She nodded thoughtfully but didn't say anything more about it. Instead, she reached for a cookie from behind the glass. "Here," she said softly. "In case you haven't had enough."
I took it from her gently, surprised by the gesture but touched, nonetheless. "Thanks," I murmured.
She smiled again—another one of those warm, genuine smiles—and it felt like maybe things weren't so bad after all.
Beth locked up the café, her keys jingling softly in the quiet night. I walked beside her, the cold air nipping at my face. Her car was parked a couple of spots away down.
I glanced at her car, then back at her. "Almost wonder if I should follow you home," I said, my voice rough. "Make sure your car actually gets you there."
She turned to me, one eyebrow raised and a playful smirk on her lips. "Is that your way of asking to come home with me, Daryl Walker?"
The words hit me like a bolt of lightning. My mind went blank, and for a moment, I didn't know how to respond.
Beth laughed, a sound that was almost as melodious as her singing.
"You're a brat, Morrison," I muttered, trying to hide my embarrassment.
Her eyes sparkled under the streetlights as she looked up at me. Before I could react, she stood on the balls of her feet and kissed my cheek. Her lips lingered there, soft and warm against my skin. A shiver ran down my spine, unexpected and electric.
I stood frozen for a moment, feeling the ghost of her kiss long after she pulled away. She smiled at me, that same warm smile that seemed to light up everything around her.
"Goodnight, Daryl," she said softly before turning to her car. “You sure you don’t need a ride?”
“My truck’s at the garage,” I replied. “Just down the street.”
I watched her go, still feeling the warmth of her lips on my cheek. The night felt colder without her close by.
The walk back to the garage was short, but it felt longer tonight. My mind kept replaying the evening, the way Beth's eyes sparkled, her laughter filling the café. The warmth of her kiss on my cheek lingered like an echo I couldn't shake.
I stepped into the garage, standing there for a moment in the silence. I should go home. I should sleep. But my thoughts were tangled up with images of Beth—her smile, her voice, the way she looked at me like she saw something more than just a mechanic.
The garage was dark and quiet compared to the lively café. I flicked on a light, illuminating the space with a dim, yellow glow. My eyes landed on the old guitar leaning against the workbench, strings loose and dusty.
I walked over and picked it up, feeling its weight in my hands. But tonight felt different. Something about Beth had stirred something in me.
I strummed a chord, wincing at the discordant sound. The guitar was in worse shape than I remembered. I set it down on the workbench and began to examine it more closely. The wood was worn but solid; the strings frayed and out of tune.
I found some tools and got to work, my hands moving with a familiarity that surprised me. Tightening screws, replacing strings—it felt almost like second nature. As I worked, my thoughts kept drifting back to Beth. Her face as she sang softly in the café, unaware that anyone was listening.
With each adjustment to the guitar, it felt like I was piecing together fragments of myself that had been scattered for too long. The act of fixing something so broken brought a strange sense of calm over me.
I strummed another chord once I'd finished making adjustments. This time, it rang out clear and true. A small smile tugged at my lips despite myself.
Sitting there in the dim light of my garage with that old guitar in my hands, I realized something had shifted inside me tonight. Maybe it was Beth's unyielding kindness or her infectious warmth—whatever it was, it had managed to crack through my rough exterior just enough for me to feel...something.
I strummed again, letting the sound fill the quiet space around me.
The last chord resonated through the garage, a clear note that hung in the air longer than I expected. I let it fade before setting the guitar back down gently, a strange sense of accomplishment settling in my chest.
I looked around the garage, the familiar clutter of tools and parts scattered about. The place felt different tonight—less like a tomb and more like a workshop again.
I sighed, stretching my arms over my head. It was late, and I had an early start tomorrow. The thought of heading home didn’t feel as heavy as usual. For once, I wasn’t dreading the empty silence that waited for me.
I flicked off the light, plunging the garage back into darkness. The cold night air hit me as I stepped outside, locking up behind me. My truck sat waiting, its old engine grumbling to life with a turn of the key.
The drive home was quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio playing some classic rock tune I couldn’t quite place. It was strange, this pull she had on me. I barely knew her, but already she felt like a beacon in this small town.
Pulling up to my house—if you could call it that—I cut the engine and sat there for a moment in the dark. The familiar silhouette of my home stood against the night sky, but tonight it didn’t feel as oppressive.
