Chapter 9: Coffee and Static
I woke to the gray half-light of a Vermont dawn, the kind of quiet that felt like the whole world was still holding its breath. The sheets were twisted around my legs, and for one merciful second I didn't remember. Then I shifted, and the weight on my chest reminded me. The soft, unfamiliar heaviness. The way my hips pressed into the mattress differently. The long sweep of hair across the pillow.
I lay there and let the familiar wave of wrongness wash over me. It was getting easier to bear, which scared me more than the feeling itself. Somewhere inside, Justin Zygurski was still screaming. But the screaming was getting quieter, and I didn't know if that meant I was healing or dying.
The window was a pale rectangle of promise. Allan was coming back today. We'd agreed to work on the truck again, maybe drive out to Burlington for parts. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the cool air raise goosebumps along my thighs. I'd slept in just a t-shirt. The new lace bra I'd found in the dresser sat on the nightstand, a confection of pale pink fabric that I'd stared at with a mixture of horror and something I didn't want to name.
I picked it up. The hooks were still a puzzle, the bands and straps a geometry I was learning by trial and error. My hands knew how to rebuild a carburetor, how to torque a bolt to spec. They did not know how to fasten a bra. And yet somehow, over the past three days, I'd gotten better at it. That felt like a betrayal.
I stood in front of the mirror in my underwear, the gray light softening the edges of my reflection. This woman looked back at me with bright blue eyes, honey-blonde hair falling in messy waves. She was beautiful in a way that made me catch my breath, and she was a stranger. My body, Justin's body, had been a thing I'd never thought much about. A vehicle for carrying me through the world. Now I was trapped inside this decorative cage, and every time I moved, every curve and sway, reminded me I was no longer the one steering.
I forced the bra into place, then pulled on a fresh white cropped tank top that did absolutely nothing to minimize anything. The denim shorts were short. I didn't want to think about how short. I shoved my feet into flip-flops and padded to the kitchen, where the coffee maker waited like a faithful friend.
The kitchen was all warm wood and morning glow. I'd come to appreciate it in the few days I'd been here. The white curtains, the wide plank floors, the window over the sink that looked out at the driveway and the treeline beyond. I poured beans into the grinder and watched them whirl, a small, mechanical comfort in a life that had become entirely organic and strange.
The coffee was still dripping when I heard the engine. A low, rumbling growl that I'd started to recognize. I looked out the window and there he was: Allan Cole, steering an old Ford pickup up my gravel drive. The paint was faded red, the body straight, the whole thing held together with the kind of honest neglect that suggested a working truck, not a project.
He parked behind the Jeep and killed the engine. Through the window, I watched him step out, and I had to look away for a second. He was wearing a dark tank top under a flannel shirt that was only half-buttoned, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His jeans were worn and work-stained, hugging his thighs in a way that made me press my lips together. He stretched his arms over his head, and the flannel lifted, giving me a flash of lean muscle before I forced my eyes back to the coffee pot.
The knock came as I was reaching for a mug.
"Coming," I called, and my voice was still that soft, feminine thing, a voice I hadn't chosen, a voice that startled me every time.
I opened the door, and Allan filled the doorway with his smile and a crinkled paper bag. He smelled like coffee and soap and the crispness of the morning air.
"Morning," he said. "Brought donuts. Figured you might not have made it to town yet."
I blinked at him. In my old life, people didn't bring me breakfast. In my old life, I measured things. I counted. I logged every transaction and filed every receipt. Kindness had always felt like a transaction to me, something to be suspicious of, something owed.
"I guess I'm easy to read," I said, stepping back. "Come on in."
He crossed the threshold, and the house seemed smaller with him in it. He set the bag on the kitchen table and looked around, taking in the space with an easy, unhurried gaze.
"Place looks good," he said. "Settling in okay?"
"Getting there." I gestured at the coffee maker. "You want a cup?"
"Please."
I poured two mugs, and we sat at the table across from each other, the paper bag between us. He opened it and slid it toward me. The donuts were glazed and soft, still warm, and they smelled like everything a small town bakery is supposed to smell like.
I picked one up, and he watched me take a bite. The sweetness burst across my tongue, and I made a small sound I didn't intend. His eyes flickered, catching on my mouth, and I felt a flush creep up my neck.
"Good?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Really good." I took another bite, self-conscious suddenly about how I looked eating, about the way the glaze stuck to my lips. I wiped my mouth with a napkin, and he looked away, giving me the privacy of his diverted gaze.
We ate in comfortable silence for a moment. The clock ticked on the wall. Somewhere outside, a bird called, a long, sweet phrase.
"So," he said, wiping his hands on a napkin. "The truck. I was thinking about that distributor cap. There's a parts store in Burlington that'll have what we need. We could head over after breakfast, take my truck in case there are some larger parts you want to grab."
"You're really going to spend your whole weekend helping me with this?"
He shrugged. "I like working on engines. And the F-100 is a classic. It deserves to breathe again."
I looked at him, this man who had walked into my borrowed life and decided to be kind. I wanted to be suspicious of it. I wanted to hold him at arm's length. But the part of me that had been so lonely, that had spent the last forty-eight hours drowning in the strangeness of being someone else, was starved for something steady.
"Okay," I said. "Breakfast, then Burlington."
We finished the donuts, the sweetness of them lingering on my tongue as I carried our mugs to the sink. Allan talked about the distributor cap, about a salvage yard he knew just past Burlington that might have a grille in better shape than what was on the truck, and I let his voice wash over me like something warm and steady. I dried my hands on a dish towel, then reached for the pair of scuffed work boots I'd found in the mudroom. I laced them up, the leather creaking around my ankles, and the weight of them felt like the closest thing to grounding I had found in this borrowed life.
