Chapter 6 - Casey
I'm elbow-deep in the engine of Mrs. Henderson's Buick, something's wrong with the alternator, probably, when I realize I made a tactical error.
Morgan is out front. Working the desk. Being helpful and sweet and completely unaware that she's sitting in the exact spot where every single customer who walks through that door is going to see her and immediately jump to conclusions.
Not that I care what people think.
Except I do, a little, because this is a small town and I have a business to run and a daughter to protect, and the last thing I need is people deciding I'm dating someone when I'm very much not.
Even if she is beautiful and kind and surprisingly good with Riley.
Even if I noticed the way her sleep shorts rode up on her thighs this morning before she pulled on that hoodie.
Even if I've thought about her smile more times in the past twelve hours than is strictly appropriate for someone who's just helping a stranger.
I yank a little too hard on a bolt and skin my knuckles on the edge of the engine block.
"Fuck," I mutter, shaking out my hand.
Focus. I need to focus.
The alternator is definitely shot. I can replace it with a rebuilt one, save Mrs. Henderson some money. She's on a fixed income and the Buick is older than Riley, but it runs well enough that it's worth maintaining.
I'm making notes on the work order when I hear the bell over the door chime.
Then Morgan's voice, warm and professional: "Good morning! Welcome to Casey's Automotive."
I can't hear the response, but I hear Morgan again: "He's in the garage. Let me get him for you."
Footsteps, and then she appears in the doorway.
"Someone's here to see you. Frank?"
Frank. Owns the hardware store, drives a Ford pickup that's been making a weird rattling noise for the past month.
"Thanks. Tell him I'll be right there."
She nods and disappears, and I wipe my hands on a rag that's already so dirty it's pointless before heading out front. Frank’s standing by the desk, looking at Morgan with curiosity.
"Casey!" he says when he sees me, but his eyes dart back to Morgan. "Didn't know you hired someone."
"Temporary help," I say easily. "Morgan, this is Frank. Frank, Morgan Fletcher."
"Pleasure," he says, extending a hand.
Morgan shakes it, smiling politely, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
"So," Frank says, turning back to me. "That rattling noise I mentioned? It's getting worse."
We talk through the symptoms: happens when he accelerates, seems to be coming from the undercarriage, started about a month ago after he went over a pothole on Route 9.
"Probably the heat shield," I tell him. "I can take a look this afternoon if you want to leave it."
"Sounds good." He pulls out his keys, then pauses. "You know, one of my nephews is visiting next week. Single, good job, about your age—" He looks at Morgan. "If you're sticking around, I could introduce you."
Morgan's eyes widen slightly. "Oh, that's very kind, but I'm actually just passing through—"
"Shame," Frank says, shaking his head. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. He's a good kid."
He hands me the keys and leaves, the bell chiming cheerfully behind him.
Morgan looks at me, half-amused, half-mortified. "Does that happen a lot?"
"The matchmaking? You have no idea." I toss Frank's keys onto the desk. "Everyone in this town thinks it's their personal mission to set up anyone under forty who's single."
"Have they tried with you?"
"Constantly. I've been set up with someone’s niece, some woman who was visiting her parents for Thanksgiving, and approximately six different people from around town over the past three years."
Morgan's trying not to laugh. "How did those go?"
"I politely declined every single one."
"Not interested in dating?"
The question is casual, but there's something underneath it. Curiosity, maybe. Or just making conversation.
"Not really my priority," I say, which is the truth without being the whole truth.
The whole truth is that I haven't been able to imagine trusting someone enough to let them into the life I've built. That the idea of introducing someone to Riley, of letting my daughter get attached, makes my chest tight with anxiety.
That Sarah leaving didn't just break my heart. It shattered my ability to believe anyone would stay. But I'm not about to explain all that to someone I met yesterday.
"Fair enough," Morgan says. "For what it's worth, Frank seems nice."
"He is. They all are. Just... enthusiastic."
The phone rings, and Morgan picks it up without hesitation. "Casey's Automotive, this is Morgan speaking."
I watch her for a moment, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the professional tone she uses, the notes she's already taking on the pad next to the phone.
She's good at this. Natural.
