“No,” I say. “The universe does not get to interrupt us again.”
He smirks. “Check it.”
I do—and laugh.
carbutt69:WHEN IS THE FIRST DRIVE VIDEO???
greasegirl88:WE WANT to see that ENGINE PURRRRRRRR
ToolTimeTina:I need more Grumpy Mechanic content immediately
“Guess they’re ready,” I say.
His grin widens, wolfish. “They can wait their turn. Today is for us. I’m driving you to that ice cream stand. The one your grandpa took you to when you were a kid.”
My throat tightens. I throw my arms around his neck and hold tight.
The Mustang gleams behind us.
She might be the reason we met.
But he’s the reason I’m not alone anymore.
Epilogue
Nolan
One Year Later
The Mustang still purrs like she knows every mile of this road by heart.
Even now, a year later, she rides smooth and proud, her new heart still strong.
My hand rests on Sally’s thigh as we cruise the stretch of winding two-lane toward the old ice cream stand, just like last summer. But this time, there’s no sadness tucked under my ribs. No ache behind my smile.
Only sunlight. And her.
I grin. “She’s still got it.”
“I told you she would,” Sally says smugly.
“I wasn’t talking about the car.” My pulse forgets how to behave as my thumb strokes slow circles on her skin.
So much has changed, yet this feels like the only road that’s ever mattered.
We moved into her grandparents’ place last fall. Started small by repainting the kitchen and fixing the porch swing. But one project led to another, and before long, we were stripping wallpaper and rewiring light fixtures. We made it ours. Not just her inheritance, our home.
I still work at Clover Canyon Autos. George says I bring in more business than the shop signs do. Classic rebuilds mostly—Mustangs, Chevelles, the occasional GTO. Word’s spread. Collectors are bringing their babies in for me to restore. I try to say no. Sally says I’m terrible at it.
She’s still working remotely for the nonprofit. That heart of hers is too big to keep still.
And the YouTube channel? Took off like a rocket after ouraccidental momenton camera went viral. Now she films almost everything we do. Rebuilds, road trips, Q&A’s. She even convinced me to let her filmmesometimes. I grumble, but I secretly don’t mind—especially when she calls me her “resident heartthrob mechanic” in the comments.
We pull into the gravel lot by the creek with its peeling picnic tables. But everything feels brighter. Like time has made space for joy.
I park beneath the oak tree—our tree now—and cut the engine.
Sally shifts toward me. “So… why the detour?”
