The quiet moments. The teasing. The way we could just exist together. Talking, breathing, fingers entwined, driving in the same direction.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself wonder. Maybe we really can have this again.
An hour later, Jules exhales, shaking her head. “Really?”
“What?” I playfully shrug as I park the car.
“You drove us all the way to our diner?”
“The diner!” Tate hollers from the backseat, bouncing excitedly. “Does this mean we’re getting ice cream for dinner?”
“No,” I quickly throw over my shoulder at him. “You have to eat real food first.”
He lets out an exaggerated, “Ugh!”
Jules laughs as she climbs out of the car, falling in step beside me. “I can’t believe we’ve never brought Tate here.”
Before I can respond, Tate shoves his way right between us and reaches for both our hands at the same time. Jules and I share a laugh as he jumps up and down, squirming with excitement. He really does seem happiest when we’re all together.
The familiar neon glow of Peggy Lou’s Diner flickers above the entrance, its soft hum blending with the faint buzz of an old streetlamp nearby. Inside, the scent of warm syrup, sizzling burgers, and fresh-baked pies wraps around us like a childhood memory. The diner hasn’t changed in years. Red leather booths lined up along the large front windows, checkerboard flooring scuffed from decades of foot traffic, and a long Formica counter where an older woman, probably Peggy Lou herself, wipes down the surface with a rag.
Jules spots our old booth instantly and leads the way to it. It’s the same one we always sat in, tucked in the far corner, away from the front door, where we spent countless nights sharing milkshakes and stealing fries off each other’s plates.
I slide into the seat across from her as Tate wiggles into the seat next to Jules. Something in my chest squeezes as I watch her brush back the blond hair on Tate’s forehead.
“This is where we used to eat ice cream until our stomachs hurt,” Jules tells him, her voice laced with nostalgia.
Tate’s blue eyes widen as he looks up at her like she’s the sun burning bright. The only thing in the sky. “And you sat right here?”
She nods, running her hand over the smooth tabletop like it holds every memory we ever made. “This exact one.”
A small smile pulls at my lips as I watch them, my heart tightening in my chest. Coming here was the right decision. Maybe this place—the history, the familiarity—might remind her of what we had. Maybe it’ll remind her that it was always real.
We order burgers and fries while Tate fires off a million questions about our college years. He wants to know everything—where we lived, what we studied, what we were like before we became his parents.
I was a business major, and Jules? She double majored in economics and art, balancing spreadsheets by day and losingherself in oil paints by night. She was always the smartest person in the room. Still is.
I watch as she animatedly moves her hands, painting vivid pictures with her words. She describes the sprawling campus, the grand old buildings with ivy climbing up the brick, the noisy coffee shop where she studied for hours, and the exact spot where we first met.
“And we lived in this tiny off-campus apartment during my last year,” she tells Tate. “Your dad would wake up early to make me breakfast, then he’d walk me to class before driving an hour to work at your grandpa’s office.”
She doesn’t mention how exhausted I was most days. How I’d spend hours biting my tongue at my dad’s company before finally coming home, where Jules would have dinner waiting for me. She doesn’t mention how the weight of the world lifted the second I walked through that apartment door.
“We’d eat in front of the TV,” I add, my voice quieter, drawn back into the memory. “Mom would work on her papers or get lost in a book, and I’d just… be.” My fingers flex on the table as I recall the way my hand always drifted to her curls, twirling them absently as I decompressed. She never minded. She always leaned into my touch.
She was my peace. My best moment of every day.
“We should walk the campus when we’re done,” I suggest. “Show Tate where we met.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, something unreadable flickering in her hazelnut eyes. “We should.”
Dinner winds down. When the check arrives, Jules reaches for her wallet, but I slide my card onto the tray before she gets the chance.
“You can pay next time,” I tell her. “This one’s on me.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “Why do I get the feeling you’re lying through your teeth right now?”
Tate and I both laugh as we stand and head to the door. I grab his coat from the car before we cross the quiet street and step onto the university campus.