I should get back to work before I start thinking about how nice it is to have someone else here, how the shop feels less empty with her voice filling the space.
Back in the garage, I strip off my shirt. It's already warm, and it's only going to get hotter as the day goes on. The garage has ventilation, but "ventilation" in this case means "a fan that sounds like it's dying and moves air approximately three inches."
I've thought about installing AC, but the cost never seems worth it when it's just me.
I toss the shirt over a tool chest and get back to work.
Mrs. Henderson's alternator comes out easier than expected, and I'm cleaning the connections when I hear Morgan's voice drifting from the front office. She's on the phone with someone, her tone patient and professional as she takes down information.
I can't make out the words, but the sound of her voice is... nice. Comforting, somehow. Like the shop is supposed to have that sound in it, filling the empty spaces.
I'm torquing down the new alternator when I realize how quiet it's gotten out front.
Too quiet.
I wipe my hands and walk to the doorway of the bay, looking into the office. Morgan's sitting at the desk, staring at her phone with an expression that makes my chest tight. Sad. Lost. Like she's somewhere else entirely, somewhere painful.
"Hey," I say quietly.
She jumps, nearly dropping the phone, and quickly schools her features into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Sorry. Did you need something?"
"Just checking in. You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just..." She trails off, setting the phone down. "Sorry. Got distracted."
She's lying. Not maliciously, just the kind of lie people tell when they don't want to burden someone else with their pain.
I know that lie. I've told it myself more times than I can count.
"It's quiet," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "Tuesdays are usually slow. You want to take a break? There's a coffee maker in the back. It's ancient and makes terrible coffee, but it's caffeinated."
She smiles, and this time it's more genuine. "Terrible coffee sounds perfect, actually."
I lead her to the small break room, and "room" is generous. It's more like a corner with a card table, two folding chairs, and appliances that should probably be in a museum.
The coffee maker sputters and hisses like it's personally offended by being turned on but eventually produces something that's technically coffee.
I pour two cups and hand her one.
She takes a sip and winces. "Wow. You weren't kidding about terrible."
"Told you."
"It's still better than gas station coffee, so I'll take it."
We sit in the folding chairs, which creak under our weight, and for a moment there's just the sound of the fan and the distant hum of traffic outside.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
Morgan looks at me over the rim of her cup. "Sure."
"Why are you really traveling?"
She goes very still. "I told you. I've always wanted to see the country—"
"Morgan." I say her name gently. "People don't usually just pack up and live in their car for six months because they want to see the country. There's usually a reason. Something they're running from or running toward."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I think she's going to deflect again. Tell me it's none of my business, which would be fair.
But then she sets down her coffee cup and looks at me, and her eyes are shiny.
"My sister died," she says quietly. "Seven months ago. Car accident."
"Jesus, Morgan. I'm so sorry."
She nods, swallowing hard. "We were supposed to do this trip together. We'd been planning it for years. Save up money, quit our jobs, just... go. See everything. No schedule, no plan, just us and the road."
"And you decided to do it anyway."
"I didn't know what else to do." Her voice cracks slightly. "She was my best friend. My person. And suddenly she was just... gone. I kept thinking about all the plans we'd made, all the places we'd never see together, and I couldn't… I couldn't just let it all disappear with her."
"So, you went alone."
"For her. For us. I don't know." She wipes at her eyes. "I'm sorry. You didn't ask for my life story."
"Hey." I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine before I can think better of it. "Don't apologize. I asked."
She looks down at our hands, and I start to pull away, but she turns hers over and holds on.
"Everyone keeps telling me I should go home," she says.
"My parents are worried. My friends don't understand why I'm still doing this when Annie's not here to do it with me.
But I can't stop. Not yet. It feels like if I stop, if I go back to my normal life, then it's really over. She's really gone."
I understand that more than she knows. The fear that if you stop moving, stop pushing forward, you'll have to actually feel everything you've been running from.
"For what it's worth," I say, "I think it's brave. What you're doing."
She lets out a watery laugh. "It doesn't feel brave. It feels terrifying and lonely and like I'm failing at honoring her memory because I'm doing it all wrong."
"There's no wrong way to grieve."