But I don’t. I won’t. Because it will do nothing. It won’t bring him back or help me grieve. Instead, I’ll still be just as alone as I am now, except the physical pain might distract from the emotional pain of it all.

I relax my grip on the steering wheel, push my foot down a little bit harder on the pedal, and stuff all of those feelings down so deep that I forget they even exist. Or at least pretend they don’t exist until the next reminder threatens to finally crack the exterior I’ve spent so long building.

Stanley’s comes into view and I parallel park right in front. Tucked on a quiet side street and owned by a man who thinks Facebook is “hogwash,” it’s a hidden gem. It’s been here for as long as I can remember and if you didn’t know before you walked in, the decor inside would tip you off. I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed a single thing since they first opened. They even have their “smoking section” sign still up, even though Denver went smoke free when I was in high school.

I open the door and the bell dings over my head. My eyes go immediately to the empty stool sitting outside of the kitchen and I almost fall to the floor in relief. When Mr. Stanley is here, his butt never leaves that stool. And if he was here, he’d ask about my dad and that’s the last thing I need to happen in front of Quinton.

A waitress yells from across the room for me to sit wherever I want. Without thinking, my feet automatically cross the checkered linoleum floors until I’m sliding into the booth that my dad and I always used to sit in.

I run my fingers over the tattered vinyl covering the seat and look at the long scratch in the table. The one I put there when my dad let me color with a pen and I got a little out of control.

I order a Diet Coke and look at the menu I memorized years ago while I wait for Quinton.

“Elliot?” A voice says from somewhere behind me. “Elliot Reed? I knew that was you!”

The voice is nearly as familiar—and now, foreign—as my dad’s. And while my heart flutters with aching and yearning for the comfort and love it’s been missing, my brain sends signals of panic and fear. My palms begin to sweat and I’ve never wanted to be Barry Allen so badly.

But since I don’t have super speed—or the superconvenient power to become invisible—I turn to face my old neighbor. “Mrs. Rafter, how are you?”