#jace writes

The text comes at 2:03am. You don’t see it until your alarm goes off several hours later. It’s from a number that you’ve had saved for years, not brave enough to reach out but not strong enough to let it go.

There are no words, just what looks to be a link to a YouTube video. Normally, you’d be hesitant to click on random links texted to you, but it’s him; you know it’s safe.

So, while you’re waiting for your ancient coffee maker to finish brewing, you open it.

You hear the gentle guitar pour out of your speakers, and then the lyrics come in:

“Time, it needs time, To win back your love again. I will be there, I will be there.”

You sink to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, coffee long forgotten.

You sit in shocked silence as the song continues to play. The last chorus, in particular, catches your attention:

“If we'd go again, All the way from the start, I would try to change The things that killed our love. Yes, I’ve hurt your pride, And I know what you’ve been through. You should give me a chance, This can’t be the end. I’m still loving you.”

The song ends, and then it’s just you, alone in your kitchen again.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You stare down at your phone, at the innocuous video that has totally upended your day. You go back to your messages app, trying to figure out how the hell you’re supposed to respond to something like this. You don’t even know where in the world he is; last you heard, he was somewhere in South America..

You want to be mad at him, for pulling this shit after years of radio silence. You want to delete the text and block his number and maybe throw your phone in the nearest body of water for good measure.

You can’t, though.

You can’t, because you feel exactly the same way.

With trembling hands, you type out a reply:

Can we talk?

It’s been a hell of a week, and it’s only Tuesday. After a disastrous work day full of dumbasses and delays, Tommy insists on going to the bar, and it doesn’t take much convincing at all before Joel agrees.

The bar is crowded for the middle of the week, Joel thinks. Groups of people are gathered around nearly all the tables, and the stage is illuminated.

“Music tonight?” Joel asks the bartender after flagging her down.

“Trivia night,” she says, handing Joel and Tommy their beers.

The brothers manage to snag two bar stools next to one another, chatty idly about everything other than work.

After a few minutes, a man gets up on stage, and the game begins.

Joel has never been much for trivia. He’s not dumb by any means, but he’s also not one of those people who can name all the presidents in alphabetical order, or whatever. Still, he finds himself captivated by the game before him, watching just as intently as he would any football game.

You draw his attention early on, even from across the room. You’re the spokesperson for your team, and Joel can tell you know your stuff. It also doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eyes, even in your simple t-shirt and jeans. As Joel watches the game unfold, he can’t help but silently root for your team, and he’s pleased to see you and your teammates take home the (plastic) trophy.

You’re beaming as you head over to the bar for a refill, serendipitously ending up on Joel’s end of the bar.

Tommy elbows Joel in the ribs. Joel glares at him, but Tommy just gives him a look and gets up from his stool, wandering away to God knows where.

Joel clears his throat after you’ve ordered your drink. “You’re awful good at that,” he compliments.

You feel heat rushing to your cheeks, and you smile despite yourself. “I watch a lot of Jeopardy!” you say by way of explanation.

Joel considers this. He hasn’t thought about that show in years, didn’t even know it was still airing. “That Trebek guy still hosting?”

“Oh, no.” You shake your head with a slight frown. “He died, like, three years ago.”

You look almost sad about it, Joel thinks. He almost wants to apologize for your loss, but realizes how ridiculous that would sound. Instead, he asks, “Who’s hosting now, then?”

“Ken Jennings,” you answer, perking up again.

“Ken Jennings,” Joel repeats. “That sounds familiar.”

“Yeah, he had a seventy-four game winning streak in”—your eyes turn up towards the ceiling in thought and you scrunch your nose up in a way that Joel thinks is adorable—”2003, I think?”

“Ah, must’a heard about it on the news back then,” he says with a nod.

You nod alongside him. “Yeah, he does a really good job.” You pause to take a sip of your drink. “God, and don’t even get me started on the hosting debacle that happened after Alex’ death.”

Joel has no idea what you’re talking about, but he chuckles anyway. It’s been a while since he’s talked to anyone like this. Is this what flirting is like nowadays? Well, he supposes, it’s working on him—you’ve got him completely enamored with you and your little game show facts.

