Chapter 3 - Morgan
This is insane.
I'm sitting in a truck with a man I met approximately two hours ago, heading to his house, where I'll be sleeping in his guest room.
If Annie could see me right now, she'd be losing her mind.
Not because it's dangerous, though Mom would definitely have opinions about that—but because this is exactly the kind of thing we always talked about doing.
The spontaneous adventure. The leap of faith.
The "yes, and" approach to life that Annie championed and I always chickened out on.
*Say yes more,* she used to tell me. *What's the worst that could happen?*
Well, Annie, the worst is probably getting murdered by a small-town mechanic, but honestly? If Casey Brennan is a serial killer, he's doing an incredible job with the cover story. The adorable daughter, the honest-looking auto shop, the whole "aw shucks, just trying to help" routine.
No. I'm being ridiculous. He's not a serial killer.
He's just... impossibly nice. And hot. Impossibly hot and nice, which feels like some kind of cosmic joke at my expense.
Riley is talking a mile a minute from her car seat behind me, something about a turtle and her friend Sophie and how purple is definitely better than yellow for butterflies, and I'm nodding along while trying not to stare at Casey's hands on the steering wheel.
They're big. Scarred. Still have grease under the nails even though he scrubbed them before we left.
I wonder what they'd feel like—
Nope. Not going there. Not thinking about his hands. Or his arms. Or the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he lifted my duffel bag into the truck like it weighed nothing.
"—and Daddy says I can't have a turtle because they're too much work, but I think he's wrong because Mr. Shellby doesn't seem like very much work at all. He just sits there and eats lettuce."
I drag my attention back to Riley. "Maybe your dad's worried about who would take care of it when you're at school."
There's a beat of silence, and I glance over to see Casey looking at me with something like surprise.
"That's... yeah," he says. "That's exactly why."
Riley huffs. "Well, I would take care of it on weekends."
"Weekends aren't enough, kiddo."
"They could be!"
"We're not getting a turtle."
I bite back a smile as Riley launches into what sounds like a well-rehearsed argument about responsibility and how she's "basically almost five" and very mature for her age.
Casey catches my eye and shakes his head slightly, but he's smiling
This is a terrible idea. Not the staying-at-his-house part. Okay, maybe that too, but the noticing part. The finding-him-attractive part. Because guys like Casey don't look at girls like me. Not really. Not in the way that matters.
I've made my peace with that. I have. It's just... sometimes it would be nice to be wrong.
"So," Casey says, clearly trying to change the subject from turtles. "How long have you been traveling?"
"Six months," I answer, grateful for the distraction from my own thoughts. "Give or take."
"That's a long time to be on the road."
"Yeah."
I can feel him waiting for more, an explanation, maybe, or a story about what I'm running from. Because people are always running from something, right? That's what they say about people who live in their cars and drift from town to town.
But I'm not running from anything.
I'm running toward something. Or I was, before my car died.
Toward the dream Annie and I built together in late-night conversations and saved Pinterest boards. Toward all the places we promised we'd see. Toward some kind of peace with the fact that she's gone and I'm still here.
"It's nice," I finally add. "Seeing new places. Meeting new people."
It's not a lie, exactly. But it's not the whole truth either.
Riley pipes up again: "Have you been to the ocean? I've never been to the ocean but Daddy says maybe next summer we can go and I can learn to swim in the waves."
"I have," I tell her. "A few times, actually. I started in California and worked my way east."
"Did you see whales?"
"No whales. But I saw sea lions once."
"What's a sea lion?"
Casey glances at me with an apologetic expression, like he's sorry his kid asks so many questions, but I don't mind. Riley's easy to talk to. No filter, no judgment, just genuine curiosity about everything.
I explain sea lions while we drive through the center of town, past the diner Riley mentioned earlier and a small park with swings and a gazebo. Everything is painted in that golden late-afternoon light that makes even ordinary things look magical.
Blackwater Falls is the kind of town that looks like it fell out of a Hallmark movie. Tree-lined streets, brick storefronts, people waving to each other from across the road. It's aggressively charming in a way that should feel fake but somehow doesn't.
Annie would have loved it here.
The thought hits me sudden and sharp, and I have to look out the window and blink hard.
"You okay?" Casey asks quietly.
"Yeah. Fine. Just... it's a really pretty town."
He doesn't push, which I appreciate. Just nods and turns down a side street lined with small houses, each one with a porch and a yard and the kind of lived-in coziness that comes from being someone's home, not just a place they sleep.
We pull into the driveway of a pale yellow house with white trim and a porch that has a swing and several potted plants. There's a basketball hoop above the garage and a small garden bed along the walkway, though whatever was planted there has mostly gone to weeds.
It's perfect. Of course it's perfect.
"Home sweet home," Casey says, killing the engine.
Riley is already unbuckling herself or trying to; her little fingers fumble with the clasp until Casey gets out and comes around to help her.
I climb out slowly, clutching my duffel bag and trying not to feel like I'm intruding on something sacred.
This is their space. Their life. And I'm just... passing through.
"Come on," Riley says, grabbing my free hand with absolutely no hesitation. "I'll show you everything!"
She drags me toward the front door while Casey follows behind, keys jangling.
The inside of the house is just as perfect as the outside. Hardwood floors, comfortable furniture that looks actually used, toys in a basket by the couch. There are pictures on the walls: Riley as a baby, Riley blowing out birthday candles, Riley and Casey at the beach.
No one else. Just the two of them.
So, he is single. Not that it matters. Not that I'm thinking about it.
(I'm definitely thinking about it.)
