4. Bright and Brittle
Bright and Brittle
Morgan
Morgan’s Saturday morning routine didn’t vary from her other days.
Coffee at six a.m., Rusty’s breakfast and first walk around the industrial block, shop open by seven, work until the current project was complete.
The fact that most businesses stayed closed on weekends had always struck her as inefficient—cars didn’t stop breaking down just because it happened to be Saturday.
She was washing her hands when her eye caught on the manila envelope on her desk, half-buried under invoices. Third one this week. She’d stopped opening them after the first—the message was always the same. Be gone by October sixth.
Apparently it was an exciting development opportunity for the neighborhood.
Not for her, though. Losing the building meant losing everything: the shop, the apartment upstairs, the life she’d spent years building with her own hands. Everything that was entirely, reliably hers.
The lease had seemed so solid when she’d signed it. Twenty years, the landlord had said. Guaranteed. But that was before he sold the building, and she found the termination clause in the fine print.
She shoved the envelope into a drawer.
Rusty lifted his head from his spot under the service desk, watching her with patient eyes.
“Just a parts run,” she told him. “Twenty minutes.”
His tail thumped once against the concrete.
Morgan grabbed her keys and headed out, already planning the most efficient route.
Morrison’s first, then maybe Bean There.
She allowed herself one coffee-shop splurge per week—Saturdays, when she could justify the expense as a small reward for opening when everyone else was closed.
The drive to Morrison’s took twelve minutes, including stopping for Mrs. Patterson’s collie, who moved at approximately half the speed of erosion. Morgan collected the radiator hose in four minutes flat, then found herself driving toward Main Street instead of back to the shop.
Bean There, Done That was busier than usual for a Saturday morning. People clustered around one specific table for some reason.
Then she saw the pink-streaked hair.
Nora Carter sat at an outside table, surrounded by what looked like half the town’s under-forty population. She was talking with her hands, gesturing broadly while people leaned in. Even from across the street, Morgan could see the bright smile, the animated expression.
Morgan should have driven back to the shop. Should have finished the Honda and called Nora to pick it up. Should have maintained professional distance.
Instead, she parked, crossed Main Street, and headed toward the coffee shop, drawn by a curiosity that irritated her even as she couldn’t ignore it.
As she came closer, she heard Nora’s clear voice.
“…so there I was in this tiny venue in Portland, maybe fifty people, and the sound system just died completely. Like, everything. Dead silence in the middle of my third song.” Nora laughed, genuinely delighted rather than embarrassed.
“And this guy in the front row just stands up and shouts, ‘Keep going! We can hear you!’ So I finished the whole set acoustic, no mic, and honestly? It was one of the best shows I’ve ever played. ”
The small crowd murmured appreciation. Morgan recognized most of them—Jenny from the flower shop, the Bean There manager Jordan, Avery from the bookstore and her girlfriend Olivia.
“That’s so cool,” Olivia said. “I would have died of embarrassment.”
“Oh, I wanted to.” Nora’s fingers were wrapped tight around her coffee cup, knuckles pale.
“For about thirty seconds I just stood there thinking, ‘This is it, this is how my career ends.’ But then I realized—these people came to listen to music, right? And I can play music without perfect sound systems.”
Morgan paused in the corner, caught by something underneath Nora’s enthusiasm.
“Speaking of connection,” Jordan said with a grin, “please tell me you’re planning to play here while you’re in town. We’re running music nights, and we’d fit you in whenever you want. Come on, it’d be awesome.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” Nora’s free hand moved to her chest, fingers splaying briefly before she caught herself and dropped it to her lap. “I’m not really in performance mode right now. Just visiting family, taking some time to—”
“Come on,” Jenny interrupted. “Just one song?”
“Or several. We could make it a whole thing,” Jordan said, deepening his voice like a TV announcer. “One week from now: Nora Carter, live at Bean There.”
Morgan watched Nora’s face cycle through expressions Morgan couldn’t name. “You guys are so sweet, but really, I’m just here to relax. Maybe write some new stuff.”
“Well, if you change your mind,” Jordan said, “you know where to find us.”