You and Joel end up closing down the bar together. It’s just the two of you and one slightly disgruntled bartender who has been dutifully cleaning all the tables around you. To be perfectly honest, Joel has no idea when Tommy had gone home; he’s been so wrapped up in you the whole night. Tommy will definitely give him shit about it the next time he sees him.

You had, in fact, gotten started on the Jeopardy! hosting drama at some point. There are a lot of names thrown around that Joel doesn’t recognize, but you’re so damn enthusiastic that he doesn’t have the heart to stop you.

Eventually, the discussion turns away from game shows. You talk to each other about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing as freely as the drinks.

All good things must come to an end, though.

“Alright, I’ve gotta close up now,” the bartender announces.

After a playful squabble over who will pay the tab (which Joel ends up covering), you reluctantly make your way out of the bar, the neon “open” sign going dark behind you.

Joel, being the gentleman that he is, offers to walk you home. You pick up right where you had left off at the bar, but, all too soon, you’ve reached your place.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you say with a smile, twirling your keys around your index finger.

“Yeah, me, too,” Joel agrees. “I don’t want to be too forward, and there’s no obligation, but is there any chance I can get your number?”

You beam at him. “I thought you’d never ask. Gimme your phone.”

Joel complies and watches as you add in your contact info and send a text to yourself.

He returns his phone to his pocket and says, “I might be pushing my luck here, but any chance you’d wanna go out to dinner one night?”

You smile again and nod enthusiastically. “I’d love that.”

“Alright,” Joel says, smiling back. “I’ll be in touch.”

He’s feeling bold. The alcohol is still coursing through his veins, giving him the push he needs to lean forward and kiss you on the cheek. He hopes he’s not imagining the way he feels your skin warm under his lips.

You giggle—an honest-to-God giggle. You’re going to be the death of him. “Good night, Joel,” you say.

“Good night, darlin’,” he returns, making sure you’re safely inside before heading back home, grinning like an idiot the whole way.

You go out to dinner that Friday.

“I’m missing Jeopardy! over this, you know,” you tell him while you scan the menu.

“Well, I’m honored,” Joel says with a laugh.

“I think it’ll be worth it,” you say with a broad smile.

Friday dinners become your thing. You usually meet at a restaurant, but, a few weeks in, Joel has an idea: he invites you over for takeout and Jeopardy! You seem thrilled at the prospect.

And so, he finds himself sitting next to you on the couch, a pizza box open on the coffee table in front of you. He’s got the TV tuned in to the right station, and it’s just a matter of minutes before the show will begin.

Just like on that trivia night, Joel finds himself totally wrapped up in the fast-paced game. He quickly learns that you like to shout out the answers, and he joins in when he can. It’s the most fun he’s had in a long time.

All too soon, it seems, half an hour has gone by, and the credits are rolling. Joel clicks the power button on the remote. The TV screen goes dark, and the living room falls silent.

“So?” you prompt. “What do you think of Ken?”

“Jennings ain’t bad,” Joel admits, “but he’s no Alex Trebek, that’s for sure.”

That Tuesday, you invite Joel to trivia night. You fall into an easy routine: trivia on Tuesdays, Jeopardy! on Fridays, date nights every other weekend. For the first time in a long time, Joel feels content.

“They have old episodes that you can stream, you know,” you say one night after the show ends.

It’s been a couple of months, and things are going quite well, if Joel does say so himself. You’ve met Tommy and Sarah, and they’ve both given their stamp of approval.

“That so?” Joel asks, tightening the arm he has around your shoulder.

“Yeah. I can set it up, if you’re not all Jeopardy!’d out for the night.”

“Pfft, never,” he says.

You grin, grabbing the remote and navigating to Pluto, picking an episode at random. A younger, mustachioed Alex Trebek fills the screen.

As the episode plays, you’re still answering clues like normal, but you also keep sneaking glances at Joel throughout the game.

Finally, during the Double Jeopardy round, he pauses the show. “Okay, what is it?”

“What do you mean?” you ask a little sheepishly.

“Why do you keep looking at me?” He runs a hand across the scruff on his cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”

You laugh. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…” You hesitate.

“Yeah?” he urges.

You cut your eyes between Alex on screen and Joel on the couch. “You look kinda like Alex Trebek,” you blurt out.