"Ready?" he asked, and I nodded.
I stepped out into the morning with him, the gravel cool beneath my boots. His pickup sat in the drive, faded red and honest, and he opened the passenger door for me. I climbed in, the seat worn and soft, and he closed the door behind me with a sound that felt like a sealed promise.
The engine rumbled to life, a deep, throaty sound that vibrated through the bench seat. Allan guided the pickup down the gravel drive, and I watched my farmhouse shrink in the side mirror, a place I was still learning to call home. The morning was crisp and clean, the sky a pale, endless blue that seemed to go on forever over the rolling hills.
We drove in silence for a while, the road winding through fields and stands of maple and birch. The windows were down, and the wind whipped through my hair, sending honey-blonde strands across my face. I kept tucking them behind my ear, and they kept escaping. Finally, I gave up and let it fly.
"This is nice," I said, raising my voice over the rush of air.
Allan glanced at me, a small smile on his face. "The drive, or the escape from donut crumbs?"
"Both." I leaned my head back against the seat, feeling the sun on my face. "I haven't been past the farmhouse much. Just the treeline and the barn. It's good to see more of it."
"Vermont grows on you," he said. "Slowly, like moss on a stone. But once it's there, it's there."
I watched the scenery change, the fields giving way to denser forest, the road curving alongside a creek that glittered in the morning light. Allan drove with an easy confidence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. When he shifted, his forearm flexed, the muscles moving beneath his skin, and I caught myself staring. I dragged my eyes away, staring hard at the creek instead.
"Salvage yard past Burlington, you said?"
"Yep. Old man named Mercer runs it. He's been collecting F-series parts for forty years. If he doesn't have it, it doesn't exist." Allan downshifted for a curve, and his arm flexed again. "He's a character. You'll like him."
"What kind of character?"
"Kind that charges you double if you're rude and gives you half off if you're honest. He'll probably take one look at you and ask if your daddy knows you're driving his truck."
I stiffened. In my old life, I'd been a man in his thirties. People didn't ask if my daddy knew what I was doing. But to Allan, to the world, I was a twenty-one-year-old woman who looked like she'd just stepped out of a magazine.
"That's my truck," I said carefully. "I'm restoring it myself."
Allan raised an eyebrow. "I know. I was there."
"Right." I flushed. "I just... lots of people assume things."
"I don't assume much," he said. "I've learned that people tend to surprise you."
The road opened up, and we picked up speed. The wind grew stronger, tearing at my hair, and I let it. There was something liberating about it, the sensation of motion, of being carried somewhere by someone else's hands. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the sun and the air on my skin, the rumble of the engine through the seat.
"So what's your deal?" I asked, opening my eyes.
"My deal?"
"You know. Deputy in a small town. You grew up here?"
"Born and raised," he said. "County seat, about twenty minutes from your place. My dad was a cop, his dad was a cop. I guess I followed the family trade."
"No brothers or sisters?"
"One brother, older. He moved to Boston for a tech job. Comes back for holidays, complains about the lack of good sushi." Allan smiled, a soft, fond expression. "What about you? You mentioned your parents passed. Any other family?"
I'd rehearsed this. The fabricated backstory sat in my head like a script I'd memorized, lines to be delivered on cue. Rachel, the friend from the letter. No siblings. Parents lost in a fire. A fresh start.
"No siblings," I said. "Just a friend back in Buffalo. Rachel. She's like a sister, though. We talk much anymore."
"What does she think of you moving out here?"
"She thinks I'm crazy. But she also thinks I needed it." That part was true, in a way I never could have explained. Justin Zygurski had needed to disappear. The question was whether Sabrina Parker could survive the disappearance.
The road curved again, and Allan shifted down, the engine growling in protest. His hand moved on the gear shift, and I watched his bicep flex beneath the tank top. The flannel hung open, revealing a hint of a chest, lean and tan. I looked away, focusing on the green blur of the trees.
"You work out?" The question came out before I could stop it, and I wanted to bite my tongue.
Allan chuckled. "Used to. Mostly just patrol stuff now. Running down teenagers who think they can outrun a police cruiser. Hoisting evidence boxes. Carrying old Mrs. Hendershot's groceries."
"That's a very comprehensive fitness regimen."
"I do what I can." He glanced at me, a glint in his eye. "You work out?"
I thought of the new body, the soft curves, the way my arms ached after an hour of working on the truck. "I'm getting there."
We drove on, the conversation flowing easily, the silence between words comfortable rather than awkward. I learned that he liked his coffee black and his eggs scrambled, that he had a weakness for old country music and a strong dislike for people who littered. He learned that I was good with engines, that I'd spent time in a garage as a kid, that I liked my coffee with a little cream and too much sugar.
The wind whipped my hair across my face, and I pushed it back, catching Allan's eye. He looked at me for a moment, holding my gaze, and I felt something shift in my chest. A warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.
We came over a rise, and the town spread out below us, a cluster of buildings and a church steeple, the road twisting down into it. Allan pointed.
"Burlington's twenty minutes past. The salvage yard's on the way. You'll see the tire pyramid before you see the sign."
The truck hummed beneath me, carrying me forward into this new life. I leaned my arm out the window, feeling the air rush past my fingers, and let the morning take me where it would.
