The next day, Paul drove his truck down the ocean highway, as the sun peeked over the horizon. The morning chill bit at my skin as I pulled the sides of my jacket tighter. Embarrassment crept into my cheeks. I'd made a fool of myself last night. Dread built in my stomach knowing that I'd have to face them all this morning. He stopped at a red light nestled in a small housing estate.

Paul looked at me from the corner of his eye. "Don't be nervous. You've got nothing to worry about."

I looked at the nearest house where an older lady was outside on her lawn in what looked like a nightdress and a pale pink dressing gown. She fiddled with a cord that was attached to what looked to be the oldest lawnmower in existence. Pulling hard on the cord and the lawnmower hummed to life. Her frail hands gripped around the horizontal handle as she attempted to shift the mower to a new starting position, but it didn't budge. She kicked it in frustration and it began to chew up the patch of lawn it was sitting on as the engine whirred in protest.

"Dana, talk to me."

"She's going to hurt herself. She looks five minutes away from a heart attack."

Paul looked over his shoulder in the direction I was staring. "I'll help her later," he sighed, "We can talk about this if you're worried."

"She'll probably be dead by then," I remarked.

Paul dragged a hand down his face and with another sigh, opened his door and leaned out. "Mrs. Jameson, I'll mow the lawn for you later, okay. Go back inside."

The older lady turned off the lawn mower and squinted to see who had spoken. The white haze of her eyes told me she probably couldn't see very well even if we had been standing right in front of her. She smiled, nodding her head obviously familiar with his voice. Paul sat back in his seat and closed the door, just as the light changed.

"Now can you talk to me?"

"I made a fool of myself," I answered, the remorse from the night flooding me once more.

"No. I don't think anybody thinks that. They are just concerned."

I shrugged and smiled, gazing out the window at the rolling tree line. As we neared the edge of town, he took an unexpected turn off the main road. "Where are we going?"

"Making a quick stop at my dad's place first," he explained, pulling into a driveway. He cut the engine outside the small pine cabin with a deck. He reached behind my seat producing a bag. The prescription bottle of pills were visible through the sheer plastic.

"Who lives here?" I asked.

"My dad," he replied. "I check on him before work."

"Your parents!" The weight returned to my shoulders.

"Parent—non-plural. Plus, however erratic you think your moods are, you've got nothing on this guy. He won't even remember you came." His smile was genuine when he opened the truck's door and hopped out, slamming it behind me. "Are you coming, Dana?"

"Shit," I mumbled, unlocking my belt, and following him out.

"Dad," he called out, "you left the door unlocked again, you idiot."

Past the entryway was a living room, and a small open-plan kitchen was behind that. A man sat with his back to us in a high-back armchair in front of a wood burner. Paul set the bag down on the kitchen table.

His Dad looked up at us, his eyes clouded with confusion momentarily before recognition set in. "Takes one to know one, son." He chugged a laugh with a slight whistle that morphed into a hacking cough. "Who's your girl?"

The heat I felt on my face traveled to the four extremities of my body. His Dad readjusted the portable oxygen tank on his lap with a tube that wound up his chest and looped under his nose.

"She's not my girl, Dad. It's Dana, Lucille's granddaughter." Paul looked over his shoulder and smiled, nodding for me to sit on the two-seater couch.

"Lucille? You don't say." His eyes appraised me from a distance. "She'll be glad to see you, honey."

"Dad," Paul cut him off. "Remember, we talked about Lucille? You read the obituary in the newspaper?"

There was a moment where his face morphed from confusion to reluctant acceptance. He nodded. "True, son. I got myself confused again, didn't I?"

"Yeah, Dad, you did." He grinned and packed the medicine away in a cupboard. "I thought you'd like to meet her. I know you two were close."

"The apple didn't fall far, missy, did it?" His Dad smiled, showing a set of nicotine-stained teeth. "I would swear she even had the same freckles in the same places."

"I've been hearing that a lot lately." I returned his serene smile.

"Lucille was such a spirited woman. She could light up the room with her laughter. We used to have the most interesting conversations about everything under the sun."

My face softened as I imagined my grandmother being so lively and engaged. "I wish I'd had time with her," I admitted.

"Ah, but life is full of surprises." His Dad winked at me, amusement dancing in his gaze.

"Do you need anything else before tomorrow morning?" Paul asked.

"No, you do enough for me, Luke."

"Paul, Dad," he corrected. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his dad's forehead. "Luke will be by this evening after he shuts shop. Lock the fucking door behind us this time."

His Dad shrugged. "And what is worth stealing here? It's the crows and me now."

