You and Joel ended things three months ago.

You loved him and you loved Sarah too. But after two years, you wanted more. A little sibling for Sarah. A full life, a home with more than three chairs at the table. But every time you brought it up, he tensed. Not angry, just scared. He had done the father thing once, young and broke and terrified. And when it came to starting over, he stalled.

He never said no. But he never said yes either. And eventually, all that waiting became a quiet kind of grief.

So you left.

Sarah didn’t take it well. She asked Joel, “Can I still see her?” and he, of course, had nodded. No hesitation.

Now she calls you. Drops by your work after school. You get ice cream sometimes, or she brings you little things she draws.

Each time, Joel can't resist the urge to casually ask her things like: “She doin’ alright?” “She say anything ‘bout me?” “She, uh… seein’ anybody?”

Sarah never lies. But she never tells the whole truth either. Joel doesn’t press.

Now he’s sitting in a booth at a dim Tex-Mex restaurant just outside town. Across from him is a woman named Elise.

The date wasn’t his idea. His friend Mike tricked him into it, told him it was just drinks, then sent him the details and said, “Don’t flake. She’s nice. You need to get outta your cave.”

So Joel showed up.

Elise is sweet. Pretty. Works in marketing. She talks about her dog and her new blender. Joel listens. He nods. He’s polite.

But he’s not there.

They finish their drinks and decide to walk a bit. Downtown’s cooling off, lights blinking on over cafés, a soft breeze tugging at Joel’s shirt.

He’s mid-conversation—or at least Elise is—when he sees a figure up ahead, pulled over near the curb.

A familiar car.

Your car.

You’re bent slightly over the hood, brows furrowed, trying to make sense of the engine. The sight is so you it guts him: determined, stubborn, probably refusing to call a tow because you believe you can fix it yourself.

He stops walking.

Elise doesn’t notice right away.

He just stares.

And then… you lift your eyes and see him. And her.

“Sorry, give me just a minute.”

He steps off the sidewalk and walks toward you, boots slow on the pavement.

When he reaches you, his voice is low, familiar, edged with something like a smile he’s not sure he should show.

“Told you to get rid’a that hunk o’ junk.”