8. A Small Breakdown
A Small Breakdown
Levi
Jordan was elbow-deep in Bob Morton’s pickup again, singing off-key to an old Willie Nelson song like it was his personal soundtrack for chaos.
I stood across from him in the garage, arms folded, staring at the cardboard box on the counter like it might magically morph into the correct truck part if I glared hard enough.
“Great,” I muttered. “So, it’s basically a coaster.”
Jordan didn’t look up. “I already called ‘em. The new one’s on the way. Should be here in... well, when it gets here.”
I raised a brow. “Jordan.”
He sighed, wiping his hands on a rag that had clearly given up on ever being clean. “Could be a few more days. Maybe a week.”
I let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. “She’s not going to like this.”
He smirked like he’d just won a game of small-town poker. “That girl has been cooped up like a caged raccoon. I’m glad I won’t be the one telling her she’s got more waiting to do.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “Guess that means I’m the lucky volunteer.”
He shrugged and reached for a wrench. “Better you than me.”
I left the garage muttering something about how mechanics should come with hazard pay for emotional fallout.
The walk to the inn was short, but somehow my boots felt heavier with each step.
Not because of the news—bad parts happen—but because Cassie wasn’t the type to enjoy being stalled.
She was more wildfire than waiting room.
Main Street was its usual late-afternoon bustle. Old Man Weaver was setting up his sidewalk chess game, waiting for anyone to sit and play with him. The bakery’s sign read “Try our Crisis Croissants—Now with More Butter!” and I made a mental note to stop by later.
When I pushed open the door to the Everwood Inn, the bell gave a particularly judgmental jingle. Janet looked up from behind the front desk, giving me a raised brow that said she knew I was on a mission.
“She’s upstairs,” she said before I even asked.
“Good,” I said, heading for the stairs.
“Wait... you know something.” Janet squinted at me as only a big sister can.
“Yep, but first—” I gestured upstairs, and Janet shook her head.
“It’s a small town, Levi. Secrets don’t exist.” She called after me with a laugh in her voice.
I paused at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing, hearing something thud behind Cassie’s door, followed by a small voice mumbling something unintelligible.
I knocked gently, then nudged the door open.
She didn’t look up. “Just hold a second,” she called from beside the bed.
I stepped inside just as Cassie stood and stubbed her toe on the corner of the footboard. “Are you okay?” I asked, half-snicker, half-concern.
The look she gave me could’ve curdled milk, then it softened.
She crouched beside her open suitcase, arms elbow-deep in a chaotic pile of clothes and toiletries. A pen had rolled under the desk, probably a casualty of whatever packing attempt this was. She didn’t pick it up.
“I lost my scarf,” she said, not looking at me. “Though I could have sworn I had it on thirty minutes ago.”
I eased into the room, careful not to step on a rogue sock. “So... is this a panic-pack situation? Are you sure you had it in here? Maybe you left it in the dining room after dinner. I’m sure Janet has a lost and found.”
Her sigh was a full-body production. “You don’t get it. It was my mom’s. It was her favorite scarf, and I lost it, Levi.”
I held up both hands in surrender. “I understand. It means a lot to you, but—”
She stood abruptly, her hair falling into her face as she yanked her hoodie over her head with enough force to dislocate a shoulder.
It was a silent dare to minimize her frustration.
“I’m starting to think Everwood is some magical fairy waystation.
If you eat or drink anything here, you never get to leave?
Not that I mind the company, but I was supposed to be passing through.
First, it’s my truck breaking down, then the day I get offered a job in a town that wasn’t her dream, I lose my mom’s scarf, and next you’ll probably tell me there’s a town ordinance that prohibits forward progress. ”
“Only on Tuesdays,” I said. “After bingo night.”
She didn’t laugh, but her lips twitched. Barely.
I took a few more steps in. “Cassie, I get it. You’ve been stuck in limbo so long it’s starting to feel like quicksand.
Losing your mother’s scarf didn’t help, but we’ll find it.
I’ll help.” Then, just as luck would have it, I spotted a bit of blue peeking out from behind the bed.
The scarf had fallen behind the headboard, a small tassel holding on to the side as if trying to wave at her, letting her know it was still there.
Leaning over, I gently plucked the wayward scarf from its hiding spot and handed it to Cassie.
Her arms crossed, jaw clenched like she was bracing for impact. “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, her voice tight. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just... I hate not having control of my life.”
