Page 9 of Diesel’s Second Chance

The truth is I could've expanded years ago. Got the money, got the space. But expansion means commitment, means believing I'll be here in five years, ten years, twenty. And I've spent so long in a holding pattern… Waiting for June to move on, waiting for permission I'll never get, waiting for something to change, that permanence feels like a trap.

June takes a sip of her coffee, winces slightly. "Still make it strong enough to strip paint, I see."

"You used to drink it the same way."

"I've evolved." But she's smiling when she says it, and the tension that's been sitting between us since the diner eases just slightly.

Thunder cracks overhead, so loud it rattles the windows. June flinches, coffee sloshing in her mug. I reach over automatically to steady it, my hand covering hers for just a second before I pull back.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"It's fine." She sets the mug down, folds her hands in her lap. "I hate storms like this. They remind me of—"

She doesn't finish, but she doesn't have to. Tommy died on a day like this. Not quite this bad, but close. Rain coming down hard, roads slick, visibility terrible. The lumber mill accident happened at shift change, when everyone was rushing to get home before the weather got worse.

I was the one who got the call from the hospital. They couldn't reach June. Her phone was dead, she was at the grocery store, so they called me as next of kin proxy. Emergency contact. Best friend.

I drove to the hospital doing ninety in a forty-five, hydroplaned twice, didn't care. Got there to find doctors who looked too young and too tired telling me Tommy didn't make it, that the injuries were too severe, that there was nothing they could do.

I had to be the one to tell June. Had to watch her face break when I said the words. Had to hold her while she screamed and cried and tried to make sense of a world that suddenly didn't have Tommy in it.

Seven years later and I can still feel the weight of her against my chest, still hear the sound she made when the grief hit.

"I'm sorry," June says, pulling me back to the present. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"You didn't. The storm did." I pick up my coffee again, need something to do with my hands. "And it's okay. We don't have to pretend he didn't exist."

"No. We don't." She tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "But sometimes I wonder if we talk about him too much. If these dinners are... I don't know. Healthy."

My chest tightens. "You want to stop?"

"No." The answer comes fast, almost panicked. "No, I just... I wonder if we're stuck, you know? Both of us. Living in the past instead of moving forward."

"Are you?" I ask. "Moving forward?"

June looks away, stares at the rain streaking down the window. "I'm trying. Some days are better than others."

"Anyone special helping with that?" The question comes out more bitter than I intended. I've spent years bracing myself for the day June tells me she's seeing someone, that she's ready to try again, that some other man gets to be what I can't.

"No." She turns back to me. "There's been... interest. A few people have asked. But it never feels right."

I should want her to be happy, should want her to find someone who can give her the life she deserves. But the selfish part of me, the part that's loved her for two decades, can't stand the thought of someone else touching her, holding her, being what I've convinced myself I can never be.

"Why not?" I ask, even though I shouldn't.

June's quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Because they're not him."

Not Tommy. She's still in love with a ghost, still comparing every man to a memory that's been seven years frozen in time.

And I'm sitting here in love with her, knowing I can't compete with that. Won't even try.

"He'd want you to be happy," I say, because it's what Tommy would've wanted. He loved June completely, would've wanted her to have a full life even without him in it.

"I know." June's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "But knowing what he'd want and being able to do it are two different things."

Thunder rolls again, longer this time, and the lights flicker. June tenses, and I find myself shifting closer without conscious decision, some instinct to protect, to comfort, to be whatever she needs in this moment.