The tire pyramid appeared exactly when Allan said it would, a monument of stacked rubber rising above the treeline like some strange pagan structure. The salvage yard sprawled beyond it, acres of rusting metal and forgotten vehicles baking in the morning sun. A faded sign hung crooked over the entrance: MERCER'S AUTO SALVAGE, EST. 1978.
Allan pulled in and parked beside a chain-link fence. The gravel crunched under his boots as he stepped out, and I followed, the work boots I'd found in the mudroom sinking into the loose stone. The air smelled of oil and dust and old metal, a scent that cut through the morning freshness like a remembered language.
An old man in a grease-stained coverall emerged from a shipping container that served as an office. He was thin and weathered, with a shock of white hair and eyes that squinted against the sun.
"Allan Cole," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "Haven't seen you in a month of Sundays."
"Morning, Mercer. Brought a friend. She's got a '66 F-100 needs some attention."
Mercer's eyes moved to me, taking in the cropped tank top, the short denim shorts, the honey-blonde hair. His gaze was assessing, not lecherous, like he was cataloging me the way he did the parts scattered across his yard.
"Have a '66 F-100, do you?"
"It's in the barn," I said. "Needs a distributor cap, alternator, probably a water pump. And the grille's cracked. Tailgate's rusted through."
Now I had his attention. The assessment in his eyes shifted to something like respect.
"You know your way around an engine?"
I thought about Justin Zygurski, sixteen years old, holding a wrench in his father's garage while the old man explained the difference between a two-barrel and a four-barrel carburetor. "I get by."
"F-100s are scattered through the yard. Got a '68 out back, front end's mostly intact. And a '64 that's been stripped pretty bad, but the tailgate might still be good." He gestured vaguely toward the far side of the yard. "Help yourself. Prices are fair, long as you're honest about what you take."
Allan clapped me on the shoulder, a brief, warm pressure that sent a jolt through me. "I'll go check out the body stuff. You take the engines."
We split up, and I walked deeper into the yard, past rows of cars in various states of decay. Sun-bleached paint, shattered windshields, wheels missing, doors hanging open like the mouths of sleeping beasts. The ground was uneven, littered with bolts and broken glass, and I picked my way carefully in my boots.
I found the '64 in a corner of the yard, its bed rusted through, its hood missing, its engine compartment open to the elements. I leaned over the fender and looked at what was left. The block was there, seized and crusted with corrosion, but some of the peripheral parts looked salvageable. I reached for the alternator and my chest caught on the edge of the fender.
The sensation was so jarring, so deeply wrong, that I froze for a moment. My body pressed into cold metal, soft flesh yielding against the hard edge. I had to shift my stance, lean at a different angle, hold myself differently to reach the part. The thong rode up with the movement, the thin strip of fabric digging into me in a way that made me want to claw at my own backside.
I ignored it and got back to work. The alternator came off with a few turns of a wrench, and I set it on a nearby stump. I moved to the engine block, checking the distributor, the belts, the hoses. The work was familiar, the motions muscle memory from a life I no longer had, but the body I did it in was alien. Every time I leaned forward, my chest brushed against something. Every time I bent over, the denim shorts pulled tight across my hips and the thong shifted, reminding me of its existence.
I was pulling a water pump when I heard Allan's voice across the yard.
"Over here!"
I straightened, wiping my forehead with the back of my arm, and felt grease smear across my skin. I looked down at myself. The white tank top was streaked with black, the denim shorts smudged. My hands were so coated they looked like gloves. I'd managed to get grime on my face, in my hair, probably on my neck. I looked like I'd fought with the engine and lost.
I walked over to where Allan stood beside a truck with a reasonably intact front end. He'd pulled off his flannel, tying it around his waist, leaving him in just the tank top. The morning light caught the lean lines of his arms, the flex of his shoulders as he hoisted a grille clear of the vehicle.
"This one's in decent shape," he said, turning to show me. "Just needs a little straightening along the bottom edge. And I found a tailgate in that '68 back there. Rust's mostly surface."
"That's perfect." I looked at the grille, running my fingers along the chrome. It was in better shape than I'd hoped. "What's he asking?"
"I asked. He said we can have both for a hundred fifty."
"That's a steal." I smiled, and Allan's eyes caught on the expression. He looked at me for a moment, a flicker of something warm, before he hefted the grille and carried it toward the front of the yard.
I went back to the engine, crawling deeper into the '64's engine compartment to reach a bracket I knew I'd need. The space was tight, the metal confining, and my body did not fit the way Justin's had. My chest pressed against the inner fender, my hips jammed against the frame. I wriggled and twisted, feeling bits of rust flake off onto my skin, feeling the constant, infuriating presence of my body in every position.
The thong had become a persistent annoyance, the fabric working its way between my cheeks with every movement. I'd never worn underwear like this in my old life. Boxers, briefs, functional. This was decoration, pure and simple, and it had no business being as uncomfortable as it was.
I finally got the bracket free and pulled myself out, breathing hard. A strand of hair had escaped my ponytail and plastered itself to my forehead, which was no doubt covered in grease. I pushed it back with my wrist, probably making it worse.
"Need a hand?" Allan's voice came from behind me.
I turned, and he was standing there, a few feet away, holding a cardboard box with the grille and tailgate stacked inside. He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You've got grease on your face," he said.
"I know."
"On your neck, too." He gestured vaguely. "And, uh, your shoulder."
I looked down at the smear on my collarbone, just above the neckline of my tank top. I tried to wipe it off with my hand, but of course, my hand was just as dirty.