Joel is stunned into silence for a moment. He studies the man on the TV, with his graying hair and mustache. He’s not a bad looking man, but—

“Are you sure?” he asks. He feels almost shy all of a sudden. He knows he’s getting older; his hair is more gray than brown, and the lines on his face have gotten deeper. But, still, does that mean he’s old? Getting compared to an old, now-dead game show host has brought all of his anxieties about aging to the front of his mind.

You nod. “Positive,” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts before they can spiral any further. You grin. “I’ve always had a thing for him, you know.”

“W—Who?” Joel stutters, not sure he’s heard you right.

“Alex Trebek,” you clarify, your grin widening.

Joel hums. “That so, darlin’?” he asks mildly, but he’s not quite able to keep the smirk off his face. “What do you think—should I get rid of the beard, just keep the mustache?”

You slap his shoulder lightly. “Shut up,” you mutter. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

He breaks out into a wide grin and leans in to steal a kiss. “You know I’m kidding, darlin’.” He looks to the TV screen again, and then he turns back to you, eyes softening. “I could do a lot worse than Trebek, I s’pose.”

“It’s a compliment!” you insist.

“I know, I know,” he says, kissing you again. “God, I love you.”

The words slip out without him even realizing. It’s not until he sees your eyes widen a little that he comprehends the weight of what he’s just said. Fuck. He’s gone and fucked this whole thing up, hasn’t he? Can he…take it back? But he doesn’t want to. It’s true, he realizes—he really does love you.

“I love you, too,” you say breathlessly, wrapping your arms around him tightly.

Joel breathes a sigh of relief as he hugs you. He takes another glance at the TV from over your shoulder, where the still image of Alex Trebek stares back at him. Joel must be imagining it, but…it almost looks like Trebek is winking at him.

The tree goes up the day after Thanksgiving. It’s a nice tree, not too big or too small. It sits in front of the living room window that faces the street, the mix of colorful and white lights reflecting softly against the glass. It’s almost perfect, except…it doesn’t seem to have any ornaments.

Joel steals glances at his neighbor’s house throughout the day, but nothing changes. Days pass, and the tree stays bare, save for the lights.

That just won’t do, Joel thinks to himself.

Joel wouldn’t say that he knows you very well. You’re friendly with one another, sure, but in a surface-level, neighborly kind of way. He knows you moved in across the street less than a year ago and that you live alone. He knows that you’ve been feeding the stray cat that roams the neighborhood. He knows you’re cute, though he tries not to think about that too much. He’s got his hands full with Sarah, anyway, he tells himself.

It’s still November, but the stores have had their Christmas displays up since Halloween, so he has no trouble finding what he’s looking for. He finds a cute, little ornament that bears a striking resemblance to that stray cat you seem to like so much, with a Santa hat adorned on its head. He can’t help but smile softly as he buys it, and he puts it in a box, intending to give it to you on December 1st. That should be the end of it.

He doesn’t mean for it to get as out of hand as it does, really. He thought he’d get you the one ornament and leave it at that. But, every time he goes out, a new, sparkly object catches his eye, and he can’t help himself.

Sarah catches on quickly. “Since when are you so full of Christmas cheer?” she asks him when he stops to look at ornaments during their weekly grocery shopping trip.

He tries to brush it off, but she won’t let it go, so he tells her his plan.

“Finally,” Sarah says with what sounds like relief.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Joel asks.

“You’ve had a crush for months. It’s about time you made a move.”

Joel feels the tips of his ears heat up. Had he really been that obvious? Or is his daughter just too damn nosy?

He quickly picks out an ornament—a simple snowflake—and changes the subject, asking Sarah what she wants for dinner that night as they head down the next aisle.

The night of November 30th, Joel pulls out the little box that contains the cat ornament. He feels like a creep as he crosses the street to leave the gift on your doorstep. He spares a glance at your tree through the window, still without decorations. He nods firmly to himself once, then carefully places the box on the center of your welcome mat, before making his way back to the safety of his own home. He hopes no one saw him.

You almost don’t see it. You’re rushing out the door, travel mug full of coffee in hand and still not fully slid into your shoes. Honestly, it’s a miracle you don’t trip over it. But, it does catch your eye, and you pause for a moment to pick it up, taking the time to get your shoes the rest of the way on while you’re stopped.

