7. Music and Mechanics #2
“There you go. So hang out with her. Watch her fix cars or whatever. Just… be a person for a while instead of a star.”
As if that was what this was. As if she didn’t already know the difference between wanting a friend and whatever her chest was doing every time she thought about Monday morning in a parking lot. She didn’t say it. But she noticed she didn’t correct him, either.
After they hung up, Nora sat on the bed for a long time, turning Daniel’s words over in her mind.
Someone real.
Someone who didn’t need her to be anything except present.
Another text from Adrian appeared.
Think about it. A short, controlled return. One good piece of content, the right framing and we turn the whole narrative around. You don’t want to leave this to the internet to write for you.
The subtext was clear: Adrian thought the cure for Nora’s collapse was a better-managed version of the thing that had collapsed her.
Which, given the current state of things, the industry would probably agree with.
But the idea of turning her creative paralysis into another strategic campaign made her skin crawl.
Thanks, but I think I need to work through this on my own for a bit.
Okay. But isolation isn’t a strategy, Nora. Stay reachable. The window doesn’t stay open forever.
Nora stared at the message, feeling the weight of everyone’s expectations pressing down.
Adrian wanting her to strategize. Her dad wanting her to be practical about the land.
The internet wanting her to either succeed spectacularly or fail entertainingly.
Everyone wanting something except the one person who’d simply said don’t touch anything when Nora asked if she could watch her work.
She picked up her phone and scrolled to Morgan’s contact.
Hey, it’s Nora. I know this is random, but is it okay if I stop by the shop today? I’m trying to write and failing badly. Thought maybe watching you work might help. No pressure if you’re busy.
She hit send before she could overthink it.
The response came faster than she expected.
Fine. Afternoon is better.
Nora stared at the message. Fine. Not enthusiastic, not warm, just… fine. Permission granted without fanfare.
So why did it make her smile?
The shop appeared the same as it had on Monday: purposeful with everything in its place.
Nora parked her Honda next to Morgan’s truck and took a breath before getting out.
Afternoon heat shimmered off the asphalt, and the bay doors stood open wide to let what little breeze there was move through.
This was fine. Normal. She was just going to watch someone work. Nothing weird about that.
Except it was definitely weird, and they both knew it.
Morgan was in the main bay, bent over the engine of a sedan, when Nora walked in. She glanced up, acknowledged Nora with a nod, then returned to whatever she was doing.
“Thanks for letting me come by,” Nora said, hovering near the entrance.
“Mm.”
Rusty padded over from his spot under the desk, tail wagging in that slow, steady way. Nora knelt to greet him, scratching behind his gray ears while he leaned his weight against her leg. The contact felt grounding, a small anchor in the awkwardness.
“What are you working on?” Nora asked, standing up.
“Alternator’s failing on this one.” Morgan didn’t look up. “Charging system can’t keep up. Owner’s been jump-starting it for a week instead of bringing it in.”
“Can I watch? Or I could sit over there and try to write. I won’t bother you.”
Morgan’s hands stilled for a moment. She straightened, wiping them on a shop rag, and gave Nora a long, assessing look. “You don’t have to justify being here.”
“I just don’t want to be in your way.”
“If you were in my way, I’d tell you.”
The bluntness should have been off-putting, but it wasn’t. “Okay,” Nora said. “Thanks.”
She settled onto the same rolling stool she’d used on Sunday, pulling out her notebook and guitar. Morgan returned to the engine without comment, and for a while the shop was quiet except for the sound of tools and the occasional huff from Rusty.
Nora tried to write. Picked out chord progressions, hummed melodies, wrote half-lines that went nowhere. But something about the environment made it feel less desperate. Here she could try things, the same way Morgan worked through her diagnosis, methodical and patient.
At some point Nora realized she’d stopped writing entirely and was just watching—the sure way Morgan’s hands moved, the small frown of concentration, the way she seemed to know exactly where everything was without looking.
“How do you know which tool to use?” Nora asked.
“Trial and error if necessary. Then you learn the patterns.” Morgan positioned a wrench carefully. “Everything has the right tool for the job. You just have to know the system.”
“What if the system’s broken?”
Morgan glanced at her. “Then you fix the system. Or build a new one.”
Nora wrote that down, because it felt true in a way that most advice didn’t.
She set the notebook aside and stood, drawn closer almost without deciding to.
“Could you show me?” Nora heard herself ask. “What you’re actually doing. I don’t mean—I’m not going to be useful. I just… I don’t know…”
Morgan went still. She studied Nora for a moment, that same diagnostic look, weighing something. Then, instead of answering, she stepped back to make room.
“Come here, then.”
Nora moved into the space beside her. The shop suddenly felt smaller—the warm metal smell of the engine, the faint scent of soap and oil that was just Morgan. Her skin radiated heat from where they were standing close.