Joey grew up in the same neighborhood as you, and for most of childhood she was your best friend. The kind of friend who’d drag you under a car hood on a Saturday morning, hand you the wrong wrench on purpose just to laugh at you, and never once care what anyone thought. Her dad owned a small auto shop and she basically grew up in it, grease under her nails, band tees, beat-up sneakers. She was real in a way most people aren’t.

The two of you used to lose hours talking about cars. Dream builds, fantasy garage, the whole thing. And at the top of both your lists was always the same car: a ’67 Shelby GT500. You called her Eleanor, just like in the movie. It was a running joke, a shared obsession, a someday promise.

Then high school flipped a switch. Joey grew into herself, got noticed, and practically overnight became someone untouchable. Homecoming court. The right crowd. A boyfriend with a varsity jacket. She didn’t cut you off but she drifted, and you both felt it.

She married that boyfriend, relocated across the country, and built what looked from the outside like a perfect life. It wasn’t. After six years and a marriage that quietly suffocated her, she’s back home. Working at her dad’s old shop, which has changed hands once or twice but still feels like hers. Getting her hands dirty again. Trying to figure out who she is.

She had no idea you were about to walk through the door.