It’s a little, green box with a red bow. Your curiosity piqued, you carefully lift the lid. There, nestled among crumpled, white tissue paper, is a cat figurine wearing a Santa hat, with a loop of ribbon adhered to its head—an ornament. You pick up the cat and find a note folded underneath it.

Happy December -your Secret Santa

You look around, as if you expect this Secret Santa to jump out and shout, “Surprise!” The street is quiet, though, and you return your gaze to the note and its cramped handwriting.

You have no idea who could have done this. It’s not like you’ve really made any friends since moving to Austin over the summer, and none of your family lives close by. The move had been sudden, and you hadn’t been able to bring everything with you—like, for example, your holiday decorations. You had gotten a tree and new lights as soon as you were able to, but it just didn’t look right without the ornaments. You’d been meaning to get some, but the thought of filling the whole tree felt daunting, and you didn’t just want to cover it with generic baubles.

You can’t help but feel a rush of excitement run through you as you grasp the little cat ornament. The calico fur pattern looks exactly like your Bean (full name: Green Bean Casserole). Well, she’s not really yours yet, but you’ve slowly been gaining her trust in hopes of making her your own pet.

Smiling, you quickly go back inside to hang the Bean look-alike on your tree, making sure that it’s visible from the window.

You’re grinning as you double-check that your front door is locked and get into your car. The only thing that makes your smile waver is a glance at your car’s clock. Shit, now you really are late for work. You start your commute, feeling lighter than you have in months.

When Joel gets back from dropping Sarah off at school, he’s happy to see that, not only is the box off your step, but you’ve already hung up the cat ornament. You must have liked it, then. That’s good. Joel had been second-guessing himself, despite Sarah’s reassurances that his little plan was “adorable.” He’s smiling like a fool as he gets himself ready for his work day and heads off to the site to meet Tommy.

It happens again the next day. You’re doing much better on time this morning; you had time to drink your coffee in the kitchen, and your shoes are even all the way on your feet as you head out the door.

You look down at your mat, and, sure enough, there is another little box—this time, it has red and white stripes with a gold bow. You feel positively giddy as you open up the present. Today, you find a simple but elegant snowflake ornament, paired with another note.

There isn’t much snow in Austin, so this will have to do -your Secret Santa

Again, you go back inside to hang up your new ornament before heading off to work, more than ready to face the day.

“So, what’s tomorrow’s ornament?” Sarah asks during dinner.

Joel considers this for a moment before answering, “The gingerbread man, I reckon.”

Sarah’s face lights up. “Can we make cookies to go with it?”

“Well, I–” Joel sputters.

“Come on, Dad,” she pleads. “It’ll be great!”

“Would you eat cookies from a stranger?” he asks, pointing his fork at her.

“I mean, probably, if they looked good.” Sarah shrugs.

Joel puts his face in his hands and groans. “We’ve gotta work on your stranger danger skills, young lady.”

Sarah seemingly ignores him, getting up to clear the table before rummaging around in the kitchen cabinets.

Joel looks up, not at all surprised to see her gathering the ingredients to make cookies. With a sigh, he stands up to preheat the oven.

On the third day, you find a slightly bigger box on your doorstep. You open it to find three things: a gingerbread man ornament, another note, and a Ziploc bag of what look to be homemade gingerbread cookies. The note reads:

Had my little elf help with the cookies. Enjoy -your Secret Santa

You can’t help yourself; you immediately open the bag and take a whiff of the cookies. They smell delicious. You throw them in your work bag, intending on eating them during your lunch break.

“Those look good,” a voice calls from across the break room. It’s Angela, your work friend. Okay, “friend” is a strong word. Maybe she’s more of an acquaintance? It’s not like you ever hang out outside of work, but she’s friendly enough with you during work hours.

You pause with a cookie halfway to your mouth.

“Did you make them?” she asks as she takes a seat across from you.

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “My, um, Secret Santa made them.”

Angela’s eyes sparkle. “Oooh, who’s your Secret Santa?” she asks, leaning in.

“I don’t know,” you say. “It’s a secret.”

“It’s not a work thing, is it? I hadn’t heard anything.”

“No.” You shake your head. “Honestly, I have no idea who it could be. It has to be one of my neighbors. That’s all I can figure.”

“Wait, some random person made you cookies, and you’re eating them?”

“Well, I haven’t eaten one yet, but, yeah?” you say, your voice tilting up in question.