“Thank you. Really. It means a lot.”
Morgan realized she’d been standing there for several minutes, conspicuous and pointless.
She should leave. But the scents wafting from the café, coffee and cinnamon rolls, were delicious, and she shouldn’t have to leave just because Nora Carter was entertaining an audience.
Going inside, the barista—a woman with carefully styled blonde hair and precise makeup—greeted her with a bright smile.
“Morgan! Good morning. The usual?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“Coming right up.”
Morgan moved away to wait, grateful the barista hadn’t tried to draw her into conversation.
While she waited for her coffee, she couldn’t help continuing to overhear Nora’s table through the open door.
The conversation had shifted to travel—Nora describing cities Morgan had never seen and didn’t particularly want to visit.
“LA is… complicated,” Nora was saying. “Amazing opportunities, incredible music scene, but also just exhausting. People everywhere, just so busy. Everyone’s performing all the time, you know? Even conversations feel like auditions.”
“Is that why you came back?” Jenny asked.
Nora’s laugh sounded different this time. Less bright, more brittle. “Partly. It wasn’t so much a plan.”
The barista handed Morgan her coffee. She found a small table near the window where she could observe without being drawn in. Nora was completely absorbed in her audience, hands moving as she spoke, oblivious to anything beyond her immediate circle.
“Speaking of travel,” Jenny was saying, “didn’t you used to tour with someone? Another musician?”
Morgan saw the exact moment Nora’s expression shifted, brightness faltering before she recovered with a laugh that rang hollow.
“Oh, Camilla. Yeah, we... we toured together for a while.” Nora’s fingers started picking at the cardboard sleeve around her cup. “Actually, we were together together, not just professionally. For about two years.”
“That’s so romantic,” someone said with a dreamy sigh. “Making music and traveling the world with the person you love.”
“It should have been.” Nora’s voice carried a wistful note that made Morgan pause mid-sip. “But it turns out that putting your relationship on display for audiences every night is… complicated.”
Morgan found herself leaning forward slightly, caught by the rawness in Nora’s tone.
“We broke up right before my last tour,” Nora continued, words spilling faster now.
“Actually, she broke up with me. Said I’d become too dependent on validation, always needing reassurance, over-sharing…
” She was breathing faster now, that hand moving toward her chest again. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m—”
The group had gone quiet, easy chatter replaced by uncomfortable silence. Morgan could see Nora realizing it too, color rising in her cheeks.
“God, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Over-sharing with people who probably just wanted coffee shop small talk.
” Nora laughed, but it sounded forced. “That’s why I’m here, really.
Trying to figure out who I am when there’s no audience to validate my existence.
” Another hollow laugh. “Turns out that’s harder than I thought. ”
Morgan felt distinctly uncomfortable, like she was eavesdropping on something meant for close friends rather than casual passerbys.
At the next table, two older men were deep in conversation. Morgan recognized them vaguely—regulars at the hardware store.
“—they made another offer on a building on Sandy Road. Fourth property this month.”
“Damn developers. Buying up half the town.”
Morgan’s hand tightened on her coffee cup. Sandy Road. That was two blocks from her shop. How many properties were being bought up? How long before the whole neighborhood turned into whatever exciting development they had planned?
She finished her coffee quickly and stood to leave. As she passed Nora’s table, the conversation had shifted to lighter topics—someone asking about the best venues Nora had played, the group’s energy rebuilding.
Walking back to her truck, Morgan found herself thinking about Nora’s words. So dependent on external approval that she’d lost track of her own worth. It seemed foreign and inefficient.
But there had been something in Nora’s voice when she talked about figuring out who she was without an audience.
Back at the shop, Rusty greeted her with a slow tail wag, then returned to his spot under the desk. Morgan focused on the Honda repair, replacing the radiator hose with mechanical precision. Simple problem, simple solution. The kind of work that made sense.
She was finishing the coolant flush when she heard a truck pull in. Through the bay door, she could see Ethan Clarke climbing out of the rusted Ford he’d been driving since high school.
“Afternoon, boss lady,” he called out as he strolled in, all loose-limbed confidence.