"Here." Allan set the box down and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a red bandana. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell him again, that clean scent beneath the oil and metal.
"Hold still," he said, and he wiped the bandana across my cheek.
The fabric was rough against my skin, but his touch was gentle, deliberate. He wiped the smudge from my cheek, then the one on my neck, his fingers brushing against my collarbone. I felt my breath catch, felt the warmth bloom in my chest, felt the familiar pull of want that I kept trying to ignore.
"There," he said, folding the bandana and tucking it back into his pocket. "Good as new."
The words hung between us, weighted with something neither of us was saying. I looked at him, at the flecks of rust in his dark hair, at the steady warmth in his flint-colored eyes, and I felt the strangeness of this moment press against me like a gentle hand.
"Thanks," I managed.
He nodded, and we stood there for a beat longer than necessary before he turned and picked up the box again.
"Let's get these loaded up," he said. "There's a spot in town that does a mean burger if you've worked up an appetite."
Allan hefted the box into the bed of his pickup with an ease that made my arms ache just watching. The grille was solid metal, heavy in a way that would have been nothing for Justin, a man who'd hauled engine blocks across a garage floor without breaking a sweat. But I'd felt the weight of it when I'd helped him carry it from the yard, the way my shoulders had strained, the way my wrists had trembled.
I reached for the tailgate, thinking I could help with that at least. My fingers closed around the rusted metal, and I lifted. It came up maybe an inch before my arms gave out, the weight dragging me forward. I stumbled, and Allan was there, one hand catching the edge of the tailgate, the other steadying my elbow.
"Easy," he said. "I've got it."
I let go, heat flooding my cheeks. "Sorry. I thought I could—"
"You've got grease in places I didn't know existed," he said, a smile softening the words. "You've done enough heavy lifting for one morning."
He lifted the tailgate into the bed as if it weighed nothing, settling it beside the grille. I watched the muscles in his back shift beneath the tank top, watched the way his body moved with the kind of easy strength I used to take for granted.
It wasn't just that I was weaker, I realized. It was that I had no idea how strong I was anymore. Justin's body had been a known quantity, a set of measurements I'd lived with for thirty-six years. This body was a mystery, its limits and capabilities a language I was still learning. And the lesson kept coming with humiliations like this one.
Mercer ambled over, a grease-stained hand extended. Allan shook it, then I did, the old man's grip dry and calloused.
"Hundred fifty for the grille and the tailgate," he said. "And I'll throw in the alternator bracket for free, since you dug it out yourself."
"Appreciate it, Mercer." Allan pulled a worn leather wallet from his back pocket and counted out the bills. I reached for my own wallet, but he waved me off.
"Consider it part of the restoration fund."
"That's not fair. You're not the one who needs the parts."
"You're not the one with a county salary." He folded his wallet away and clapped me on the shoulder, that same warm, brief pressure that made my pulse skip. "Besides, I'm getting dinner out of this. Come on, let's get you that burger."
I wiped my hands on a rag Mercer had tossed me, black streaks coming off in layers. My fingers were still stained, ground-in grease that would take a proper scrubbing to remove, but it was better than nothing. I tossed the rag back toward the shipping container and missed, the rag landing in the gravel with a soft thud.
Allan watched me with an amused look. "You might want to work on your aim."
"I'm a mechanic, not a quarterback."
"Fair enough." He opened the passenger door for me, and I climbed in, the seat warm from the sun. The leather creaked beneath me, and I settled against it, feeling the ache in my shoulders from the morning's work. Every muscle in my body seemed to have a new complaint, a new way of reminding me that I was living in borrowed flesh.
Allan slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. The pickup rumbled to life, a deep, throaty sound that vibrated through the bench seat. A country song came on the radio, something about a truck and a girl and a gravel road, and he turned it down until it was just a murmur beneath the engine.
"You okay?" he asked, glancing at me.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"You did good work in there. You know your stuff."
The compliment landed somewhere unexpected, a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the sun. In my old life, I'd never been praised for my hands. I'd been praised for my spreadsheets, my ledgers, my ability to find the discrepancy in a column of numbers. Nobody had ever looked at me with admiration for knowing my way around an engine.
"Thanks," I said. "My dad taught me."
"He must have been proud."
I thought about the fabricated story, the parents who died in a fire that never happened, the childhood I'd been given in place of the one I'd actually lived. But Justin's father had been a mechanic too, a man who'd taught his son to hold a wrench before he could spell the word. That part was true, even if the details had been scrubbed and rewritten.
"He was," I said, and it wasn't a lie.
The road curled away from the salvage yard, the tire pyramid shrinking in the side mirror. Allan drove with the same easy confidence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. The flannel was still tied around his waist, and the tank top showed the lean lines of his arms, the slope of his shoulders.
I caught myself staring again and forced my gaze out the window. The scenery was beautiful, rolling hills and dense forest, the occasional farmhouse set back from the road with smoke curling from its chimney. It was a world I'd never imagined living in, a world that had been chosen for me. And yet here I was, driving through it in a borrowed body, beside a man who made my heart beat faster in ways I couldn't explain.
We passed a sign announcing the town limits, and Allan slowed, turning onto a main street lined with storefronts. A hardware store, a diner, a bookstore with a cat sleeping in the window. It was the kind of small town where everybody knew everybody, where a newcomer with a fake backstory would stick out like a sore thumb.
I wondered how long it would take for the cracks to show. Whether anyone would notice that Sabrina Parker didn't have a past, didn't have memories, didn't have anything beneath the surface but the ghost of a man who no longer existed.