“What if they’re poisoned?” she gasps.

“I really don’t think any of my neighbors want to poison me.” You take your first bite of cookie. They taste even better than they smell, the warm spices dancing across your taste buds. With a shrug, you swallow and say, “I’ll take my chances, I guess.”

The ornaments keep coming. Every day, you find a new one waiting for you, and it’s becoming your favorite part of your morning routine. Today’s ornament was a glittery candy cane that you happily add to your growing collection.

It’s Saturday, and you’re outside getting your mail. It’s nice, the possibility that a Christmas card could be mixed in among the never-ending bills and junk mail. You quickly flip through the stack of envelopes and smile as you spot one from your aunt.

You’re about to head back inside when you hear a voice call your name. You look up to see your neighbor’s daughter, Sarah, on her bike. She comes to a stop on the street in front of you.

“Hey, Sarah,” you greet.

“Hi!” she says. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I love your Christmas tree.”

You follow her eyes to your living room window. “Oh, thank you,” you say, turning back to her with a smile.

“I love the ornaments,” she continues. There is a look in her eye that you can’t quite place. She looks almost mischievous, but that doesn’t make any sense. She’s just being polite.

“Yeah, me, too.” You debate getting into the whole Secret Santa thing, but before you can say anything further, a truck comes down the street and parks in the Millers’ driveway.

“Oh, that’s my Uncle Tommy,” Sarah says. “I’ve gotta go. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” you call back as she pedals across the street and into the driveway, making like she’s going to run over her uncle as he exits his truck. Their laughter is infectious as they head inside. You feel the slightest pang of sadness as you watch them, but quickly shake it off and return to your own home.

It’s the evening of December 23rd—“Christmas Eve Eve,” as Sarah calls it. Joel is sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the final gift box. He feels as nervous as he did that first night at the end of November.

“Are you gonna chicken out?” Sarah asks as she pours herself a glass of water.

“No, I ain’t,” Joel insists, shaking his head.

“Then quit staring at that thing and go deliver it,” she says, rolling her eyes. Her expression softens as she adds, “It’s gonna be fine, Dad.”

Joel looks up at her earnestly. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

With a grunt, Joel stands up from the table, box in hand. Sarah whoops as he heads out the front door.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, you once again find a present waiting for you at your front door. Still in your pajamas, you quickly grab the box and close the door, heading over to your couch to examine it.

You open the box and gasp. Staring back at you is a wooden heart with the year engraved into the center. Based on its slightly rough edges, it appears to be hand-carved. Eagerly, you unfold the note that’s underneath it.

This is the last ornament. Hope you like it. I made it special -your Secret Santa

Along with the message, a phone number has been carefully scrawled across the bottom of the paper. Your heartbeat quickens as you stare at the digits. After twenty-four days, you can’t believe that you are finally going to find out who your Secret Santa is.

You feel butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you pick up the phone, your hand shaking slightly as you dial the number.

On the third ring, a voice answers, “Hello?” It’s a man’s voice, but you can’t place it.

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth feels very dry all of a sudden.

“Hello?” the voice says again, a little louder.

You exhale shakily. “Hi,” you manage to squeak out. “I’m, uh, trying to find out who my Secret Santa is?” God, you sound ridiculous. What if he doesn’t know what the hell you’re talking about? What if you dialed the wrong number? What if—?

Before your mind can spiral too far, the man on the other end of the line chuckles. “That would be me,” he admits sheepishly.

“And who would you be?” you ask breathlessly.

“Joel,” he says. “Joel Miller.”

Joel? Joel Miller is your Secret Santa? Sure, you’ve always tried to be friendly with him and his daughter, but you didn’t think you were at gift-giving levels of closeness with him. Secretly, you’d been crushing on Joel since you first moved into the neighborhood, but you’d done your best to tamp those feelings down.

“You still there, sweetheart?” Joel asks.

You realize that you’ve been silent for too long as your thoughts have been racing. “Um, yeah, Joel, still here,” you say.

Joel chuckles again, and you can tell there’s no malice behind it.

“The heart, did you make that yourself?” you blurt out, still turning the ornament over in your hand.

“I did,” he admits. “What’d you think?”

“I love it,” you tell him. “I’ve loved all of them. This has been my favorite Christmas in a long time.” Before you can lose your nerve, you add, “Could I treat you to dinner sometime? As a thank you?”

