesn’t.
He gets back to work, disappearing under the raised hood of my car, and I hover nearby, a satellite orbiting a planet I don’t understand.
"So what exactly is a control arm?"
He pops his head up, a small smile playing on his lips.
He explains its function in simple terms, using his greasy fingers to point out connections and joints.
I ask another question, then another, the words a flimsy excuse to prolong the moment.
Eventually, a look of amused resignation crosses his face.
He wipes his hands across his rag again and gestures for me to come closer.
"Here." He presses a heavy metal flashlight into my hand. "Shine this right here."
He talks me through checking my oil, his voice a low, steady rumble against the clang of his tools.
He shows me how to pull out the dipstick, wipe it, and read the level.
Grease immediately smears across my knuckles.
When I fumble with reinserting the stick, dropping it twice, he doesn't sigh or roll his eyes.
"You got it. Just takes a feel for it."
His praise is quiet, understated, but it lands somewhere deep in my chest. He moves on to the battery terminals, pointing out the positive and negative, then shows me the reservoir for the wiper fluid.
Each explanation is methodical, patient, delivered with the calm certainty that I have never been taught how to take care of anything but other people's expectations.
Classic rock hums from an old radio on a dusty shelf, a gentle counterpoint to the sharp clank of a wrench hitting the concrete floor.
Sunlight cuts through the wide-open bay doors, carrying the scent of distant pine.
Ben moves on to my tires, talking me through how to use a lug wrench.
He braces the wheel as I throw my entire weight into loosening the first bolt. It refuses to budge.
“I swear to God, if you don’t turn, I will personally melt you down into a tacky lawn ornament.” My voice is a low growl of frustration against the stubborn metal.
Beside me, a low rumble starts in Ben’s chest, turning into a warm laugh that echoes in the high-ceilinged space.
“'Atta girl. Show it who’s boss.”
I reset my grip, putting my left foot up on the tire iron for leverage and pushing down hard.
With a groan of tortured metal, the nut finally gives.
A ridiculous surge of victory shoots through me.
When I look up, wiping a stray piece of hair from my face with a greasy wrist, he’s watching me.
His blue eyes hold a quiet amusement, patient and absolute.
This is different. Lachlan’s charm is a bright, easy warmth that pulls me out of myself.
Taven’s sharp honesty is a bracing shock that forces me to face truths I’ve buried.
But Ben… there is no pressure in his quiet presence.
He demands nothing. He doesn’t need me to be funny or insightful or put-together.
He just lets me be. The kindness in his gaze isn’t a reward for a performance; it’s just there, steady as the mountains surrounding us.
Every time I catch that look, something soft and aching unfurls deep inside my chest, a feeling I haven’t had a name for in years. Maybe ever.
We take a break, perching on two overturned paint buckets just outside the open garage bay. The afternoon sun feels warm on my skin. I stare down at my hands, coated in a fine layer of oil and dirt.
"I don't think I've ever been this filthy in my life," I say, a surprised laugh escaping me. "Jason would faint." The name of my ex-fiancé feels strange and foreign on my tongue. "Everything in our life was... clean. Scheduled. I guess I was, too."
Ben takes a slow swallow of his now-cold coffee, his gaze on the distant line of pine trees. "I get that." He sets the cup down on the gravel beside him with a quiet crunch. "I was engaged once. A long time ago."
The admission hangs in the air, unexpected and heavy. He never talks about himself.
"She wanted out of this town," he continues, his voice low and even.
"Wanted a bigger life. And I spent years trying to become the guy who could give her that, telling myself I wanted it, too.
It wears you down, trying to be everything for someone else.
By the end, I didn't recognize who I saw in the mirror. "
His words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.
It isn’t just the story itself, but the bone-deep exhaustion laced through his voice.
I know that feeling. I have lived inside that exhaustion for years, the slow, grinding erosion of self that comes from contorting to fit a life that isn't yours.
The silence that follows is not empty. It's thick with a shared, unspoken understanding. When he finally pushes himself up to get back to work, the space between us has changed. He pops the hood again and leans back over the engine, talking about spark plugs. I lean in, pretending to listen, but the words dissolve into a low hum. My eyes trace the rugged line of his jaw, dusted with a day’s worth of stubble.
He gestures to something inside the engine bay, and I watch the muscles in his forearm flex beneath his grease-stained shirt.
He finishes his explanation and turns to me, a small, easy smile softening the corners of his mouth. "Makes sense?"
My brain is a blank slate. I haven't heard a single word.
I'm just staring, caught. His smile doesn't vanish, but it shifts, becoming something quieter, more knowing.
His gaze lifts, meeting mine directly, and a bolt of heat shoots through me, a violent blush that blooms from my chest to the roots of my hair.
Ben just raises one sandy eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching, but he says nothing.
He holds my gaze for one second longer before turning back to the engine, leaving the charged silence crackling in his wake.
The afternoon light stretches long and golden as I finally pull myself away from the organized chaos of the garage. My hands are clean, scrubbed raw at the industrial sink, but I still feel the phantom grit under my nails.
“You’ve got a little…” Ben’s voice is low, and he gestures toward my face.
Before I can react, he steps in close, the smell of soap and grease and him filling the air.
He plucks the red rag from his belt loop, finds a clean corner, and reaches for my cheek.
His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb resting just below my ear, the calloused pad of it a stark contrast to my skin.
The world shrinks to the space of a breath.
He gently scrubs a streak of black from my cheekbone, his touch methodical and sure.
The shop rag is rough, but the gesture is the softest thing I have felt in years.
I forget to breathe.
He pulls the rag away, but his hand lingers for a barest second.
His blue eyes, flecked with grey like a stormy sea, catch mine.
Something shifts in their depths. The easy calm he wears like a second skin disappears, replaced by a flicker of something raw and uncharted.
The air thins, charged with a current that has absolutely to do with the wires and batteries around us.
One dangerous second stretches into two.
Then he drops his hand as if he’s touched something hot, and the moment shatters.
He clears his throat, his gaze skittering away toward my Civic. “Drive safe when you head back.”
I can only nod, the word “thanks” a dry whisper in my throat. I turn and walk, my boots crunching on the loose gravel, feeling his eyes on my back until I round the corner onto the main road.
The chilly mountain air does nothing to cool the flush on my skin. I press my palm to the cheek he touched, the memory of his nearness a brand. It was a simple, practical act. Nothing more. But my heart is a frantic bird against my ribs, beating a rhythm that is anything but simple.
The more time I spend here, the more tangled everything becomes.
My life used to be a straight line, pre-drawn and approved.
Now it is a chaotic knot of Lachlan’s disarming smile, Taven’s jarring honesty, and Ben’s silent, grounding presence.
Each encounter, each shared glance, pulls another thread loose.
This town was meant to be an escape hatch, a temporary pause.
But the feeling of Ben’s hand on my jaw doesn't feel temporary. The sound of Lachlan’s laughter doesn't feel temporary. The grudging respect in Taven’s eyes doesn't feel temporary.
The inn looms ahead, a comforting sentinel against the deep blue sky.
A fresh wave of panic crests, cold and sharp.
Staying here is becoming a real possibility, an unspoken truth taking root in the bedrock of my frantic escape.
The idea of planting myself in this small town, of building something from the wreckage of my old life, is terrifying.
It’s an admission of failure. It’s an admission of hope.
The two sensations coil together inside me, a thrilling, terrifying snake eating its own tail.
I am not entirely sure which feeling is stronger.