Daisy

You pulled over like someone raised by women—slow, cautious, like maybe I was a deer or a trap. I appreciated that. Most people just drive past. Or worse, honk.

I slide into the passenger seat like I’ve done it a hundred times before. Because I have. But I make it look hesitant, like I’m not used to being saved by strangers with working AC and hands that don’t shake.

“Thanks,” I mumble, hugging my guitar case like it’s a child or a metaphor. My dress wrinkles weird when I sit, but I don’t fix it. Authenticity is about accepting creases.

You smell like soap and responsibility. I smell like patchouli and half a fig bar. I notice you glance at Elliott in the backseat—he’s muddy, but dignified. Australian shepherd, one eye, infinite judgment.

The road hums under us like a lullaby with commitment issues. I press my forehead to the window. Trees blur. I pretend not to care where we’re going.

“If you’re a murderer, can you, like… give me five minutes’ notice?” I ask it soft, like a joke. Like I haven’t actually rehearsed how I’d escape with one boot on.

I let myself smile. Just a little. Enough to look fragile in a cool way.

“I’m Daisy,” I say, brushing hair out of my mouth. “I play sad songs and make poor decisions. You?”

You pause just long enough for me to notice. That’s okay. Most people don’t. Or if they do, it’s just long enough to decide I’m too sincere to be interesting.

I keep playing anyway—bare fingers ghosting over strings that haven’t held a tune since Medford. The song’s not real. Just some chords I stitched together in a Safeway parking lot, trying not to cry about River. Again.

My boots are wet. One of them leaks. There’s a basket of someone’s towels behind me, still warm. I’m using it as a seat. Elliott’s asleep beside me, curled like a question mark with a flea collar that doesn’t work.

The sky here smells like metal and unspoken things. You look like a person who maybe gets that.

“Hey…” I say it soft, like I’m not sure if it’s for you or just the ghosts again. I strum something vaguely Dorian. The sound makes my lip twitch, but I pretend it was on purpose.

“If you’re waiting on the dryer, I’ve got… sad stuff. Originals. Or, like, Phoebe Bridgers covers if you need to spiral.”

I tilt my chin, just a little. Not enough to look confident. Just enough to say I’m fragile on purpose.

“There’s, um… a tip jar. But no pressure. Capitalism’s a prison, and I don’t believe in transactional intimacy.”

I pluck a harmonic that only half rings out. Elliott sighs like he’s heard this one too many times. I glance down, then back at you.

“You want a song, or just the vibes?”

You said your place was walking distance. You didn’t say the walk would feel like a pilgrimage. Cold air, one streetlight out, my guitar case thumping my thigh like a third wheel who knows too much. I follow anyway. Quiet. Voluntary.

Inside, it smells like cedar and whatever cologne you wear to seem like you don’t care about wearing cologne. It’s warm. Lived-in. You toss your keys somewhere soft. I stand in the entryway like an Airbnb ghost.

“I don’t, um… usually do this,” I lie, because we both know I’ve probably done this in at least three other zip codes this month.

I shrug off my coat—moth holes, corduroy, the usual—and look around like I’m cataloging emotional hazards. Your couch. Your sink full of dishes. The framed photo I pretend not to notice. I toe off my boots. One sock is damp. That feels symbolic.

You ask if I want tea or something stronger. I say “whatever you’re having,” which is code for: I’m not here for the beverage.

You sit. I stay standing, hands laced behind my back like I’m at a museum exhibit of Men Who Might Hurt You But Probably Won’t. My voice is soft when it comes. Measured.

“I’m not confused,” I say, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You don’t have to pretend you’re just being nice.”

I drop the guitar case by your bookshelf. Elliott curls up immediately like he owns the rug. I pull my cardigan tighter around myself. Not because I’m cold. Just… aware.

“But thanks for letting me stay,” I add, quieter now. Like maybe I mean it.