“Aw, you don’t have to—” Joel starts.

“But I want to, really.”

You can swear you hear the smile in Joel’s voice as he says, “Yeah, I’d like that. Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Joel.”

As the phone call ends, you let out a breath and lean back against the couch, head tilted up towards the ceiling.

Joel Miller was your Secret Santa. You were going to go on a date with Joel Miller. Okay, maybe you couldn’t call it a date, but still, it was something.

You hang up the phone and stand from the couch, heading over to the tree to add your newest ornament. As you finish hanging the wooden heart, you hear a meow from under the tree.

“Oh, hey, Bean.” You smile softly down at the cat lying on the tree skirt. You’d finally coaxed her into the house last week, and she was settling in quite nicely.

You admire your beautifully decorated tree, then sneak a glance to the Millers’ house across the street. The lights are on, making the space look warm and inviting. You smile again.

Yes, this was definitely shaping up to be your best Christmas yet, and you had a feeling there were many more to come.

“Photographs and memories, Birthday cards you sent to me. All that I have are these, To remember you.”

“You’re doing it again,” Sarah says flatly from Joel’s bedroom doorway.

“Yeah, you caught me,” Joel acquiesces with a sigh. He sets the shoe box full of photographs that he’d been sifting through aside on the bed.

“You could call, you know. Make things right,” she suggests.

“No, I can’t,” he argues, but there’s no bite to it. He’s too tired for that.

It’s been like this for weeks now—Joel glumly looking back on your relationship, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. He keeps going back to the photos, where the two of you look so damn happy, and the birthday cards, where you’d poured your soul into heartfelt notes meant just for him. Where had he gone wrong? What had changed?

“Yes, you can.” His daughter’s voice brings him back to the present.

“Don’t you have homework to do, or something?” he asks gruffly.

“It’s summer, Dad,” she points out with a roll of her eyes.

“Right,” he mutters. He can’t help but take another glance at the open shoe box. The photo on top shows the two of you at the beach, Joel’s arm around your waist, sunglasses perched on top of your head as you smile brightly at the camera.

“Anyway, I’m going over to Stephanie’s house,” she says. “Please don’t still be sitting here when I get back.”

“Be safe!” he calls out to her as she walks away.

With a sigh, Joel puts the lid back on the shoe box and returns it to its spot on the floor of his closet.

“Memories that come at night, Take me to another time, Back to a happier day, When I called you mine.”

Joel’s lying wide awake in bed. He squints at the alarm clock on his bedside table. 2:51, the display reads.

He can’t stop thinking about you—about your smile, your voice, everything. He remembers the way you danced in the kitchen while cooking dinner, the way you laughed unabashedly loudly at his dumb jokes.

Joel sighs deeply as he looks up at the dark ceiling above him. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine you beside him in bed, sleeping peacefully. It wasn’t that long ago that that was his reality. Now, the other side of the bed is cold. He’s since washed the sheets, and the scent of your sweet perfume is no longer lingering on the pillowcase.

With a groan, he rolls over, pressing his face into his pillow. He needs to get a grip, move on with his life.

But he can’t. He can’t stop thinking about you, no matter what he does.

He sits up in bed, reaches over to turn on the bedside lamp, and grabs the book he’s been reading, resigning himself to yet another restless night.

“But we sure had a good time, When we started way back when. Morning walks and bedroom talks, Oh, how I loved you then.”

Joel’s staring straight ahead at the road as he drives to work, but his mind is elsewhere. He can’t help but think about you, sitting in the passenger’s seat, fiddling with the radio and sticking your hand out the window to feel the breeze between your fingers.

He thinks back to the beginning of your relationship—the “honeymoon phase,” Sarah had called it. That kid is wise beyond her years.

He thinks about the walks you’d take on weekend mornings. He’d hated it, at first, getting up at the crack of dawn when he could be sleeping in a little while longer, but your joy was infectious. You always admired the little things, took time to acknowledge the beauty of the world around you. You’d point out flowers on your walk, get excited anytime you passed a dog.

He thinks about lying on his side in the dark next to you, face mere inches away from yours, as you talked about everything and nothing, how you’d shared your greatest fears and hopes for the future.

He thinks about—

“Joel!” Tommy practically shouts, snapping him back to the present.