"Guest room's upstairs," Casey says, moving past me toward the staircase. "It's small, but it's got a bed and a dresser. Bathroom's across the hall."
"I'm sure it's great," I say quickly. "Really, I can't thank you enough—"
"Stop thanking me." He says it gently, but there's an edge of discomfort there. Like he's not used to people being grateful or maybe like he doesn't think he deserves it.
Riley is still holding my hand, pulling me toward the stairs. "Come on, I want to show you my room too!"
The guest room is at the end of the hall, and it's exactly what Casey promised: small, simple, with a double bed covered in a blue quilt and a dresser that looks like it came from someone's grandmother.
There's a window overlooking the backyard, and the evening light slanting through it makes the whole room glow.
I set my duffel bag on the bed, and something in my chest loosens slightly.
A real bed. Four walls. A door that locks.
I didn't realize how much I needed this until right now.
"Do you like it?" Riley asks anxiously.
"I love it," I tell her honestly.
She beams. "Good! Now come see my room!"
Her room is across the hall, painted a soft purple (of course) with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and more stuffed animals than I've ever seen in one place. There's a bookshelf overflowing with picture books and a small table set up with crayons and paper.
"This is where I do my art," Riley explains seriously. "And that's my bed, and those are my animals, and that's—" She stops, staring at something on her dresser. "Oh! I forgot to show Daddy the picture I made at school!"
She grabs a piece of paper and races out of the room, hollering for Casey.
I'm left standing in the doorway, looking at the evidence of a life built by a man who clearly adores his daughter.
"She's a lot, I know."
I turn to find Casey leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"She's wonderful," I say.
"Yeah." His voice is soft. "She is."
"I really appreciate this," I say. "Letting me stay here. I know it's... I mean, you don't know me, and—"
"You needed help." He shrugs like it's that simple.
"Still. Not everyone would—"
"Morgan." He says my name like he's trying to get my attention, and I stop mid-sentence. "It's fine. Really. Riley likes you, which is... honestly, that's rare. She's friendly, but she doesn't usually take to people this fast."
"She's easy to like."
"So are you."
He clears his throat, looking almost as surprised as I feel. "I mean—you're nice to her. That matters."
"Oh. Right. Of course."
God, I'm blushing. Why am I blushing? He was clearly just being polite, not—
"Daddy!" Riley's voice echoes from downstairs. "I can't find the picture!"
"Did you check your backpack?" Casey calls back.
"Oh! I didn't!"
He pushes off the wall with a slight smile. "I should... help with that. Make yourself comfortable. Bathroom's got towels, and there's food in the kitchen if you're hungry. We usually eat around six-thirty, but—"
"I don't want to impose on dinner too—"
"Morgan." There's that tone again, patient but firm. "You're staying here. That means you eat here. It's just mac and cheese anyway, nothing fancy."
"The really good kind," I say, remembering Riley's earlier endorsement.
His smile widens. "Exactly."
He heads downstairs, and I go back to the guest room, closing the door behind me and leaning against it.
This is crazy.
But also... kind of wonderful?
I pull out my phone and sit on the edge of the bed, opening my messages. My mom's last text is from this morning: *Checking in, honey. Where are you today?*
I type out a response: *Blackwater Falls. Car broke down, but I met a mechanic who's helping me figure it out. Staying with him and his daughter for a few days.*
I hesitate, then add: *Don't worry. He's nice. And his kid is adorable. I'm safe.*
I hit send before I can second-guess it, then open my journal.
*Dear Annie,*
*You would not BELIEVE the day I just had.*
I'm halfway through describing Casey's Automotive and Riley's turtle obsession when I hear it. Riley's voice carrying clearly up the stairs.
"But you DO think she's pretty, right?"
I freeze, pen hovering over the page.
"Riley—"
"You said it before!"
"I said she seems nice—"
"No, you said she was pretty when I said she looked like a princess. You said 'yeah, she is.'"
There's a pause that feels like it stretches forever.
"Okay, yes, she's pretty," Casey says finally, and my heart races. "But that doesn't mean—"
"It means you LIKE her!"
"It means I have eyes, Riley. That's all."
"So, you're NOT going to marry her?"
"We've been over this. I'm not marrying someone I just met."
"But you COULD. If you got to know her. And she's staying here, so you WILL get to know her, and then—"
"Riley Elizabeth Brennan, we are NOT having this conversation again."
I'm biting my lip so hard I'm surprised I'm not drawing blood, trying desperately not to laugh.
He thinks I'm pretty.
Casey Brennan, six feet of muscle and grease-stained hands and a smile that could melt steel, thinks I'm pretty. It shouldn't matter. It's just a casual observation, the kind of thing anyone might say. It doesn't mean anything.
But God, it feels good to hear it anyway.
Riley's still going. "I'm just SAYING, if you DID want to marry her—"
"What I WANT is to make dinner without discussing my hypothetical love life with a four-year-old."
"I'm almost FIVE."
"That doesn't make this conversation less ridiculous. Now go wash your hands."
I hear small footsteps stomping toward what must be the bathroom, and I clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter.
This is insane. This whole situation is completely insane.
But for the first time in six months, I'm not thinking about the empty passenger seat or the promises I couldn't keep or the weight of grief that sits on my chest every morning when I wake up.
I'm thinking about a little girl who wants her dad to marry a stranger, and a man who blushes when his daughter calls him out, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, this breakdown was exactly what I needed.
I pick up my pen again.
*Annie, I think I'm going to like it here. At least for a little while.*
*I really wish you could meet them.*