I nodded. "Truck's in the garage."
I turned to head inside, but her hand caught my wrist. Her touch was gentle but firm, sending a jolt through me. Her fingers were warm despite the cold night, her skin soft against mine. I froze, every nerve in my body suddenly hyper-aware of that small point of contact.
"Wait," she said.
I looked at her, waiting, my breath hitching in my throat.
"I host a cookie contest in a few days," she said, her eyes searching mine. "I'd love for you to come."
I hesitated. Her invitation hung in the air between us, mingling with the warmth finally spreading from the heater. The idea of spending more time with her gnawed at me. I wanted to say yes, wanted to be around her light, her warmth.
"Especially since I know you didn't quite like the cookies I made for you," she said, her tone teasing but gentle.
I furrowed my brows. "What?" I remembered them being in the trash, untouched but not unwanted. "It wasn't like?—"
"It's okay, Daryl," she continued, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "My cookies aren't for everyone. You don't have to like them. I'm just teasing you."
I looked at her then, really looked at her. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous light, her cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement. Her hair framed her face in loose waves that caught the faint glow of the streetlights outside. She was beautiful, but more than that—she was real, tangible in a way that made my heart ache.
I realized I wanted to kiss her.
The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless and scrambling for control. I pulled away quickly, almost too quickly, and got out of the car without a word. The cold night air slapped me back to reality as I closed the door behind me.
I knew I hadn't given her an answer about the cookie contest, but I couldn't bring myself to care in that moment. The flood of emotions coursing through me was too much to handle.
As I walked towards the garage, my footsteps echoing on the pavement, I could still feel the warmth of her touch on my wrist. It lingered there like a ghost, reminding me of what I'd just walked away from.
But I couldn't face it—not yet. Not when everything felt so raw and exposed.
I opened the garage door, the metal groaning in protest. I leaned against the frame, watching Beth's car idle for a moment before she finally drove off. The taillights disappeared around the corner, leaving a strange emptiness in their wake. I rubbed my wrist where she'd touched me.
Once she was gone, I closed the door and locked it. The garage felt colder and lonelier without her presence. The office light flickered as I walked through, casting shadows that danced across the walls. I glanced at the old guitar Beth had pointed out earlier.
It sat on a worn wooden stand, dust gathering on its strings and body. The wood was dark mahogany, polished to a dull shine that had seen better days. The neck was straight but nicked and scratched from years of use. It had been my brother's guitar—a relic from a time when music filled our home instead of silence.
I reached out, fingers brushing against the strings. A soft, muted chord resonated through the room, stirring memories I thought I'd buried deep. My brother's laughter echoed in my mind, his voice singing songs that made our mother smile despite everything.
Beth's voice had that same quality—light and soothing, cutting through the noise of life with an ease that seemed effortless. She had spotted this guitar in a heartbeat, her curiosity piqued by something I'd tried to forget.
I picked up the guitar, feeling its weight settle into my hands. It felt familiar yet foreign after all these years. I strummed a chord, wincing at the discordant sound it produced. The strings were old, but they still held a hint of their former glory. My fingers hovered over the strings, but they wouldn't move. They felt like lead, unyielding and cold. I couldn't remember the last time I played—probably when Mama was still…
The thought trailed off, swallowed by the silence of the garage. My hands trembled slightly, and I set the guitar down with more care than it deserved. It felt wrong in my hands now, like an artifact from a different life.
What the hell was happening to me?
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up inside me. Beth had stirred something with her damn cookies and her stubborn kindness. And now this guitar—this piece of my past—was staring back at me like it held all the answers I didn't want to find.
I needed a distraction. Anything to get my mind off this mess.
The garage was filled with the comforting smell of motor oil and grease. It usually calmed me, grounded me in the present. But tonight, it felt suffocating.
The Impala sat in the corner of the garage, its sleek lines barely visible under the dim light. I grabbed my tools and got to work, the familiar clink and clank echoing through the quiet space.
I popped the hood and inspected the engine. The smell of oil and metal filled my nostrils, grounding me. I started with the basics—checking the spark plugs, tightening loose bolts, anything to keep my hands busy. Each task required focus, precision, which was exactly what I needed to drown out the thoughts swirling in my head.
Beth’s face kept flashing before me, her smile warm and inviting. Her voice lingered too, that soft laugh that had somehow worked its way under my skin. I shook my head, trying to clear it.
I moved on to the carburetor, disassembling it piece by piece. My hands worked automatically, muscle memory taking over as I cleaned and adjusted each part. The methodical process helped calm my racing mind.