“What?” he snaps, irritated at having been interrupted. “You just drove past the site, dumbass,” Tommy says.

“Shit.”

“Summer skies and lullabies, Nights we couldn’t say goodbye. And of all of the things that we knew, Not a dream survived.”

Crickets chirp as Joel sits on his back porch, nursing a beer and looking up at the stars dotting the cloudless sky.

He can’t help but be transported to the night he’d taken you stargazing. He’d driven you out and away from the city and parked in a beautiful, quiet area. The truck bed was filled with pillows and blankets, allowing the two of you to lay side by side and look up at the sky. Joel had spent more time looking at you, though, at the way the starlight reflected in your wonder-filled eyes.

He takes a sip of his beer and remembers how hard it had been to say goodbye that night—or every night, really. He never wanted to leave your side, never wanted the night to end, and you felt the same.

And now, here he sits, all alone.

He thinks about all the plans he’d had for your future together, the future he was so sure about but now doesn’t exist, will never exist.

He thinks about the ring, still tucked safely away in his sock drawer.

“Photographs and memories, All the love you gave to me, Somehow it just can’t be true, It’s all I’ve left of you.”

It’s a rainy Saturday morning, and Joel is finally tackling the mess that is his desk, precariously stacked piles of paper taking over nearly every inch of its surface. As he picks up a random stack of papers, one falls, fluttering gently to the floor. The pale pink paper immediately catches his eye.

It’s the love letter you’d written for him last Valentine’s Day.

You’d been nearly sick with nerves when you’d given it to him, afraid that it was a stupid idea. He had assured you that he loved it with tears in his eyes. In truth, it was the sweetest gesture he had ever received.

He reads it back now, hearing your voice in his head as he reads your confession of love. It’s nothing he hadn’t heard a hundred times before, but, for some reason, seeing it written out made it more special, more real.

He’d give anything to hear you say you love him one more time.

He tucks the letter away in one of the desk’s drawers and gets back to work.

“But we sure had a good time, When we started way back when. Morning walks and bedroom talks, Oh, how I loved you then.”

It’s been months since you broke up. Joel still thinks about you, about what you had together, constantly. Despite Sarah’s attempts to play matchmaker with the new, single neighbor that moves in down the street, despite Tommy’s incessant teasing, Joel can’t move on.

He’s grocery shopping when it happens.

He sees a silhouette that looks suspiciously like yours. Then, the person turns around, and, sure enough, it’s you, looking as breathtaking as ever.

Joel feels like he can’t breathe. He drops the tomato he’d been inspecting as he watches you put a container of strawberries in your shopping basket from over the rows of produce.

It’s then that you look up, and your eyes meet his.

Joel’s heart skips a beat. He feels like a kid seeing their crush in the schoolyard.

You offer him a soft smile, and Joel feels fireworks exploding in his chest. He manages to give you a small wave back, but he’s sure he looks shell-shocked.

You walk down the aisle, and Joel thinks that that’s it. That would be enough, really, just getting to see your face in person after only having seen it in grainy photographs and in his mind’s eye for so long.

But, you surprise him. You turn down his aisle and approach him.

“Hi,” you say shyly, shifting your weight from foot to foot.

Suddenly, Joel’s mouth is very dry. “Hi,” he gets out after a moment.

“Listen, I—” you start.

“I’m sorry,” Joel blurts at the same time.

“I—what?” You look surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Joel repeats. “I’m sorry about how things ended. I want to make it right. Is there any chance that we could grab a coffee sometime?” He sounds desperate to his own ears, but he can’t help it.

You smile, and he can practically feel his broken heart mending itself back together. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Joel doesn’t know what will happen from here, but he’s thrilled at the prospect of creating new memories with you.

You’re dozing off in bed, the TV playing a show you’ve seen a hundred times before, when the buzz! of your phone on your bedside table jolts you awake.

One of your arms emerges from your cocoon of blankets to blindly reach for your phone. The screen lights up with a text from your boyfriend.

Joel: Are you awake?

Barely, you think, but yes.

You: Yeah, what’s up? Joel: Can I call you? You: Of course :)

Moments later, the call comes through, and you’re quick to answer. You sit up in bed and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, hoping nothing’s wrong with him or the girls.

“Hey, is everything alright?” you ask as you answer the phone.

