Chapter Text
Janessa Reynolds had never thought of herself as lonely.
Single? Yes. Frequently. Chronically, even. But lonely? Absolutely not. She had friends, a job she (mostly) liked, hobbies that kept her occupied, and a cat named Marzipan who could hold a staring contest for an unnervingly long time. What more could a woman need?
Her apartment was a reflection of her. It was cozy, lived in, and just the right amount of chaotic. A line of mismatched coffee mugs decorated her kitchen shelf, each with a different sarcastic slogan. Potted plants lined the windowsill, every one named after a 90s sitcom character. There was Monica, who thrived in direct sunlight, and Joey, who had been on the verge of death three times but bounced back each time with surprising enthusiasm.
By day, Janessa worked as a graphic designer for a small marketing firm. By night, she was a trivia night ringer, a romance novel reader (though she swore reading them was purely ironic), and an amateur baker with a special talent for setting off her smoke alarm. Her parents, two hours away in a sleepy suburban town, regularly hinted- no, stated outright- that she should “settle down” before she “aged out of the dating pool,” as if she were a carton of milk with a looming expiration date.
It was on a mild Thursday afternoon that she padded down the stairs to her apartment building’s mailboxes, Marzipan’s soft meow trailing her to the door. The metal boxes were all painted the same dull gray, but hers practically gleamed in her eyes. Because she knew what was inside.
Bills.
Flyers.
A glossy supermarket coupon booklet. And there it was.
A cream envelope, sealed with a tiny red wax stamp. Her heart gave a tiny skip. Not from romance, but from pride. She didn’t need to open it; she’d written it herself the night before while sipping peppermint tea and watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off. She knew the words by heart.
"Counting the days until I see you again, my love. The sunsets aren’t half as beautiful without you here."
Corny? Sure. Effective? Oh, absolutely.
Tucking it carefully into her bag, she headed down the block toward Finnegan’s, the coffee shop where her friends met every Thursday evening.
The group was already gathered around their usual table. Claire and Sam were married for three years and still insufferably cute about it. Maya and Trent were two months into dating and still glowing like a well lit storefront. Alex was perched at the end of the table with his ever-present smirk, sipping a black coffee like it was a calculated power move. The only reason Janessa even put up with him in the first place was because he happened to be friends with Sam and Trent.
“Hey, Ness!” Claire waved her over. “You look smug about something. Spill.”
Janessa slid into the empty seat. “Well, I might have received another letter today.”
That got everyone’s attention. She produced the envelope like it was a precious artifact. Claire gasped, Maya leaned in, and Sam immediately reached for it.
Maya squealed with a mix of joy and envy. “Oh my God! Trent, baby, take notes!”
Trent laughed. “Yeah, let me just break out the calligraphy set I don’t own.”
Sam cleared his throat and read aloud in a dramatic tone: “Counting the days until I see you again, my love. The sunsets aren’t half as beautiful without you here.”
“Awwww!" Claire and Maya chorused.
“That’s adorable." Sam said, handing it back with exaggerated care.
Janessa feigned modesty, tucking the letter away again. “He’s just romantic like that.”
Across the table, Alex rested his chin on one hand, watching her with narrowed eyes. “Must be nice. Shame we’ve never met him.”
Janessa’s smile wavered for just a second. “He’s busy. Work trips. You know how it is.”
“Mmhmm,” Alex said, in a tone that could mean 'I believe you or I absolutely do not believe you'.
Claire, oblivious to the brewing tension, leaned forward. “Tell him we all said hi.”
“Oh, I will.” Janessa said, with a confidence she did not feel.
By the time she left the café, her friends’ coos and sighs still ringing in her ears, the sky was turning dusky pink. She clutched her bag a little tighter, thinking about the next letter she’d “receive.” Maybe something about longing glances under Paris streetlamps. Or a poem about her laugh.
The possibilities were endless. And as far as Janessa was concerned, her secret was perfectly safe.
Except she couldn’t quite shake the feeling of Alex’s eyes on her, sharp and amused, like he was waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Janessa wasn’t the only one with a letter that day.
Across town, Mickey Callahan leaned against the hood of her ’67 Pontiac GTO, reading a postcard from her younger sister. The handwriting was neat but hurried, like someone scribbling between customers at the diner where she worked.
"Don’t forget Mom’s birthday dinner this Sunday. Bring dessert. And no, beer doesn’t count as dessert."
The corner of Mickey’s mouth tugged upward. She slid the postcard into her jacket pocket before opening the driver’s door. The leather seat gave its familiar creak under her weight, and when she turned the key, the GTO roared to life- a deep, throaty rumble that had a way of cutting through even the worst morning moods.
The streets blurred past in shades of gray and gold as she headed to work, the cool wind pushing through the driver’s side window. She pulled into the lot behind Eddie’s Garage, parking the GTO in her usual spot- close enough to keep an eye on it, far enough that it wouldn’t catch stray flecks of paint or grit from other jobs.
Inside, the shop was already alive with the familiar symphony of clanging tools, the scent of motor oil and rubber tires heavy in the air. Eddie, the gruff, barrel chested owner, gave her a nod from across the floor.
“Mick! Mustang’s being a brat again.” He called.
“When isn’t it?” She replied, tossing her jacket on a nearby hook and grabbing her toolbox.
Eddie liked to say she was the best mechanic he’d ever had, and Mickey never disagreed. She could strip down an engine, replace its guts, and have it purring again before most people could make a sandwich. Customers didn’t always expect the quiet, sharp eyed figure with the oil stained hands to be the one who’d fix their problems. More than once, she’d seen the flicker of surprise in their eyes- sometimes relief, sometimes disbelief- when she was the one who stepped out from under the hood.
It didn’t help that she regularly got mistaken for a man. At six feet tall with broad shoulders, a lean, rectangular face, and a way of moving that spoke more of efficiency than grace, strangers often defaulted to “sir” before she even opened her mouth. The ball caps she favored didn’t help much, either. She’d stopped correcting everyone a long time ago; the work spoke for itself.
In the corner of the shop, her pride and joy waited: a restored 1954 Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle, its black paint gleaming like obsidian under the fluorescent lights. She’d done every inch of the work herself. No one else was allowed to so much as dust it.
Mickey kept her circle of friends small, the kind of people who understood that 'going out' meant late night diner coffee or winding backroads at forty five miles an hour, not packed clubs or noisy bars. Her family lived close enough to drop by, sometimes unannounced- her mother with home cooked leftovers, her sister with coffee and the latest diner gossip.
Today was nothing special. Oil changes. Brake jobs. A stubborn carburetor on that same ’72 Mustang, determined to test her patience. She worked with quiet focus, the hum of the shop as steady as her breathing.
And yet, under all that routine, life had a way of creeping in uninvited. Somewhere out there, someone else’s trouble was winding its way toward her- and she had no idea she was about to get pulled into it.