But then Allan pulled into a parking spot outside the diner, and the thought scattered. He killed the engine and turned to me, a smile on his face.
"Best burger in the county," he said. "I promise."
"Pretty bold claim."
"I'm a man of my word." He opened his door and stepped out, then came around to open mine. I started to climb down, my boots slipping on the running board, and his hand caught my elbow, steadying me.
The touch was brief, but it lingered in the space between us. He looked at me for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes, and then he let go.
"Come on," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. "Let's get you fed."
The diner door swung open with a bell that chimed like a small, cheerful announcement. The air inside was warm and heavy with the smell of bacon grease and toasted bread, the kind of smell that wrapped itself around you the moment you walked in. A few heads turned as we entered, eyes tracking the deputy and the new girl in town, before politely looking away.
Allan gestured toward a booth near the window, a red vinyl seat worn soft with decades of use. "Grab us a table. I'll say hi to the cook, make sure he knows we've got a first-timer."
I opened my mouth to say something, then stopped. "Where's the restroom?"
"Back past the counter, left of the jukebox. Sign on the door."
I nodded and made my way through the maze of tables and chairs, past a couple of farmers nursing coffee mugs who gave me a friendly nod. The jukebox was playing something slow and sad, a song about heartbreak and highways. I pushed open the door marked with a painted silhouette in a skirt, and the door swung shut behind me.
The fluorescent light hummed overhead, stark and white, bouncing off the tile floor and the porcelain sink. It was a small space. Two stalls, a sink, a mirror running the length of the wall. The smell of lemon cleaner and cheap soap cut through the lingering grease smell of the diner.
I stepped up to the sink and reached for the faucet, then stopped.
My reflection stared back at me.
I'd seen this woman in the mirror every morning since I woke in this body. In my bedroom, in the dim gray light of dawn, with the soft shadows of an unfamiliar room falling across my features. But this was different. This was the bright, unforgiving glare of a public restroom, the kind of light that showed every flaw, every line, every detail.
The white tank top was a disaster. Black grease streaked across the fabric in broad, careless strokes, smeared from collar to hem. There was a handprint on my ribs, five dark fingers that looked like they belonged to someone else. The denim shorts had a smear along one thigh where I'd wiped my hand without thinking. My face was a patchwork of dirt and oil, a smudge across one cheekbone, a streak along my jaw, a shadow of grit across my forehead where I'd pushed my hair back.
And yet.
The woman in the mirror was still beautiful. The honey-blonde hair, now loose and disheveled, fell in waves that framed her face. The blue eyes were bright against the smudged skin. The curves of her body, barely contained by the cropped tank top, were the kind that drew stares from men and women alike. She looked like a calendar model who'd been through a car engine, like a pin-up girl with grease under her nails.
I hated her. I hated the way she looked, the way she moved, the way every man in the diner had done a double-take as I walked past. I hated that she was me now, that there was no escaping the arrangement of her features, the shape of her hips, the weight of her chest.
But I also didn't hate her. Not entirely. She was a stranger, but she was my stranger. She was the only body I had left.
I turned on the tap, letting the water run warm, and reached for the soap. The pump dispenser gave a dry click before producing a pale pink liquid that smelled like artificial flowers. I lathered my hands and scrubbed, watching the water turn gray, then brown, then clear. The grease was ground in deep, resistant to the cheap soap, but slowly, stubbornly, it lifted.
The water ran warm over my skin, and I watched my hands. They were small hands, delicate, with slender fingers. Justin's hands had been broad, calloused, with a scar across one knuckle from a shop accident in his twenties. These hands were smooth and pink, the nails short and neat, free of the grime that had covered them moments ago. They were not the hands I remembered. They were not the hands of a forty-year-old man who'd spent his career in accounting.
And yet they'd rebuilt a carburetor yesterday. They'd hauled parts across a junkyard. They'd proven capable of the work I'd thrown at them.
I worked the soap up my forearms, rinsing off the streaks of black that had settled in the fine hairs. The water ran dirty, and I let it, the minutes stretching as the grime slowly dissolved. The sink filled with a thin film of gray, and I watched it swirl down the drain, taking with it the last visible traces of the work I'd done.
The face in the mirror was still smudged. I cupped my hands and brought them to my face, splashing warm water over my cheeks, my forehead, my chin. The water beaded and ran, cutting channels through the dirt. I used the soap again, lathering my hands, then worked them across my face, feeling the smooth, unfamiliar planes of her bone structure beneath my fingers. The high cheekbones. The soft curve of her jaw. The lips that were fuller than any lips I'd ever owned.
I rinsed and rinsed, and when I finally looked up, the woman in the mirror was cleaner. The smudges were gone, the dirt washed away. Her skin was pink from the scrubbing, her eyes bright and slightly red, her hair a tangled halo of wet strands. A drop of water clung to her lower lip, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
Her neck still had a streak of black, a thin line just above her collarbone. I caught it with a damp paper towel, scrubbing until the skin was pink. The tank top was beyond saving, the fabric stained with streaks and splotches that would never come out, but the woman in the mirror looked like herself again. Or at least, she looked like a clean version of the stranger she was becoming.
I stayed there a moment longer, one hand braced on the sink, letting the hum of the fluorescent light fill my ears. Outside, I could hear the muffled clatter of dishes, the low murmur of conversation, Allan's warm laugh rising above it all.