Joel’s voice comes through the speaker, low and smooth. “Yeah, darlin’, everything’s fine.”

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“Listen,” he starts, but then trails off.

“Yeah?” you prompt.

“I, uh,” he begins again, “I got somethin' to tell ya.”

“Okay,” you say, worry coming back again.

Is he breaking up with you? He wouldn’t do that over the phone, though, right? And things have been so good between you two! At least, you think they have—

Your train of thought is cut off by Joel’s soft reassurance. “Nothin’ bad, I promise.” He must have heard the waver in your voice.

You nod, although you know he can’t see it. “Well, what is it?” You try for a teasing tone, but you’re not quite sure you pull it off.

“Right,” he says. He mutters something to himself that you can’t make out. “I’m gonna put you on speaker and set the phone down, alright?”

“Sure,” you say.

You hear him do presumably just that, along with what sounds like the plucking of a guitar string and a deep sigh from Joel.

You turn up the volume on your phone as you hear a beautiful guitar melody drift through the speaker.

Then, he starts to sing.

“Well, I know it’s kinda late, I hope I didn’t wake you. But what I gotta say can’t wait, I know you’d understand.”

You can't help but smile as Joel serenades you. Sure, you’ve heard him sing before, but usually it’s in a more casual setting, like singing along to a song on the radio while driving. This feels so much more intimate. You only wish you could be there in person to see it.

“Every time I tried to tell you, The words just came out wrong, So I’ll have to say I love you in a song.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I love you?” Neither of you has said it yet. It’s almost slipped past your tongue more times than you can count lately, but you always hold yourself back, afraid of how Joel might react. But, now, here he is, singing those three, little words to you.

You feel tears well up in your eyes as he continues.

“Yeah, I know it’s kinda strange, But every time I’m near you, I just run out of things to say. I know you’d understand.”

Joel is a man of few words. He’s a man of action, showing his affection through acts of service—fixing up things around the house without needing to be asked, bringing you your preferred coffee order at work…playing a guitar and singing a song about how he loves you.

“Every time I tried to tell you, The words just came out wrong, So I’ll have to say I love you in a song.”

There’s a break in singing as Joel plays a little guitar solo. You can picture those calloused hands, those deft fingers, strumming and dancing across the fret board.

“Every time the time was right, All the words just came out wrong, So I’ll have to say I love you in a song.”

God, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of hearing him say he loves you. You’ve only just heard it for the first time, but you know it is the first of many.

“Yeah, I know it’s kinda late, I hope I didn’t wake you. But there’s something that I just gotta say, I know you’d understand.”

You nearly laugh at how much the lyrics resonate. Sure, you’d been drifting off before he called, but now you’re wide awake, sleep entirely forgotten. But, you know you would wake up from a sound sleep every night for the rest of your life if it meant getting to hear from Joel.

“Every time I tried to tell you, The words just came out wrong, So I’ll have to say I love you in a song.”

Joel strums the last few notes, and the song comes to an end. You’re speechless, at first, but Joel’s quiet cough on the other end of the line snaps you out of it.

“Joel?” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah?” He’s breathless. Whether it’s from singing or in anticipation of your answer, you don’t know.

“I love you, too.”

“Yeah?” he says again, a huff of a disbelieving laugh following the word, as if he thought you’d say anything else.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “Joel, that was…the sweetest thing that anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Aw, come on, now.”

“I’m serious, Joel.” There are those damned tears again, making your voice waver.

“Didn’t know how else to tell ya,” he explains, voice a little gruff. “Figured this’d be easier. But I needed you to know. I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too,” you say again, giddy to finally be able to test the words out on your tongue. They feel good, right.

“I’ll, uh, let you get goin’. Know you’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

“Okay,” you say, unable to fully keep your disappointment at bay. You don’t want this little moment to end.

“Hey, I’ll call you in the mornin’, okay?”

“Will you be singing me another song?” you can’t help but tease.

“Don’t you start with me,” he warns playfully.

“Good night, Joel,” you say with a light, little laugh.

“Good night, darlin’. Sleep well.”

With that, the call ends. You place your phone back on your bedside table and turn off the TV. You get comfortable in bed once again, letting out a contented sigh.

Joel Miller loves you.

Joel Miller loves you.

And you love him.