“Almost Thirty and You Still Take the Bus?”

“You’re twenty-nine years old, Rachel. How do you still not own a car?”

Melissa said it loudly enough that two people standing near the bus shelter turned around.

It was almost ten at night, and I was standing outside a shopping center in Columbus, Ohio, holding two plastic bags filled with construction paper, crayons, glue sticks, and six children’s books I’d found on clearance.

Tara looked down at the bags and laughed.

“There’s your car payment.”

Melissa nodded toward them. “Seriously. You spend everything on kids who aren’t even yours.”

I shifted the bags higher against my hip.

“They’re for my classroom.”

“Exactly.” She pulled her coat tighter around herself. “The school has a budget, Rachel. Stop trying to save everybody.”

Then Tara smiled.

“Especially when you can’t even save yourself from the bus.”

A black SUV was waiting for them at the curb.

I watched them climb inside.

The taillights disappeared around the corner while I stood beside the bus schedule with a bag of crayons cutting into my fingers.

I didn’t notice the man standing about fifteen feet away until he spoke.

“They always talk to you like that?”

I looked over.

He was probably in his mid-thirties, wearing dark jeans, a gray sweater, and a navy coat. Nothing about him stood out except that his shoes looked expensive, though I didn’t know enough about expensive shoes to know why.

“They were joking.”

He glanced toward the road where the SUV had disappeared.

“Didn’t sound very funny.”

My phone vibrated.

It was my nephew.

Are you almost home?

Then another message appeared.

I saved you two tacos.

I smiled before I could help it.

Soon. Brush your teeth.

Three dots appeared.

Already did.

Then:

Mostly.

I put my phone away.

The man smiled. “Your son?”

“Nephew.”

I checked the bus app again.

Twenty-three minutes.

My sister Elena died three years earlier. Mateo was five then.

There were many things I remembered about those final weeks, but one sentence stayed clearer than everything else. Elena had been exhausted when she said it. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Just don’t let him feel like everybody left.”

I promised her.

After that, Mateo moved into my two-bedroom apartment, and my life reorganized itself around school pickup, pediatric appointments, soccer practices, grocery lists, parent-teacher conferences, and remembering that he hated onions unless they were chopped so small he couldn’t see them.

I wasn’t wealthy.

I taught preschool.

But Mateo had never gone without something important.

That mattered more to me than a car.

The man stepped toward the coffee kiosk beside the entrance.

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Hot chocolate?”

I laughed. “I’m not eight.”

“Neither am I. Hot chocolate is still good.”

He came back with two coffees anyway and held one out.

I hesitated.

“It’s coffee,” he said. “No contract attached.”

I took it.

“Rachel Bennett.”

“Nathan Cole.”

The bus app changed.

Twenty-three minutes became thirty-one.

I stared at the screen.

Nathan leaned over slightly. “Bad news?”

“Apparently the bus has discovered time travel, except only backward.”

He laughed.

For the next twenty minutes, we talked about ordinary things. I told him I taught preschool at Brookside Early Learning Center. He said he worked in real estate.

That was it.

Not owned a company.

Not ran one.

Worked in real estate.

Then headlights appeared down the road.

I picked up my bags.

“Finally.”

The bus approached.

It was packed.

I stepped closer to the curb and raised my hand.

It kept going.

I actually watched the driver’s face as the bus passed me.

He gave me an apologetic little shrug through the windshield.

Nathan stared after it.

“Did that just happen?”

“Yes.”

I opened the app again.

Forty-seven minutes.

My phone buzzed.

Rachel?

I called Mateo immediately.

My neighbor, Mrs. Patterson, was staying with him until I got home.

“I’m okay,” I told him. “The bus is late.”

“Your tacos are getting cold.”

“Put them in the fridge.”

“I already put foil on them.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

“I’ll be there soon.”

When I hung up, Nathan was looking toward the parking garage.

“Let me drive you.”

“I don’t get into cars with men I met thirty minutes ago.”

“That’s a good policy.”

He took his phone out.

“Take a picture of my driver’s license. Text it to whoever’s home. Take a picture of my license plate too. I’ll even call your neighbor if you want.”

I stared at him.

“You’ve thought this through.”

“I have two younger sisters.”

I waited another ten minutes.

The temperature dropped.

Finally I photographed his license and plate, texted both to Mrs. Patterson, and followed him toward a dark blue SUV.

It was nicer than I expected.

Much nicer.

“Real estate pays well?” I asked.

He opened the passenger door.

“Sometimes.”

That should have been my first clue.

Every Time I Got Close, Something Happened

Nathan didn’t ask why I didn’t own a car until we were halfway to my apartment.

I had mentioned that I’d been saving for one.

“How long?”

“Almost two years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Not when you keep spending the money.”

He glanced at me.

I explained that six months earlier Mateo had needed dental work my insurance didn’t fully cover. Before that, our apartment’s old refrigerator had died. Before that, Mateo needed glasses.

“And before that?”

I thought about it.

“Soccer registration.”

Nathan smiled.

“Soccer registration wiped out your car fund?”

“No. But soccer registration plus cleats plus a dentist plus a refrigerator starts getting ambitious.”

He laughed quietly.

Then he asked, “Do you ever regret it?”

“What?”

“Using the money on him.”