Three days had passed since the pickup. Elena hadn't heard anything after that. Nothing.
Carmen had stopped asking after day two. There was nothing to say. It had been a weird situation that was done and never to be talked about again.
Now they were sitting outside a little lunch spot on a quiet street, the kind of place Carmen liked—plants in mismatched pots, handwritten menus on chalkboards, iced tea that came in mason jars.
Elena was halfway through a sandwich she barely tasted, sunglasses pushed up on her head, eyes tracking something across the street. Nothing in particular. Just watching the day move.
Carmen leaned back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, flicking crumbs off her lap.
"I'm just saying," she said, "if a man sends a guy in a suit to pick up his car instead of showing up himself, you don't wait around to hear from him again. You delete that drame. Reboot. Move on."
"I'm not waiting," Elena said without looking at her. "We agreed there was nothing else about this."
"But you're brooding."
"I'm eating."
"Same look, different verb."
Elena gave a faint smirk and took another bite. The breeze caught her hair, pulled it across her cheek. she pushed it back automatically.
Across the street, a black car turned the corner.
Elena didn't notice at first. Not untill the shape of it clicked in her brain a second too late.
The Mustang.
Same deep black. Same glint of chrome. Same low, smooth roll of its engine—barely audible but impossible to forget one you'd heard it.
It didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Just passed through the frame of her vision like something in a dream you weren't sure you had untill after you woke up.
Elena's hands froze on her glass.
Carmen caught the shift immediately. "What?"
Elena didn't answer. Just tracked the car's disappearing taillights with her eyes until it turned out of view.
She blinked, jaw tight, and reached for her drink just a little too late. Her fingers didn't quite close around the glass the first time.
Carmen didn't push. Not yet. Just watched her over the rim of her mason jar like she was waiting for Elena to admit something neither of them wanted to say out loud.
But Elena stayed quiet. Because what was there to say? She didn't know him. Didn't know where he lived, what he did, who he was when he wasn't behind the wheel of that car or standing in her garage like silence was his native language.
And yet.
Three days later, a glimpse of his car rolling through town, and something in her locked up like a bolt that wouldn't budge.
Why?
It wasn't like he'd promised anything. He hadn't even said goodbye. Hadn't explained why he didn't show. Hadn't asked if the car ran right. Hadn't—
Carmen shifted in her seat. "You good?"
Elena forced her shoulders to relax. "Fine."
But her thoughts didn't. Because she knew what this was. She'd felt it before—this itch in her chest. This gut feeling that something wasn't quite what it seemed. The car, the pickup, the man who'd left like he was never supposed to return.
It wasn't about him, not really. It was about the feeling he left behind. Like a question she wasn't allowed to ask but couldn't stop hearing.
Carmen finished the last bite of her sandwich and tossed the crumpled napkin onto her plate. She watched Elena for a moment—eyes distant, posture tight, fingers still tapping absently against the side of her glass.
Then she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.
"Okay," she said. "We're doing something tonight."
Elena didn't look up. "That sounds ominous."
Carmen tilted her head. "You need out of your own head. Out of the garage. Out of that look you get when you're trying too hard not to think."
"I'm not trying anything."
"Exactly." Carmen smiled. "Which is why i'm not giving you a choice."
Elena glanced at her now. Mildly skeptical.
Carmen continued. "There's a place i've been wanting to check out. Speakeasy vibe. Low light, slow music, drinks that cost too much and taste like burnt fruit."
Elena raised a brow. "You're really selling it."
"You'll love it. Or hate it. Either way, it'll be dark, loud enough, and full of strangers you'll never have to talk to again."
Elena paused. Then shrugged. "Fine."
They got home sometime mid-afternoon.
Elena went straight for the fridge. Carmen disappeared into her room with a sing-song "Don't wait up, i've got errands to run."
She knew what that meant. It meant shopping. It meant Carmen would come back with something unnecessarily dramatic. And something for Elena.
Probably black. Definitely something she wouldn't pick for herself. She didn't bother asking.
By the time Carmen walked back through the door two hours later, she was carrying two hangers, a bottle of wine, and a bag of chips.
"Don't say i never spoil you," she called, tossing the chips to the counter.
Elena glanced at the hangers, raised an eyebrow. "I told you i have clothes."
"You do," Carmen said, "and none of them say i came to drink something expensive and forget a man with a mysterious past."
"I'm not trying to forget anything."
"Exactly." Carmen held up one hanger—sleek black satin, minimal, clean lines. "That's why you're wearing this."
Elena stared at it. Then gave a dry, unimpressed look.
Carmen grinned. "Don't ask if it's too much."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were thinking it."
Elena took the hanger. Didn't argue. Just walked it back to her room without another word.
Carmen watched her go and smiled to herself. Because she already knew—Elena was going. And something about that felt important.