We all did, but coming from Cassie—that was new.
I leaned against the desk. “You’ve been holding it together pretty well, all things considered. Most people would’ve thrown a chair through a window by now.”
“I would never wreck Janet’s lovely windows.” The edge in her tone had softened.
We stood there in silence for a moment, just the two of us, and the sound of her annoyance gradually deflating like a leaking balloon.
“I was thinking,” I said, breaking the quiet, “that maybe what you need isn’t a part that ships in two to four business days.”
She raised a brow. “Is this your way of offering to fix my life with duct tape and optimism?”
“Tempting,” I said. “Definitely tempting, but no. I was actually on my way here to congratulate you on your job offer and suggest something less productive to celebrate.” The last thing I wanted to do was tell her about the car part so she could feel more like a caged raccoon. The car part would have to wait.
She blinked. “Less productive?”
I nodded. “Night fishing.”
Cassie stared at me like I’d just invited her to a reenactment of the Oregon Trail.
“I promise, it doesn’t involve actual decision-making. Just the moon over the water, crickets chirping on the shore, and the occasional argument with a stubborn trout.”
She hesitated, then let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “If I end up windburned and emotionally unchanged, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair,” I said, already reaching for her jacket. “But at least you’ll be blaming me from somewhere with a view.”
She shook her head but followed me anyway. Small steps. But it felt like a beginning.
The drive to the lake took maybe fifteen minutes, but Cassie spent all fifteen giving me the side-eye like I’d tricked her into a cult.
“So let me get this straight,” she said as I turned down the gravel road. “You’re taking me to a body of water in the middle of the night, with no cell service, and I’m supposed to relax?”
“I brought snacks,” I said. “And tunes. This isn’t an abduction—it’s rural hospitality.”
She snorted. “You’re not helping your case.”
We pulled up to the edge of the lake just as the moonlight hit the surface like it had a personal deal with the lighting gods. The water shimmered in soft gold, and the trees whispered gently, like they were rooting for us.
Cassie stepped out and looked around, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. “Okay,” she admitted reluctantly. “This is... nice.”
I gave her a satisfied nod. “Fishing’s like a conversation with nature. Sometimes it talks back. Mostly, it ignores you. But either way, you leave feeling lighter.”
“Did you read that on a bumper sticker?”
“Nope. Came up with it myself while failing to catch trout for three straight summers.”
She smiled—faint, but it was there.
I grabbed the rods and a flashlight from the truck bed and handed her the one with the least personality damage. “Don’t worry, this one only mildly hates new people.”
“I feel so welcome.”
We made our way to the dock, the wood groaning under our steps. It wasn’t thrilled about visitors, but it would tolerate us if we behaved. I laid out the tackle, cooler, and a blanket in what I liked to call “the most disorganized system of organized leisure.”
Cassie dangled her legs over the edge, her sneakers swinging above the water. “I haven’t accepted the job yet, you know,” she announced without looking away from the water.
“I know.” Still, my mind wandered to what it would be like if she did stay—more night fishing trips together, maybe even seeing a movie. I glanced over to see her reaction, but she was still focused on the water.
Cassie rolled her shoulders. “You really do this often?” She changed the subject.
“More than I’ll admit. I come home empty-handed more often than I’d like.”
She watched her fishing line slip into the lake, brows furrowed with uncertainty as she shifted her grip on the rod.
“I used to do this with my mom,” she said quietly. “Back when I was little. Never at night, though. She’d bring lemonade and make up fish names. Called them things like Sir Wigglebottom and Professor Fins.”
I smiled. “Strong names. Very academic.”
Cassie’s lips curved. “She always said if we didn’t catch anything, we could at least tell good stories about what got away.”
“That’s half the point,” I said, casting my line. “That, and pretending you’re not secretly hoping the fish ignore you.”
She leaned back on her hands, face tilted toward the full moon. “This might not be awful.”
“Careful,” I said. “You’re dangerously close to enjoying yourself.”
Her eyes flicked toward mine. “Don’t push your luck.”
But the tension in her shoulders had melted. She wasn't glowing, but a pulse of warmth traced across her face, and her posture loosened as if the night air had finally reached her. Something unnamed was softening between us, bit by bit.
And I was starting to feel it too.
Cassie squinted at her fishing line like it had personally offended her.
“Okay,” she muttered, flicking it again. “I’ve now mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing and catching even less.”