So This is Love
Ivan slammed the door of his black ’67 Chevy Impala SS, the sound echoing like thunder in the dark.
The engine roared awake — deep and raw, like it shared his fury. His phone glowed faintly on the passenger seat.
Norah’s name lit up the screen. He hit redial.
Still nothing.
“Pick up,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Come on, Norah…”
Voicemail again.
He pressed harder on the gas. The Impala growled down the empty street, headlights slicing through the dark. His pulse matched the rhythm of the tires on wet asphalt.