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"Born here," I answer, keeping it brief. No need to mention leaving at eighteen and only returning when my father was safely in the ground.
"Oh! That's nice. So you know everyone, then?"
I grunt in response. Yeah, I know everyone, and everyone knows me—or thinks they do. The Carter boy who came back all wrong from the war. The surly mechanic who keeps to himself. The man whose brother won't even look him in the eye at the grocery store.
"I've never lived in a small town before," she continues, either missing or ignoring my obvious disinterest. "It seems... peaceful."
I can't help the short laugh that escapes me. "Seems that way."
She turns to look at me fully now, and I feel her gaze piercing through my soul. It makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
"Not peaceful?" she asks.
"Small towns have long memories," I say, immediately regretting offering even this much. Something about her wide brown eyes makes me want to explain myself, and that's dangerous territory.
We're approaching town now, Main Street with its old-fashioned lampposts already lit as dusk settles. Cedar Falls tries hard to maintain its picturesque appearance—hanging flower baskets in summer, twinkling lights in winter, and now, banners celebrating the town's 150th anniversary strung across the street. Like dressing up a corpse.
The town's not dying, exactly. The lumber mill still employs a fair number, and tourism keeps the rest afloat. But it's stuck in time, clinging to traditions and grudges with equal fervor.
Lucy's pressing her face closer to the window now, taking it all in. "It's so charming," she says, sounding genuinely delighted. "Look at that bookstore! And is that a real soda fountain?"
I follow her gaze to Monroe's, where I used to get chocolate malts after school. Before everything went to hell. "Yeah. Been there since the fifties."
"I've only seen places like this in movies," she says, and there's something wistful in her voice that makes me glance at her.
In the soft glow of the streetlights, I notice things I missed before. The dark circles under her eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The way she holds herself, like she's expecting a blow. She's running from something—or someone. I recognize the signs because I've seen them in the mirror.
"You said you're renting a cottage?" I ask, surprising myself. I don't usually care about my customers' living situations.
She blinks, equally surprised by my sudden interest. "Yes. I haven't seen it in person yet, just pictures online. The owner—Mrs. Abernathy?—was supposed to meet me there with the keys at six."
I know the place. Small blue cottage set back from the road, overgrown garden. And I definitely know Edith Abernathy, the nosiest widow in town.
“Yeah. I know her.” I slow as we approach my shop, a converted gas station at the edge of the commercial district.
The 'Carter's Auto Shop' sign glows neon blue against the darkening sky. I pull into the lot and park, then kill the engine. I can hear Lucy's soft breathing beside me in the sudden silence. It makes the cab seem smaller somehow.
"I guess I'll really have to get a motel room then," she says, more to herself than to me. She sounds resigned and tired.
Something tugs at me—a feeling I don't particularly welcome. Sympathy, maybe. Or recognition. I remember what it was like, coming back to Cedar Falls three years ago, a stranger in my hometown.
"I know where she keeps the spare," I hear myself saying. "For the cottage."
Lucy's head snaps toward me, hope brightening her face. It transforms her completely—softens the tension around her mouth, brings a spark to her eyes. Something uncomfortable stirs in my chest.
"Really? You'd show me?"
I shrug, already regretting the offer. "Need to drop your car first. Then I can take you there."
Her smile is immediate and genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Thank you. Seriously, that would be amazing."
I nod curtly and exit the truck before I can say anything else stupid. The cool evening air clears my head as I move to the back to lower her car. Focus on the job, Carter. That's all this is.
But as I work the hydraulic lift, I can't help glancing through the rear window of her Corolla. The backseat and trunk are packed—boxes labeled in neat handwriting, clothes in vacuum-sealed bags, a small collection of framed photos wrapped carefully in bubble wrap. Her whole life, compressed and categorized.
I recognize the effort it takes to pack like that. The deliberation. This wasn't an impulsive move. She planned her escape.
By the time I've got her car detached and parked in the bay, Lucy has exited the truck and is hovering nearby, clutching her overnight bag. She looks smaller outside the cab, barely reaching my shoulder. Her sweater is too big for her, sleeves pulled down over her hands like she's cold despite the mild evening.