"Do it anyway," he said, picking up my hand and guiding me out the door. Before it shut, I could swear I heard him talking to someone because he'd chuckled as if he'd caught the punch-line of a joke.

The crows foraged for food in shrubs when we opened the car door. I stepped around them before we both buckled up, and I cranked the engine. We drove again in silence, a little lost in our thoughts. His Dad looked well beyond his years with a fragile, baggy-skinned skeleton. I wondered what illness stole the youth from a face like his and contemplated whether the long-term prognosis would be short-lived.

"Emphysema," Paul said, answering my unspoken question as I felt the heat of his eyes on me. "With what I'm sure might be a side of dementia brewing. It's been getting worse these past few months. And it doesn't look like it will get any better soon."

I glanced at him, a small but sad smile played on his lips.

"How long has it been this way?" I asked.

"I prefer to measure time in experiences rather than one linear event with an expiration date."

I nodded. "I like that idea. It seems a fitting way to measure something like that. Organizing my life into segments of achievements now appears to miss the point a little. Can I come with you another time?"

"Anytime."

"You've surprised me, Paul."

He grinned. "Speaking of surprises," I cut in, hoping to ease some of the tension, "Want to have a drink with me tonight? Same bar, same Dana. Consider it therapy?"

I laughed, the weight on my shoulders easing. "Agreed."

When we arrived at the shop, Jenny's seat was empty. Paul headed into the pit. As if on cue, he glanced up, and our eyes met before he descended. There was a moment where nothing and everything happened. Then his lips tipped up into a grin.

Having slept better the night before, my whole body was better prepared for the day. The day whizzed by in a blur of customers. Later that evening, the bar's neon lights flickered like a beacon at night, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the wet pavement. My heart pounded as I approached, the anticipation of seeing Paul again thrilling and terrifying me in equal measure. "Here goes nothing," I whispered, pushing open the door.

My eyes adjusted, and I spotted Paul sitting alone at a corner booth. "Hey, stranger," I said, sliding into the seat opposite him.

"This was the worst idea ever. Everyone is staring at me," I whispered. Even though the high back of the seats concealed us, I could see every pair of eyes that landed on me from strangers.

"Ignore it. The comfort zone is overrated." Paul craned his neck around the bar with a disapproving glare. "Are you going to keep yourself hidden away all evening?"

When I failed to reply, he got up, walked around the table, and almost settled in my lap. He draped an arm behind me. "Does this help?" he asked. "They will only stare until they realize there is nothing to see. So tell me, what's in Georgia this peach needs to get home to?"

"College in the fall. I'll start my master's degree." I sipped on a beer Paul had already ordered.

"You need to learn even more? You already seem pretty smart."

"It will make me even more qualified."

"Even more qualified for what?" he pressed.

"The job I get. I'm a student of Art History. When I find free time to pick up a brush and paint. I want to work in an art gallery—preserve the beauty of art while creating something unique and inspiring myself."

He smiled a little sadly. "Benton has seen every birthday I ever had. I'm a little envious of anyone who could up and leave whenever they wanted. Do you plan on staying in Georgia?"

I hesitated before answering. "It depends on where the best opportunities are for my field of study."

"I'm sure the best place for you is wherever your passion lies. But, if you already know the job you want, do it. If you like making art more than understanding the work of others, do it. But don't listen to me. I never went to college."

"Not for you?" I asked, now curious.

He shook his head and drained the last of his bottle. "I know what I'm good at and like what I do. Do you know what else? If you're unsure what job you want, a masters isn't the way forward unless it makes you happy."

Perhaps he sensed my inner conflict. He was perplexing. His question had been as raw as the truth got for me, and it would be a resounding no. I didn't think this applied to anyone. But did the idea of further education make me happy? His direct line of questioning didn't.

"It's a no, isn't it? Doesn't matter." He shrugged. "I don't trust people who are inherently happy all the time—it's not natural, but your work should make you happy most of the time."

Changing the subject, I said, "Did you ever think about leaving Benton?"

He gazed off into space and sighed. "A few times, I entertained the idea that the grass was greener, but I've been told it never is. Besides, Dad got sick, and we took over the garage. We've been pretty fucking good at it ever since."

"You'd never leave Benton? I miss home. I miss my friends."

"Take the moral of that story from someone who knows it well—home is where you make it. I don't remember my mother. I'm only Luke's half-brother. My family is my home."

With this, I set her bottle back on the table. "What happened to her?"

"Our dad married my mom after Luke's mother skipped town. Dad needed a mother for Luke. After I was born, she got sick and was pushing up the daisies by the time I turned three. I owe that man a debt for raising us both alone."

Dead parents were a factor we had in common. I was saddened to hear the story, for him but also for Luke, maybe, who lost not one but two mothers.

