I don’t know her well, hell, I don’t know her at all, but I know enough to recognise that the usual brightness in her voice is missing. That little spark of sunshine she always carries, it’s dimmer today.
I glance at her, narrowing my eyes slightly.
“You sure? Because you don’t seem fine.”
She hesitates, fingers tightening in her lap. I see the war in her eyes, wanting to brush it off, but finally, she sighs.
“It’s just … the building. Trying to find people to help. I’ve called around, but no one wants to take it on. Either they’re too busy, or they hear where it is and suddenly, they’re not interested.” She huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “I don’t know. Maybe you were right.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t trust myself to.
Because I do feel bad for her, but I don’t know what that means yet.
I’d wanted her gone. She wasn’t supposed to be my problem. But now … now she’s sitting here in my truck, and instead of feeling the usual indifference, I just feel … something else. I want her to fight, to try, hell, I even feel like I might want her to stay.
I grip the wheel a little tighter, the words slow to come. “You’ll figure it out,” I say finally. It's not much, but it’s all I can give right now.
I show Stormy across the gravel towards one of the spare barns, though calling it a barn feels a bit generous. This one’s more of a makeshift garage, where I’ve spent countless hours fixing up tractors and tinkering with the truck she’s about to drive.
“Well,” I say, gesturing to the grey pickup in front of us, “here she is.”
Stormy steps closer, running her fingers lightly along the bodywork. The truck isn’t much to look at. Scratches, faded paint, and a few dents tell the story of its years, but it works. That’s all that matters. It’s taken me a while to get the thing up and running, but I’m proud of the work I’ve put into it.
“She’s not much,” I admit, shoving my hands into my pockets, “but she’ll get you where you need to go.”
Stormy lets out a small, relieved laugh.
“Thank you, Ford.”
There’s genuine appreciation in her voice as she circles the vehicle, inspecting it with quiet curiosity. But when she opens the driver's door and peeks inside, her expression shifts.
“Oh. It’s automatic?” She blinks at the gear shift. “I’ve never driven an automatic before.”
I raise a brow.
“You haven’t?”
She shakes her head looking almost sheepish.
I let out a quiet breath, pulling open the passenger door. “It’s pretty simple. Hop in.”
She slides into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with tentative uncertainty, while I settle beside her.
“Alright,” I say, tapping the gear shift lightly, “no clutch … just the brake and gas. P for park, D for drive, and if you need to reverse …” I flick the gear into R.
Stormy watches intently, nodding along, but when she puts it into drive and accelerates, the truck jerks forward in a way that has me bracing against the dash.
“Whoa … okay,” I laugh, surprising myself. It’s rare that I make that sound. “Gentle on the gas, alright? You’re driving a truck, not a race car.”
Stormy huffs exasperated, but grins, her cheeks turning pink. I hate how adorable I find it.
Adjusting her grip, she tries again, this time smoother. Slowly, she finds the rhythm, and I can tell she’s beginning to relax.
She drives us out of the barn, around the gravel forecourt a little, and I watch her intently as she does. Taking in her soft facial expressions and smile as she figures it out.
“You’ll get used to it,” I tell her, as she pulls back inside the barn.
I climb out and shut the door behind me.