The man he was laughing with had no idea he was laughing with a ghost. The people in the diner had no idea the woman who'd just walked past them had spent thirty-six years as someone else.
I took a breath. Let it out. Reached for a paper towel and dried my face, my arms, my hands. The towel came away with faint gray smears, the last remnants of the morning's work.
Then I pushed through the restroom door and back into the diner, the noise washing over me like a tide. The farmers nodded at me again, friendlier this time. The cook behind the counter, a heavyset man with a flour-dusted apron, caught my eye and winked.
Allan was in the booth near the window, two glasses of water already on the table. He looked up as I approached, and his expression softened into something warm.
"You survived," he said.
"Barely." I slid into the booth across from him, the vinyl creaking beneath me. "I think I got most of the grease off. The tank top's a lost cause, though."
"You'll have to buy a new one. Seems fair, considering you saved the alternator bracket." He pushed a menu toward me, the laminated plastic worn soft at the corners. "The burgers are good. The fries are better. The milkshakes are dangerous."
I picked up the menu, pretending to read it, giving myself a moment to breathe. He was looking at me with that easy, unhurried warmth, like I was a puzzle he was enjoying solving. I tapped the menu with one clean finger.
"The bacon burger," I said. "With extra bacon."
Allan grinned. "You're going to fit in just fine around here."
The bacon burger arrived on a plate the size of a hubcap, the patty stacked high with crispy strips of bacon, melted cheese dripping over the edges. The fries came in a metal basket, golden and salted, and the milkshake Allan had warned me about was already working its way through the diner's ancient blender, a low whirring hum from behind the counter.
I picked up the burger with both hands and took a bite. The flavors hit me like a wave, savory and rich and perfectly greasy, and I made a sound that I immediately regretted. Allan's eyebrows lifted, and he took a slow sip of his water, hiding a smile behind the glass.
"Good?" he asked, the word carrying the same amused warmth as the donut question earlier.
"Really good." I took another bite, catching a drip of cheese with my thumb before it could reach my chin. "You weren't kidding about the burger."
"I didn't think you'd doubt me."
We ate in companionable silence for a while, the diner humming around us. The farmers at the counter had moved on to a discussion about hay prices. The cook had come out from the back to lean on the counter and watch the baseball game on the small television mounted in the corner. A waitress with a beehive hairdo topped off our waters and asked if everything was okay.
I was halfway through the burger when I felt it. The fullness. The sudden, unmistakable sensation that my stomach had reached its limit, that the next bite would be too much. I stopped, the burger lowered to the plate, and stared at the remaining half as if it had betrayed me.
"Everything okay?" Allan asked, pausing mid-bite.
"I..." I looked at the burger, then at him. "I think I'm full."
He glanced at the half-eaten burger, then at me. A low chuckle rumbled from somewhere in his chest, growing into a warm, open laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He set down his burger and wiped his hands on a napkin.
"You barely ate half," he said. "That's a rookie effort."
"It's a big burger."
"It's not that big. I've seen Old Mrs. Hendershot finish one of these and she's ninety-two years old and weighs ninety pounds soaking wet."
I felt the heat creep up my neck. In my old life, I'd had a hollow leg. I could put away a full plate of food, go back for seconds, and still have room for dessert. Justin had been a man with a working man's appetite, a body that burned calories like a furnace. This new body, this small, curvy thing I inhabited, apparently had other ideas. It didn't need as much. It didn't want as much. It was a body that got full after four bites of a burger and a handful of fries.
"I guess I'm not used to it yet," I said, which was truer than he could possibly know.
Allan's laugh faded into a warm smile. He reached across the table and tapped the edge of my plate with his finger.
"That's all right. More room for dessert." He raised his hand, catching the beehived waitress's attention. "Two chocolate shakes to go, Doris. We'll take them on the road."
"Coming right up, honey," she called back, already moving toward the blender.
"You don't have to do that—" I started.
"I want to," he said, and there was something in his voice that made my protests die in my throat. "I know you're full, but a shake's different. It's like its own food group. And I promised you a ride home, didn't I? Can't have you riding without refreshments."
"You're very insistent on feeding me."
"I'm very insistent on taking care of the people I like spending time with." He said it casually, like it was nothing, but the words landed somewhere in my chest and stayed there. He looked down at his own plate, finishing the last of his fries, and I watched the way his hands moved, the easy confidence of him.
Doris arrived with two tall paper cups, condensation beading on the sides, the chocolate milkshakes thick and cold. Straws poked through the plastic lids, each topped with a swirl of whipped cream that had already begun to melt at the edges. Allan took them, handing one to me before sliding out of the booth.
"Ready?" he asked.
I picked up my shake and followed him out of the diner, letting the bell chime behind me. The sun was higher now, the morning fully unfolded into a bright, crisp day. Allan opened the passenger door for me again, and I climbed in, the seat warm and familiar now. The shake was cold in my hand, the cup sweating against my palm.
He settled behind the wheel, set his own shake in the cup holder, and reached over to the radio. The country station came back on, something slow and twangy. He left it low and pulled out of the parking spot, turning onto the main road that would wind back toward my farmhouse.
We drove in silence, sipping our shakes. The first taste was cold and sweet, thick enough to hurt your teeth if you pulled too hard on the straw. I let it sit on my tongue and felt it melt, felt the simple pleasure of something delicious on a day that had been full of surprises.
"That's good," I said, and Allan glanced over with a grin.
"Told you. Dangerous."
"So I'm learning."
