5. Too Small Clothes #2
Maybe Cam had been right. Maybe she’d lost the ability to create anything authentic.
She put the guitar away and lay back on the bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The hotel room felt like punishment—something she deserved for failing so spectacularly at the one thing she was supposed to be good at. She could afford a better hotel, but this felt right somehow.
Her phone buzzed with more notifications. She ignored them.
Tomorrow she’d pick up her car. Face Morgan’s quiet competence and try not to feel like a complete disaster in comparison. Try not to think about how watching someone work with steady hands.
Tomorrow her car would be fixed, and she’d have no more excuses to stay.
Except she had nowhere else to go.
She fell asleep with her phone still clutched in her hand like a square, metallic teddy bear, dreading and anticipating seeing Morgan again in equal measure.
Sunday morning arrived bright and already warming, the August sun cutting hard across the parking lot before nine, the air carrying that dry, dusty smell of late summer. Nora woke sprawled across the hotel bed, her phone dead beside her. When she recharged it, she saw Morgan’s text from last night.
Car is ready.
Short and sufficient.
She should have felt excited about getting her car back, about the freedom to leave whenever she wanted. Instead, she felt oddly reluctant as she walked to Livingston Auto.
The shop was quiet on a Sunday morning. The parking lot was empty except for Morgan’s white truck and a handful of cars in various states of repair.
Through the open bay door, she could see Morgan bent over the engine of what looked like an old Toyota, completely absorbed in whatever mechanical puzzle she was solving.
Nora paid the Uber driver and strolled toward the shop, her footsteps echoing in the quiet morning air. Morgan didn’t look up when she approached, too focused on whatever she was doing to notice she had a visitor.
“Good morning,” Nora said when she reached the bay door.
Morgan glanced up briefly, acknowledging her presence with a nod before returning to the engine. “Your car’s ready. Keys are on the counter, along with your invoice.”
Of course they were. Efficient, straightforward, no unnecessary social interaction required. Nora should have grabbed her keys, paid her bill, and left. But she found herself stepping into the shop, drawn by curiosity and something else she couldn’t quite name.
“What are you working on?” she asked.
Morgan’s hands stilled on whatever tool she was holding. She peered at Nora with an expression that suggested the question was either obvious or ridiculous.
“Timing belt replacement,” Morgan said, as if that explained everything.
“Oh.” Nora moved closer, genuinely interested despite her complete lack of automotive knowledge. “What does that do?”
The look Morgan gave her was definitely on the you’re an idiot side of the spectrum, but after a moment she sighed and straightened up, wiping her hands on a shop rag.
“The timing belt synchronizes the engine’s camshaft and crankshaft,” Morgan said with the patience of someone explaining basic concepts to a child. “It ensures the valves open and close at the right time in relation to the piston position. If it breaks, the engine stops working.”
Nora nodded like she understood, though most of those words might as well have been in a foreign language. “And you can just… fix that?”
“Replace it. The belt itself is about thirty dollars. The labor takes three hours because you have to disassemble half the engine to get to it.”
“That seems complicated.”
“It’s systematic. You remove parts in a specific order, replace the belt, then reassemble everything in reverse order.” Morgan gestured toward the Toyota’s exposed engine. “Everything has its place and purpose.”
There was something almost meditative about the way Morgan talked about her work, a quiet confidence that Nora envied.
“Can I watch?” The question surprised Nora as much as it seemed to surprise Morgan. “I mean, I don’t want to get in your way. I’ve just never seen anyone actually work on a car before.”
Morgan stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to determine whether this was some kind of elaborate joke. “You want to watch me install a timing belt.”
“Yes?”
“It’s not entertaining. It’s not a show. It’s just… work.”
“That’s okay. I like watching people do things they’re good at.”
Morgan’s expression shifted slightly, confusion replacing skepticism. “Why?”
The question was so direct, so genuinely puzzled, that Nora had to think about her answer. Why did she want to watch Morgan work? It wasn’t just curiosity, though that was part of it. There was something about Morgan’s calm competence that felt like a balm after weeks of her own scattered anxiety.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Maybe because my life feels really chaotic right now, and watching someone who knows exactly what they’re doing seems… peaceful.”
Morgan considered this, then shrugged. “Don’t touch anything.”
Nora settled onto a rolling stool in the corner, far enough away to be out of Morgan’s workspace but close enough to observe.
“How long have you been doing this?” Nora asked after watching Morgan remove what appeared to be an important piece of the engine with casual expertise.
“Almost twenty years. Started helping my mom’s friend Tom when I was thirteen.”
“Did you always want to be a mechanic?”
Morgan paused, considering the question while she lined up a series of bolts in size order. “I wanted to understand how things worked. Cars are just systems—if you understand the system, you can diagnose problems and fix them.”
“That must be nice. Having a skill that actually solves problems.”
“Your job solves problems too.”
The comment caught Nora off guard. “Music doesn’t solve anything. It’s just… entertainment.”
Morgan glanced up from the engine, meeting Nora’s eyes directly for the first time since she’d arrived. “You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t?”
“No. Otherwise you wouldn’t look like someone died when you talk about taking a break from it.”
Nora’s carefully constructed defenses cracked a little. “Maybe,” she said quietly. “I used to think it mattered. I’m not sure anymore.”
Morgan returned her attention to the timing belt, stretching it carefully over a series of gears that looked identical to Nora but clearly weren’t. “Just because you doubt it doesn’t make it less true.”
They fell into comfortable silence after that.
Nora’s phone buzzed with notifications—probably more social media activity she didn’t want to see—but she ignored it.
She just sat there, existing in the quiet space of Morgan’s shop, watching skilled hands solve mechanical puzzles with the kind of patient precision Nora hadn’t felt in any area of her own life for months.
When Morgan finished the timing belt installation and started the Toyota’s engine, the sound was smooth and even, completely different from the labored wheeze it had made earlier.
“It sounds so much better,” Nora said.
“Because it’s working correctly now.” Morgan closed the hood with a thunk. “Systems function properly when all the components are in their right places, doing their intended jobs.”
Nora wondered what it would feel like to have all her own components in their right places.
“I should probably get going,” she said, standing up from the stool. “Let you get back to your Sunday.”
“This is my Sunday.”
“Right. Of course.” Nora gathered her keys and invoice from the counter, then hesitated. “Thank you. For the car, obviously, but also for letting me watch. That was… nice.”
Morgan nodded, already turning her attention to the next vehicle in line for repair. “Drive carefully. That car’s got a few thousand more miles in it if you maintain it properly.”
Walking to her newly repaired Honda, Nora found herself smiling for the first time in days. Her car started immediately, engine purring, and she sat for a moment in the driver’s seat, enjoying the simple pleasure of a machine that worked exactly as it was supposed to.
Through the shop’s bay door, she could see Morgan already absorbed in her next project, steady and focused and completely self-contained.