"It's long in the past," he said. "You don't have to worry about it."

Over the next hour, I told him tales of growing up in Georgia, and discussed several times what life might have looked like if I'd never left Benton as a child. His response was always the same—I was here now; the rest didn't matter. My foot tapped to an unheard rhythm beneath the table. A sudden, impulsive smile tugged at Paul's lips as he reached for my hand.

Before the bar's last call, he tugged me to my feet and the dance floor. No one was dancing. There was no music. "One dance, that's all. No one's looking anymore, see?" he gestured around.

"Paul, there's no music playing," I protested, but the grin on my face must have said I wasn't entirely against the idea.

He was already grinning and dragging my hand. "Come on. I gave you my life story. Can't end the night on a downer."

I hesitated, my gaze flicking between him and the empty space around us before sighing in resignation. "Alright, this once."

He placed my hands on the small of my back. "Is this okay?"

I nodded, and not for the first time in his presence; I was caught off guard. A sudden heat jolted through my body on contact with his. He leaned inches from my ear and whistled a tune as we danced until I forgot about everyone else in the room. I chanced a glance up to find Paul already staring. Without a doubt, he could feel the intensity of our connection.

"Are you missing home right now?" he asked.

"No." I tried to rein in my grin, but it had already broken. My first real one of the day.

It forced a smile of his own. He bit his lip down before releasing it again. " I am a miracle worker."

"You're teasing. Can I take it back?" I said.

He shook my head. "No way in hell. Not a chance. You keep that smile on your face. It suits you."

His arms circled my waist, and we started swaying to his music. Holding me the way he was now—I would be a goner if I wasn't careful. Paul smiled differently this time. Everything about that smile told me he had already won me over, but, this wasn't a game of losers and winners. I would be leaving town. He pulled me in closer, giving only a fraction of an inch more space to move around than before.

I paused and swallowed hard. We stared at each other for a long moment in an unusual silence which seemed to make everything else go still. I could feel the alcohol in my system, which only fueled the inappropriate thoughts that now started to dance around my head about Paul.

His gaze dropped down to my mouth. I'm not sure if he even knew he was doing it. Again, I reminded myself I was leaving. Indecisiveness flashed across his face, which suddenly made me feel more alert. My heart accelerated, beating right out of my chest. If he got any closer, I was sure he would be able to hear it. A rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins. Paul leaned in closer, and I needed to get a grip on myself. I was not sticking around once I sold.

My omission, however silent, caused him to sigh and pull back. The air between us was suddenly ten times as thick as it had been. I sucked in a quick breath and held onto it before steadily exhaling. He picked up my hand and escorted us out of the bar; the brisk night air nipped at our skin. The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie silver glow over the quiet streets.

The night had been wonderful. With each mile of the drive home I wished the night not to end. What waited at home was an empty house and my own company. The pull between Paul and I was notching up multiple gears at once, and I couldn't be the only one to sense it.

I was on edge and I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I opened my mouth prepared to say something but nothing came out. I didn't know what to say, other than I didn't want to be alone. I wanted the sleep his presence promised. The homesickness was epic. Maybe it was the house, a new town, or both that made it worse.

When we parked outside Lucille's, I didn't have a second to contemplate my goodbye's before Paul shut the engine off, walked around to open my door, and opened it. His hand clasped mine before turning toward Lucille's, gently tugging me to follow. He rummaged in my pocket with his free hand before finding what he needed. He put my key in the door, twisting the key in the lock before giving it a nudge with his shoulder to open it. Without a word, he walked me through, and I let him.

Striding over to the wardrobe, he gathered the sheet he had used the night before. He looked at me for permission. I smiled and nodded. He lay the out in the same order as he had done the night before.

I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The lack of love for the house showed in the pealing paint in the bathroom. I yanked the pull cord and the light flooded the bathroom. I stared in the mirror. Sleepless nights were still echoing over every part of my face. I turned away from my reflection at the same time a tight lump formed in my throat. I was becoming unrecognizable in every sense that mattered.

"You okay, Peach?"

When I didn't answer he came and stood behind me. His hands lightly gripped my elbows before the finest pads of his fingertips lightly ghosted my skin toward my shoulders, turning me to face the mirror on the wall again.

"Don't hide from yourself," Paul whispered into my ear. I watched his hand come up to my face brushing my corkscrew curls away from my face. He looked mesmerized and I was transfixed as I stood watching him in the mirror.

"You didn't deserve that accident. You don't deserve to feel this way now. None of this is okay. Let me help," he whispered again before he bent, pressing an innocent kiss on my head.

I nodded. And I meant it. I would let him help because by just being here, he was helping me already.