Page 7
The shower takes some figuring out—the clawfoot tub's fixtures are ancient—but the water pressure is surprisingly good. I wash quickly, then stand before the small closet section of my overnight bag, suddenly conscious of what to wear.
This is ridiculous. I'm just going to check on my car, not attend a job interview. But still, I find myself bypassing my comfortable travel clothes in favor of my nicest jeans (the ones that actually make my hips look proportionate to my waist) and a soft green sweater that brings out the hints of gold in my brown eyes.
I blow dry my hair, apply a touch of mascara and tinted lip balm, then stare at my reflection. Who am I trying to impress? The mechanic has probably already forgotten what I look like.
But I know the answer. I've always been this way—seeking approval, wanting to be liked. It's exhausting, this constant need to present my best self, especially when my "best self" still feels inadequate most of the time.
With a sigh, I grab my purse and head out, locking the cottage behind me. The morning is crisp and clear, with that special quality of light that only seems to exist in early autumn. The street is quiet except for the occasional car passing. People heading to work, I suppose.
Cedar Falls looks different in daylight. What seemed quaint and movie-set perfect last night now reveals its imperfections—peeling paint on some storefronts, a boarded-up building that might once have been a hardware store, faded awnings. But somehow, these flaws make it more real, more appealing.
I pass the diner Riley mentioned—Lou's, according to the sign—and make a mental note to stop in later about possibly borrowing a car. Through the windows, I can see it's busy, booths filled with people talking over coffee and plates piled with breakfast.
The walk to Carter's Auto Shop takes me about twenty minutes at a leisurely pace. By the time I arrive, it's 8:15, and the shop is clearly open. There are two cars in the lot besides my own Corolla, which I can see through the open bay doors, hood up.
I hesitate at the entrance to the office, suddenly nervous. What if Riley's diagnosis is worse than he thought? What if the repairs cost more than my emergency fund can handle? What if—
The door swings open, and a slender man with gray-streaked hair steps out, nearly colliding with me.
"Oh! Sorry," he says, steadying himself. "Didn't see you there."
"My fault," I say quickly. "I was just standing here like a statue."
He smiles, "You must be Lucy. The girl whose car broke down yesterday."
I blink in surprise. "Yes, that's me. How did you—"
"Small town," he says. "I'm Lou, by the way. From the diner. Riley mentioned you might need to borrow some wheels while yours is being fixed. Come meet me at the dinner. I might be able to help you."
"He did?" I'm oddly touched that Riley remembered our conversation, “Thank you!”
"Said you were new in town, staying at Edith's place." Lou nods toward the shop. "He's inside, looking at your alternator. Or what's left of it."
That doesn't sound promising. "Thanks," I say again. "I guess I should go in and face the music."
Lou pats my arm. "Don't let his grumpiness fool you. Riley's a softie under all that scowling."
Before I can respond to this surprising assessment, he's off, walking briskly toward town. I take a deep breath and push open the office door.
The space is small but tidy—a counter with a register, a few chairs along one wall, automotive magazines stacked on a small table. The walls are covered with framed certificates and what look like military commendations. A door in the back presumably leads to the garage.
There's no one at the counter, but I can hear the sounds of tools and faint music coming from the garage. I approach the connecting door, peering through its window.
Riley is bent over the engine of my car, his back to me. He's wearing a dark gray t-shirt today, and I can't help noticing how it stretches across his broad shoulders as he works. His movements are precise, focused, like he's speaking some private language with the machine.
I knock lightly on the door frame, not wanting to startle him. He turns, and for a moment, I think I see something like pleasure flicker across his face. But it's quickly replaced by his usual stoic expression.
"Morning," he says, straightening. There's a smudge of grease on his forearm that I have the absurd urge to wipe away.
"Good morning," I reply, hoping my voice sounds normal and not breathless. "I thought I'd come check on the patient."
Riley gestures me into the garage. "Terminal, I'm afraid. Alternator's completely shot, and it took out part of the electrical system with it."
My heart sinks. "That sounds expensive."
"Could be worse." He wipes his hands on a rag. "Parts will run about $650, plus labor. But your timing belt's also showingwear. If we're going to have everything apart anyway, might be smart to replace that too. Otherwise you'll be back here in a few months with an even bigger problem."
