Chapter 2 — Clash of Personalities
Nate
The rain lashed against the windshield as Nate Rivers maneuvered his aging sedan into Jerry’s Tire Shop parking lot. The engine sputtered twice before dying with a sound that, to Nate, felt like an old friend wheezing its last breath. He patted the dashboard with mock affection. “Hang in there, buddy,” he murmured, grabbing his rain-dappled notebook from the passenger seat. For a moment, he glanced at the smudged ink of a half-finished lyric scrawled across the page. A pang of guilt surfaced, fleeting but sharp, as he shoved the notebook into the inner pocket of his jacket. Creativity could wait; survival—meaning not stalling out in the middle of this monsoon—took precedence.
The storm greeted him instantly as he opened the car door, a cold gust driving rain into his jeans before he could slam it shut. Nate ducked his head, his shaggy hair already plastered to his forehead as he splashed through puddles, each step punctuated by muddy water soaking his boots. The flickering neon sign above the shop buzzed faintly against the relentless hammering of the rain. It cast a jittery glow over the muddy lot, a fitting marker for his current existential vibe: a little broken, but still hanging on.
The scent of rubber and motor oil enveloped him as he pushed open the door. It was a smell he’d grown oddly fond of during his frequent visits to Jerry’s Tire Shop. Unlike the storm outside, it was steady, grounding. Familiar.
“Jerry, my man!” Nate called, his voice carrying over the hum of the vending machine and the metallic clatter of tools from the garage. He peeled off his soaked jacket, letting it drip onto the cracked linoleum floor without a second thought.
The burly man behind the counter didn’t look up. Clipboard in hand, Jerry scribbled something with the kind of deliberate slowness that could drive Type-A personalities to madness. “What now, Rivers?” he asked, his tone equal parts gruff and resigned, though there was an amused undercurrent to it.
“Would you believe me if I said nothing’s wrong?” Nate leaned against the counter, shaking water from his hair like a wet dog.
Jerry gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Not even for a second.”
“Fair enough,” Nate said with a theatrical sigh. “Engine’s acting up again. Might be the alternator. Or the car’s just finally decided to stage a rebellion.”
“Wouldn’t blame it,” Jerry muttered, jotting something down before setting the clipboard aside. “Keys.”
Fishing his car keys from his pocket, Nate handed them over with a wry grin. “What would you do without my sparkling company, Jerry?”
“Probably get more work done,” Jerry deadpanned, tucking the keys into his oil-stained overalls. He ambled toward the garage, muttering under his breath about “people who treat cars like tambourines.”
Chuckling, Nate turned toward the waiting area—and froze. Sitting ramrod straight in one of the mismatched chairs was a woman who looked like she’d wandered into the wrong movie. Blonde hair neatly tied back, though a few damp strands clung rebelliously to her face. A charcoal pencil skirt and ivory blouse that somehow still looked impeccable despite the storm. Her polished, low heels tapped faintly against the faded linoleum, and a sleek silver wristwatch glinted on her arm. She radiated a kind of controlled intensity, as if sheer willpower alone could ward off the chaos around her.
Most telling, though, was the way her hazel eyes were glued to the phone in her lap. Not casually, not distractedly—no, this was the focus of someone trying to wrest control from an uncontrollable situation. Everything about her screamed tension, precision. Nate couldn’t help but grin.
“Hey,” he said, dropping into the chair across from her. The vinyl cushion let out an obnoxious squeak as he settled in. He leaned back, slouching comfortably despite his damp jeans sticking to the seat. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your… intense relationship with that phone.”
Her eyes flicked up briefly, sharp and assessing, before returning to the screen. “You’re not interrupting anything,” she replied, her tone clipped but measured. It was a voice that brooked no nonsense, though it carried the faintest edge of exhaustion.
“Great! Then we can talk.” He grinned, undeterred. “So, what’s your story?”
Her fingers tightened slightly around her phone. “My story?” she echoed, her tone suggesting she wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or bemused.
“Yeah. What brings you to Jerry’s Tire Shop on this fine, apocalyptic evening?” He gestured toward the rain streaming down the windows.
“A flat tire,” she said curtly, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly, as if daring him to ask for more.
Nate waited, but when no further explanation came, he tilted his head. “And…?”
“And what?” she snapped, finally meeting his gaze. Her jaw was tense, her posture rigid, but there was something else beneath the irritation—something brittle, like stretched glass.
He shrugged, still grinning. “And what’s the rest of it? You’re sitting here in heels and a pencil skirt during what looks like the second coming of Noah’s flood. There’s gotta be a story behind that.”
“It’s called bad timing,” she said flatly. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Must be really bad timing,” he said, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest. “Let me guess—you’re one of those people who hate being off-schedule. Am I right?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she set her phone down with deliberate precision. “Some of us value punctuality.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I just think it’s funny. You’re stuck here, soaking wet, in a place where clocks don’t even matter. Seems like the universe really wants you to slow down.”
“Or maybe the universe just hates me,” she muttered under her breath, though her voice was low enough that she probably thought he wouldn’t hear.
“Wait, what was that?” His grin widened, leaning forward slightly.
“Nothing.” Her tone was ice-cold. “Shouldn’t you be bothering someone else?”
“Oh, I would,” Nate said lightly, “but it seems like you’re the only other lucky soul here tonight. And, honestly, you’re way more interesting than Jerry.”
Her lips twitched, and for a fleeting second, he thought she might actually smile. But the moment passed, her face settling back into its stern mask.
“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use,” she said stiffly. “I’m just trying to get through this.”
“Same here,” Nate said, leaning back again. “But hey, misery loves company.”
“I think you’re confusing misery with annoyance.”
“Ouch.” He clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”
The garage door swung open, and Jerry reappeared, wiping his hands on a rag. “We’re backed up tonight,” he announced gruffly. “Got a couple repairs ahead of you both. Might be a few hours.”
“A few hours?” The woman shot to her feet, pacing toward the counter. Her damp skirt rustled as she moved, her frustration palpable. “You told me it might take three hours at most.”
“I said it depends,” Jerry replied, unmoved. “And right now, it depends on how fast I can get through the others.”
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I have work to do. I can’t just sit here all night.”
“Told you.” Nate’s voice carried just enough amusement to reach her ears. “You’re really bad at this whole ‘slowing down’ thing.”
She shot him a withering glare. “And you’re really good at being insufferable.”
“Thank you,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat.
Jerry sighed, clearly unimpressed. “You can wait here or try next door at Lila’s Café. Either way, you’re not going anywhere until I’m done.”
The woman grabbed her bag and marched toward the door without another word. Nate watched her go, rainwater trailing behind her, and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“She gonna make it?” Nate asked Jerry.
Jerry gave him a flat look. “Question is, will you?”
Nate laughed, leaning back in his chair. Something told him this wasn’t the last he’d see of the tightly wound woman with the killer glare. And he couldn’t wait to find out how this all played out.