His brown hair was perpetually messy, and he had the deep tan of outdoor work.
He wore his work clothes from whatever construction site he currently helped out at.
“Heard you had an interesting customer yesterday.”
Morgan didn’t look up from the Honda’s engine bay. “Honda Civic. Radiator hose failure. Standard repair.”
“Uh-huh. And the fact that said Honda belongs to celeb Nora Carter is totally irrelevant.”
“Her name’s on the work order because it’s required for billing.”
Ethan laughed, leaning against her workbench—careful not to disturb any tools.
Years of friendship had taught him which boundaries not to cross.
“Come on, Morrie. By now, half the town knows you towed her car. You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little curious about having a real celebrity in town. ”
“She’s a customer.”
“A customer who played Coachella two years ago.”
Morgan peered at him. “How do you know that?”
“Because unlike you, I occasionally venture onto the internet for purposes other than ordering car parts and dog food.” Ethan’s grin was entirely too satisfied. “Also because Jenny gave me a complete biography over coffee this morning.”
“That’s an invasion of privacy.”
“That’s public information. She’s a musician. People knowing about her career is literally the point.”
Morgan couldn’t argue with that logic, though something about it still felt wrong. The way people talked about Nora—like she was community property, available for speculation—reminded her uncomfortably of being observed and discussed without consent.
“Besides,” Ethan continued, “word is she might play at Bean There. Could be fun.”
“I wouldn’t know.” And it hadn’t sounded much to Morgan like Nora was interested, but what did she know?
“You should come if she does. Live music, support local business—”
“I don’t do that stuff.”
“Right. You genuinely don’t care about music or community events or meeting new people.” Ethan pulled a wrench from his tool belt, spinning it absently between his fingers. “So what’s she like? Beyond the obvious car-maintenance situation.”
Morgan considered the question. “Talks too much.”
“Shocking that you’d think so.” Ethan’s grin widened. “Did she say how long she’s staying?”
“A few days.”
“And you’re not curious why?”
“It’s not my business.” Morgan wasn’t curious. Curiosity implied investment in outcomes that didn’t affect her. “The car will be ready this afternoon. After that, Ms. Carter can do whatever she wants.”
“Ms. Carter? Very professional distance.” Ethan straightened up. “Well, I should get back. Dad’s got me reorganizing the paint section. But let me know how the car handoff goes.”
“It’s not going to ‘go’ any particular way. She’ll pay and drive away.”
“If you say so.” Ethan headed for the door, then paused. “You know, Morrie, it wouldn’t kill you to actually talk to someone new for once. Not everyone’s like Hannah.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “I meet plenty of people every day.”
“Customers aren’t friends.”
“Yet you just told me to be interested in one of my customers.”
Ethan snorted. “Fair point. But she is more interesting than the usual lot you get in here.”
“Get out of my shop, Ethan.”
He left, grinning, and Morgan returned to the Honda with more force than necessary.
She finished the repair methodically, testing connections and checking coolant levels. Simple, straightforward work with predictable results. The car would run properly now, and Nora Carter could continue to whatever destination was next in her busy, public life.
Morgan pulled out her phone to call, then paused. She could still hear Nora’s voice from the cafe—that tremor underneath the brightness, the way her hand had moved to her chest before she’d forced it down.
She wasn’t Morgan’s problem.
Yet…
Morgan shook her head and made the call. “Your car’s ready. You can pick it up anytime.”
“Oh! That’s great, thank you so much. I can be there in like twenty minutes—” Nora paused. “Actually, wait. I’m supposed to have dinner with my parents tonight. Could I pick it up tomorrow morning instead? I’m so sorry, I know it’s Sunday—”
“I’m open.”
“Really? That’s amazing. What time?”
“Whenever.” Morgan hung up before Nora could thank her again.
She had work to do. A shop to maintain. A life to keep predictable and calm, at least for the next sixty days.
Rusty huffed from his spot under the desk, like he disagreed with her entire approach to life.
“Don’t start,” Morgan told him.
His tail thumped twice, which she chose to interpret as support.