I do some quick mental calculations. With the timing belt, we're probably looking at close to a thousand dollars. A significant chunk of my "starting over" fund.
This is ridiculous. I'm just going to check on my car, not attend a job interview. But still, I find myself bypassing my comfortable travel clothes in favor of my nicest jeans (the ones that actually make my hips look proportionate to my waist) and a soft green sweater that brings out the hints of gold in my brown eyes.
I blow dry my hair, apply a touch of mascara and tinted lip balm, then stare at my reflection. Who am I trying to impress? The mechanic has probably already forgotten what I look like.
But I know the answer. I've always been this way—seeking approval, wanting to be liked. It's exhausting, this constant need to present my best self, especially when my "best self" still feels inadequate most of the time.
With a sigh, I grab my purse and head out, locking the cottage behind me. The morning is crisp and clear, with that special quality of light that only seems to exist in early autumn. The street is quiet except for the occasional car passing. People heading to work, I suppose.
Cedar Falls looks different in daylight. What seemed quaint and movie-set perfect last night now reveals its imperfections—peeling paint on some storefronts, a boarded-up building that might once have been a hardware store, faded awnings. But somehow, these flaws make it more real, more appealing.
I pass the diner Riley mentioned—Lou's, according to the sign—and make a mental note to stop in later about possibly borrowing a car. Through the windows, I can see it's busy, booths filled with people talking over coffee and plates piled with breakfast.
The walk to Carter's Auto Shop takes me about twenty minutes at a leisurely pace. By the time I arrive, it's 8:15, and the shop is clearly open. There are two cars in the lot besides my own Corolla, which I can see through the open bay doors, hood up.
I hesitate at the entrance to the office, suddenly nervous. What if Riley's diagnosis is worse than he thought? What if the repairs cost more than my emergency fund can handle? What if—
The door swings open, and a slender man with gray-streaked hair steps out, nearly colliding with me.
"Oh! Sorry," he says, steadying himself. "Didn't see you there."
"My fault," I say quickly. "I was just standing here like a statue."
He smiles, "You must be Lucy. The girl whose car broke down yesterday."
I blink in surprise. "Yes, that's me. How did you—"
"Small town," he says. "I'm Lou, by the way. From the diner. Riley mentioned you might need to borrow some wheels while yours is being fixed. Come meet me at the dinner. I might be able to help you."
"He did?" I'm oddly touched that Riley remembered our conversation, “Thank you!”
"Said you were new in town, staying at Edith's place." Lou nods toward the shop. "He's inside, looking at your alternator. Or what's left of it."
That doesn't sound promising. "Thanks," I say again. "I guess I should go in and face the music."
Lou pats my arm. "Don't let his grumpiness fool you. Riley's a softie under all that scowling."
Before I can respond to this surprising assessment, he's off, walking briskly toward town. I take a deep breath and push open the office door.
The space is small but tidy—a counter with a register, a few chairs along one wall, automotive magazines stacked on a small table. The walls are covered with framed certificates and what look like military commendations. A door in the back presumably leads to the garage.
There's no one at the counter, but I can hear the sounds of tools and faint music coming from the garage. I approach the connecting door, peering through its window.
Riley is bent over the engine of my car, his back to me. He's wearing a dark gray t-shirt today, and I can't help noticing how it stretches across his broad shoulders as he works. His movements are precise, focused, like he's speaking some private language with the machine.
I knock lightly on the door frame, not wanting to startle him. He turns, and for a moment, I think I see something like pleasure flicker across his face. But it's quickly replaced by his usual stoic expression.
"Morning," he says, straightening. There's a smudge of grease on his forearm that I have the absurd urge to wipe away.
"Good morning," I reply, hoping my voice sounds normal and not breathless. "I thought I'd come check on the patient."
Riley gestures me into the garage. "Terminal, I'm afraid. Alternator's completely shot, and it took out part of the electrical system with it."
My heart sinks. "That sounds expensive."
"Could be worse." He wipes his hands on a rag. "Parts will run about $650, plus labor. But your timing belt's also showingwear. If we're going to have everything apart anyway, might be smart to replace that too. Otherwise you'll be back here in a few months with an even bigger problem."
I do some quick mental calculations. With the timing belt, we're probably looking at close to a thousand dollars. A significant chunk of my "starting over" fund.