"Oh! That's nice. So you know everyone, then?"
I grunt in response. Yeah, I know everyone, and everyone knows me—or thinks they do. The Carter boy who came back all wrong from the war. The surly mechanic who keeps to himself. The man whose brother won't even look him in the eye at the grocery store.
"I've never lived in a small town before," she continues, either missing or ignoring my obvious disinterest. "It seems... peaceful."
I can't help the short laugh that escapes me. "Seems that way."
She turns to look at me fully now, and I feel her gaze piercing through my soul. It makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
"Not peaceful?" she asks.
"Small towns have long memories," I say, immediately regretting offering even this much. Something about her wide brown eyes makes me want to explain myself, and that's dangerous territory.
We're approaching town now, Main Street with its old-fashioned lampposts already lit as dusk settles. Cedar Falls tries hard to maintain its picturesque appearance—hanging flower baskets in summer, twinkling lights in winter, and now, banners celebrating the town's 150th anniversary strung across the street. Like dressing up a corpse.
The town's not dying, exactly. The lumber mill still employs a fair number, and tourism keeps the rest afloat. But it's stuck in time, clinging to traditions and grudges with equal fervor.
Lucy's pressing her face closer to the window now, taking it all in. "It's so charming," she says, sounding genuinely delighted. "Look at that bookstore! And is that a real soda fountain?"
I follow her gaze to Monroe's, where I used to get chocolate malts after school. Before everything went to hell. "Yeah. Been there since the fifties."
"I've only seen places like this in movies," she says, and there's something wistful in her voice that makes me glance at her.
In the soft glow of the streetlights, I notice things I missed before. The dark circles under her eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The way she holds herself, like she's expecting a blow. She's running from something—or someone. I recognize the signs because I've seen them in the mirror.
"You said you're renting a cottage?" I ask, surprising myself. I don't usually care about my customers' living situations.
She blinks, equally surprised by my sudden interest. "Yes. I haven't seen it in person yet, just pictures online. The owner—Mrs. Abernathy?—was supposed to meet me there with the keys at six."
I know the place. Small blue cottage set back from the road, overgrown garden. And I definitely know Edith Abernathy, the nosiest widow in town.
“Yeah. I know her.” I slow as we approach my shop, a converted gas station at the edge of the commercial district.
The 'Carter's Auto Shop' sign glows neon blue against the darkening sky. I pull into the lot and park, then kill the engine. I can hear Lucy's soft breathing beside me in the sudden silence. It makes the cab seem smaller somehow.
"I guess I'll really have to get a motel room then," she says, more to herself than to me. She sounds resigned and tired.
Something tugs at me—a feeling I don't particularly welcome. Sympathy, maybe. Or recognition. I remember what it was like, coming back to Cedar Falls three years ago, a stranger in my hometown.
"I know where she keeps the spare," I hear myself saying. "For the cottage."
Lucy's head snaps toward me, hope brightening her face. It transforms her completely—softens the tension around her mouth, brings a spark to her eyes. Something uncomfortable stirs in my chest.
"Really? You'd show me?"
I shrug, already regretting the offer. "Need to drop your car first. Then I can take you there."
Her smile is immediate and genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Thank you. Seriously, that would be amazing."
I nod curtly and exit the truck before I can say anything else stupid. The cool evening air clears my head as I move to the back to lower her car. Focus on the job, Carter. That's all this is.
But as I work the hydraulic lift, I can't help glancing through the rear window of her Corolla. The backseat and trunk are packed—boxes labeled in neat handwriting, clothes in vacuum-sealed bags, a small collection of framed photos wrapped carefully in bubble wrap. Her whole life, compressed and categorized.
I recognize the effort it takes to pack like that. The deliberation. This wasn't an impulsive move. She planned her escape.
By the time I've got her car detached and parked in the bay, Lucy has exited the truck and is hovering nearby, clutching her overnight bag. She looks smaller outside the cab, barely reaching my shoulder. Her sweater is too big for her, sleeves pulled down over her hands like she's cold despite the mild evening.