The road unrolled before us, fields and forest and the glittering flash of a creek in the distance. I leaned my head against the seat and watched the landscape slide by, the milkshake cold in my hand, the engine a low, steady rumble beneath me. Allan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding his shake, and I let the quiet hang between us, comfortable and warm.
We came up over a rise, and I saw my farmhouse in the distance, the barn behind it, the treeline dark and dense beyond. The truck was waiting for us, parked in the barn where we'd left it, its engine alive with possibility. The parts we'd bought sat in the bed behind us, waiting to be installed.
Allan turned onto the gravel drive and killed the engine. The silence rushed in, broken only by the distant call of a bird. He turned to me, his shake nearly empty, and smiled.
"We did good work today," he said.
"We did." I set my own cup in the cup holder, still half full. "Thank you for this. All of it."
He looked at me for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes. The morning light caught the flecks of rust in his hair, the warmth in his steady gaze. I felt my heart beat faster, felt the familiar pull of wanting, and I didn't know what to do with it.
"Any time," he said, and his voice was softer than before. "I mean that."
We sat there a moment longer before he opened his door and stepped out, coming around to open mine. He helped me down, his hand warm at my elbow, and we walked to the barn together, the parts heavy in our arms, the milkshake already fading into memory.
The barn smelled like dust and old hay and the faint, sweet ghost of motor oil. Sunlight slanted through the gaps in the weathered boards, painting stripes across the packed dirt floor. Allan set the grille down on the workbench with a solid thunk, and I followed with the tailgate, my arms straining before I set it down beside a stack of old tires.
"Okay," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Let's see what we're working with."
I pulled the work lamp off its hook and set it on the bench, flipping it on. The bulb buzzed and cast a harsh pool of light across the grille. The chrome was dull, pitted in places, but the structure was sound. No cracks, no deep dents. Just years of weather and neglect.
"Not bad," I said, running my fingers along the edge. "A little polish and it'll look almost new."
"Almost new is a good start." Allan grabbed a rag from the pile on the shelf and wet it from the old jerry can we'd filled at the house. He handed me one and kept one for himself, and we set to work.
The grease came off the grille in slow, patient strokes. Allan worked the bottom edge, I worked the top, and the conversation flowed easy between us. He told me about the time he'd tried to restore his grandfather's tractor as a teenager, how he'd gotten the whole engine back together only to realize he'd installed the pistons backward. I laughed, and the sound surprised me. It was a real laugh, not the polite, hollow thing I'd been manufacturing for the fabricated backstory. It came from somewhere genuine.
"Okay, that's impressive," I said, wiping a streak of grime from my forearm. "I've installed pistons backward before. It takes real dedication to get that far and screw it up."
"Took me three days to figure out why it wouldn't turn over."
"Did your grandfather help?"
"He stood there and watched the whole time. Drank his coffee, smoked his pipe, never said a word." Allan shook his head, a fond smile tugging at his mouth. "When I finally got it running, he just nodded and said 'took you long enough' and went back inside."
"That's a good memory."
"It is." He looked at me, his eyes warm. "What about you? Your dad teach you everything you know?"
I kept my eyes on the grille, working the rag into a crevice. "Mostly. He was a mechanic. Ran a shop out of our garage. I spent more time under cars than I did in my own bed growing up."
"He still around?"
The question hung in the air. I had a script for this, a carefully crafted lie about a house fire and parents who never existed. But standing here, in this barn, with a man who'd been nothing but kind to me, the lie felt heavier than it should.
"He passed," I said. "A few years ago. Heart attack." That part was true. Justin's father had died of a heart attack when Justin was thirty-two. The details belonged to the old life, but the grief was real.
"I'm sorry." Allan paused his work, giving me the space of his silence.
"It's okay. He taught me what I needed to know before he went." I straightened, wiping my hands on my rag. "Every time I touch an engine, I feel like he's still here, telling me I'm holding the wrench wrong."
Allan laughed softly. "Sounds like he knew what he was talking about."
"He did."
We worked in silence for a moment, the only sound the scrape of rags on metal and the hum of the work lamp. The grille was coming up brighter now, the chrome gleaming faintly under the light. My arms ached, my back complained, and the thong had shifted again in a way that made me want to wriggle, but I kept my mind on the task.
"The alternator bracket," I said, setting the grille aside and picking up the piece I'd freed from the '64. "Let me check the bolt holes fit the water pump.
"Allan handed me a wrench from the toolbox, and I worked the bracket against the pump, feeling the fit. It was good. Solid. The threads were clean, the holes aligned.
"Looks like it'll work," I said.
"Nice." Allan pulled the water pump out of the box and set it on the bench. "Let's check this one. I grabbed it from a '70 that looked like it had been sitting in the yard for decades."
I picked up the pump, turning it over in my hands. The casing was crusted with corrosion, the pulley surface rough, but the bearings felt smooth when I spun the shaft by hand.
"Shaft's good," I said. "Seals look intact. We might need to replace the gasket, but the pump itself should work."
"You're a natural at this." Allan leaned against the bench, arms crossed, watching me.
"I told you. My dad taught me."
"I've known guys who worked on engines their whole lives and never developed the instinct for it. You look at a part and you just know. That's not taught. That's born."
The compliment settled somewhere warm in my chest. I ducked my head, hiding the flush that crept up my neck.
"You're going to make me blush," I said, and it came out more earnest than I intended.
Allan smiled, a genuine, easy expression that softened the lines around his eyes. "Just telling the truth."
