And now, apparently, a driving lesson.
I rested my hand against the cold metal of the door and smiled despite myself.
“Of course I can,” I said.
And for the first time all day, the problem felt hard but solvable.
Chapter Eight: Old Trucks
Lydia
The truck looked different up close.
In the garage, with the door half open and cold light slipping in around the edges, it no longer felt like a charming solution. It felt large and very solid. I wondered how my dad felt about accidental dents happening.
I was notorious for kissing curbs and accidentally kicking open my driver side door only to hit it into a lamp post. A stick shift on top? That was asking a lot of me.
I stood there with my hands in my coat pockets, staring at it with a little trepidation.
“You can do this,” I told myself.
The truck remained unimpressed.
Dad pulled off the tarp entirely. The paint was faded but intact. The lines were boxy and dated. This was not a truck designed to be pretty. It had been built to work.
I exhaled slowly.
I could manage event planning at the inn. I could juggle contracts, guests, inspections, budgets, and family dynamics.
I could not, apparently, manage a clutch.
The thought made me laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. Enthusiasm, it turned out, did not equal ability. I had been very enthusiastic about the truck. That was not going to magically teach me how to drive it.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and typed,how hard is driving a stick shift really?
The internet responded immediately and cruelly.
“Not hard once you get the feel.”
“Easy if you’re not panicky.”
“If you stall more than twice, you’re overthinking it.”
I closed my phone.
That was enough of that.
The garage door creaked as Dad pushed it open wider, a box of tools balanced on his hip. He took one look at my expression and smiled faintly.
“Cold feet?” he asked.
“Cold everything,” I replied. “Including confidence.”
He set the box down and rolled up his sleeves. “Before you worry about driving it, we make sure it deserves to be driven.”
That helped, somehow.
Dad worked methodically, the way he did everything. No wasted motions and no unnecessary commentary. I was given the practical job of holding the flashlight, which was something I felt confident doing. He swapped out the battery with practiced ease, explaining what he was doing as he went, not because I asked but because that was how his mind worked.
