Chapter 2 - Casey #2
I can already see how this looks. Small-town mechanic, supposedly helpful, but not that helpful.
My dad's voice echoes in my head: *You fix what you can.*
Damn it.
"The motel's forty bucks a night," I hear myself say. "If you're trying to save money for the repairs, staying there for a few weeks is going to add up."
Morgan's biting her lip. "I know, but I can't just impose on you like that. You've already been so kind, and—"
"It's not an imposition if we're offering," I say, and even as the words come out, I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing.
"Riley's right. We have a guest room. It's just sitting there.
If it helps you save money to get back on the road faster, then.
.." I trail off, shrugging like this is no big deal when it's actually a huge deal.
"Are you sure?" Morgan asks quietly. "Because I really don't want to—"
"I'm sure," I lie.
Riley claps her hands together. "This is going to be so fun! You can have breakfast with us, and I can show you my room, and—"
"Riley, let her breathe," I say, but there's no heat in it. The decision's made, for better or worse, and now I just have to live with it.
Morgan looks between us, and for a moment I think she's going to refuse anyway. But then her shoulders drop slightly, and she nods.
"Okay," she says. "Just for a few days. Until I figure out what I'm doing. And I'll pay rent—"
"You won't."
"Casey—"
"You're saving money for car repairs. That's the whole point." I grab my keys from the counter. "Come on. You can follow me to the house. Oh, wait. Your car."
"Is very broken," Morgan finishes with a weak laugh.
"Right. Okay, let me lock up here, and you can ride with us. We'll come back tomorrow so you can get your stuff out of the car."
"I should probably grab a few things now," she says. "If that's okay? Just enough for tonight?"
"Yeah, of course."
I unlock the bay and she heads to her car, opening the back door to dig through the packed bags. Riley watches her go, then looks up at me with a grin that's far too knowing for a four-year-old.
"What?" I ask, wary.
"She's pretty."
"Riley—"
"And nice. And she liked my coloring."
"That doesn't mean—"
"You should marry her."
I choke on nothing. "I should what?"
"Marry her," Riley repeats, like it's obvious. "Then she could stay forever and we could all live together and she could read me bedtime stories because you do the voices wrong."
"I do not do the voices wrong."
"You make the princess sound like a pirate."
"That was one time—" I stop, realizing I'm arguing with a four-year-old about my storytelling skills. "Riley. I'm not marrying someone I just met."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not how it works."
"How does it work?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Try to figure out how to explain adult relationships to someone who thinks holding hands is basically an engagement.
"You have to know someone for a long time," I say finally. "And spend time with them. And make sure you actually like each other."
"I like her."
"You just met her."
"So? I liked her right away. She said purple was a good choice."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Liking someone's color choices isn't the same as wanting to marry them."
"But you think she's pretty."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. You smiled all weird when she was talking."
"I did not—" I stop. Did I? Fuck, maybe I did. "Riley. We're not talking about this."
"But…"
"Nope. Conversation over. Go pack up your crayons."
She sighs dramatically but starts gathering her things, and I turn back toward the bay, where Morgan is pulling a duffel bag from her back seat.
Because the truth is, Riley's not entirely wrong.
Morgan is pretty. More than pretty. There's something about her that caught me off guard. The way she looked at Riley like she actually mattered. The way she laughed, soft and genuine. The sadness in her eyes that she's trying so hard to hide.
And yeah, maybe I noticed the way her jeans fit on her fantastic ass, or the freckles across her nose, or the fact that when she smiled, it lit up her whole face.
But noticing doesn't mean anything.
I haven't been with anyone since Sarah left. Haven't wanted to. Haven't trusted anyone enough to let them into the life I've built with Riley.
And I'm definitely not starting now, with a stranger I just invited to live in my house.
Even if she has pretty hair and a smile that makes my chest feel strange.
Even if Riley's already decided she's staying forever.
Morgan walks back in with her bag, looking apologetic. "I tried to pack light."
"You're fine," I say, grabbing my keys. "Riley, you ready?"
"Yep!" She bounces toward the door, then stops and looks at Morgan. "Do you like mac and cheese?"
"I... yes?"
"Good. Because Daddy makes it every Monday and it's really good."
"It's from a box," I mutter.
"It's still good!"
Morgan's smiling now, and it reaches her eyes this time. "I'm sure it is."
I lock up the shop, usher them both toward my truck, and try to ignore the voice in my head screaming that this is a terrible idea.
Bringing a stranger home. Letting her into the space I've protected for three years. But as I buckle Riley into her car seat and Morgan settles into the passenger seat, clutching her duffel bag like a lifeline, I can't quite bring myself to regret it.
Not yet, anyway.
"Ready?" I ask.
Morgan nods. "Ready."
Riley starts chattering immediately about all the things she's going to show Morgan: her room, her toys, the picture she drew of Mr. Shellby, and I pull out of the parking lot, heading home.
I'm in trouble.
I just don't know how much yet.