He picked up his rag again and moved to the tailgate, checking the hinges, the latch, the mounting points. I watched him work for a moment, the way his hands moved with confidence, the way his shoulders flexed beneath the tank top. The flannel was still tied around his waist, and there was a smear of grease across his forearm that he hadn't noticed.
I stepped forward, my rag in hand, and wiped the smear away before I could think about what I was doing. The fabric brushed against his skin, and he stilled, turning his head to look at me.
"Got you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes catching the light. "Thanks."
The word was simple, but the weight behind it wasn't. We stood there, close enough that I could smell the soap and oil on his skin, close enough that I could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
"Good thing we drove to Burlington," I said, stepping back to put some distance between us. "We got everything we need to get this truck running."
"We did." Allan straightened, wiping his hands on his rag. "Let's get these parts stored properly. I've got some cardboard and a tarp in the truck."
We moved the parts onto a clean section of the workbench and covered them with a heavy canvas tarp Allan produced from behind the driver's seat. I found some old moving boxes in the corner of the barn and broke them down flat, layering them on top for extra protection.
"Tomorrow we can start installing," I said, stepping back to survey our work. "Distributor cap first, then the alternator bracket, then the water pump. Should be a full day."
"Or two," Allan said. "If we stop for lunch."
"I can get behind that."
He walked over to the barn door and looked out at the afternoon light, the sun already beginning its slow arc toward the treeline. I came to stand beside him, and we watched the shadows lengthen across the gravel drive.
"This was a good day," he said.
"It was."
He turned to me, and there was something open in his expression, something unguarded. "Want to do it again tomorrow?"
The question was simple, easy, but it carried a weight I felt in my chest. This man had shown up at my door with donuts and a wrench and a willingness to spend his weekend helping a stranger fix a truck. He'd made me laugh. He'd made me feel like the person inside this borrowed body still existed, still mattered.
"Yeah," I said. "I'd like that."
He smiled, warm and steady, and reached out to brush a strand of hair from my face. His fingers grazed my temple, light as a breath, and I felt the touch all the way down my spine.
"Then I'll see you in the morning." He stepped back, pulling his keys from his pocket. "Don't stay up too late."
He turned to go, boots crunching on the gravel, and the words came out of me before I could stop them.
"Wait."
Allan paused, looking back over his shoulder. The late afternoon sun caught his face, warming the lines around his eyes. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. I just..." I hesitated, the offer sitting on my tongue like something heavy. "It's a long drive back to town. And I've got a guest room that's been empty since I moved in. If you want to stay over, you're welcome to. No point driving home in the dark when the coffee's already made."
For a moment he just looked at me, surprised rippling across his features before settling into something warm and pleased. "You sure? I don't want to put you out."
"You're not. I'd actually appreciate the company." The truth of it surprised me even as I said it. The farmhouse had felt big and empty every night since I'd arrived, full of unfamiliar corners and the whisper of a life I didn't remember living.
"Well then." He grinned, a boyish expression that made him look younger than the deputy who'd shown up at my door with donuts. "I'd love to stay. Let me grab my bag from the truck."
"Bag?"
"You're not the only one who came prepared." He walked back to the pickup, a little bounce in his step that hadn't been there a moment ago. "I keep a change of clothes and a toothbrush in the cab. Habit from long shifts. You never know when you'll end up sleeping at the station."
I watched him pull a small duffel from behind the passenger seat. "Told you I'd take care of the people I like spending time with," I said, echoing his earlier words, a smile tugging at my mouth.
He laughed, the sound warm and easy. "Touche."
We walked to the house together, the gravel crunching under our boots. The screen door creaked when I pushed it open, and the kitchen swallowed us in its quiet, pine-scented warmth. I set the milkshake cup on the counter, already going flat, and gestured toward the hallway.
"Guest room's down there, second door on the left. There's towels in the bathroom and a spare toothbrush in the cabinet if you need one."
"Thanks." He set his duffel by the hallway entrance and glanced around the kitchen, taking in the worn wooden cabinets, the cast iron skillet hanging from a hook, the wildflowers I'd picked from the treeline and arranged in a mason jar. "This is a nice place. Feels like it's been loved."
"I think it has." I leaned against the counter, watching him. "I'm still figuring it out."
"Well, it's got good bones." He said it the way you'd describe a truck or a house, with the same warmth he gave to everything. He turned to me, hands resting on his hips. "So. Dinner. You mentioned making something?"
"I did. I've got some chicken in the fridge, pasta, a jar of sauce. Nothing fancy."
Allan's eyes lit up with something mischievous. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd love to take over. I make a mean pasta. My grandmother's recipe, passed down three generations. It's the only thing I cook that doesn't come out of a box."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're a good cook?"
"I'm a decent cook. I'm an excellent pasta maker." He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the lean muscles of his forearms, still smudged with grease from the barn. "Come on. Let me show you. I promise it'll be better than anything in that jar."
I laughed, the sound surprising me again. "You're really committed to feeding me today."
"I told you. I take care of the people I like." He said it lightly, but his eyes held mine for a beat longer than necessary. "So? Deal?"
I found myself nodding before I'd even decided. "Deal."
He moved through my kitchen with the confidence of someone who'd spent time in a home that wasn't his own. I watched him open cabinets, finding the pot, the colander, the cutting board, asking where I kept the olive oil, the garlic. I had both, of course. The fridge had been stocked by whatever agency had prepared this house, filled with groceries I hadn't chosen but had accepted without question.
"Plenty of garlic," he said, pulling a head from the basket on the counter. "This is going to be great."
"I'll be the judge of that."
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.