Danny had exactly $12.38 in his checking account, one pair of clean socks, and an unopened email titled "Your Script Submission Has Been Viewed." He hadn't dared open it.
Instead, he stood in the H-E-B checkout line with a box of off-brand cereal and the kind of tofu dogs that screamed "I've given up, but not entirely."
Then he saw her.
Four feet away. Aisle 6. Frozen peas section.
Emily.
Same eyes. Same hair she used to dye with his help in his old bathroom. Same sarcastic half-smile as she spoke into her phone. And—of course—same effortlessly put-together outfit that made Danny feel like he lived inside a dryer lint trap.
She hadn't seen him yet.
He panicked.
Which, for Danny, meant dropping the tofu dogs and pivoting directly into a display of LaCroix. Cans tumbled everywhere.
Emily looked over. Blinked once. Then slowly, deliberately, hung up the phone.
"Danny?"
He smiled like a man caught doing something illegal.
"Hey. I was, uh… testing gravity."
They hadn't spoken since she moved out six months ago. He'd kept it cool, dignified, quiet. Except for that one text at 2:13 a.m. that said "I miss your lasagna and your weird laugh and probably you too?" No reply.
Now here she was. In the frozen peas.
"So… you're still in town?" he asked, knowing full well she was. Austin wasn't that big.
"Yeah," she said. "Still working at the urban design nonprofit. Just got promoted, actually."
Of course she did.
"You still writing?"
Danny hesitated. "I'm... in research mode."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Experiencing life. Collecting failure. You know. Writer stuff."
She smirked. "That tracks."
A silence hung between them. Not angry. Just... aged.
Then she looked down. "You dropped your hot dogs."
"Tofu dogs."
"Yikes."
He grinned. "Yeah."
And then, before he could ruin it further, she said: "Well... it's good to see you, Danny."
He nodded. "You too."
Then she was gone, and he was left surrounded by fizzy water and regret.
Back home, Danny opened the fridge, stared at the nothing inside, and decided to walk his shame off with a trip next door.
He knocked on Mrs. Beverly's back door. No answer.
He was about to turn back when the door creaked open on its own. Inside: silence. Then—
"DANNY, COME IN HERE AND HELP ME POST THIS!"
Her voice boomed from the living room like a wrestling announcer.
He stepped inside.
Beverly was perched on a floral recliner, holding a cracked iPad like it owed her money. She wore giant headphones, a velour tracksuit, and an expression of pure war.
On the screen: a paused TikTok. Her face frozen mid-sentence. Caption:
> "WHEN YOUR HIP REPLACEMENT GOES HARD #GRANNYGRINDSET"
Danny blinked. "What am I looking at?"
"My legacy," she said.
"I'm afraid."
"You should be."
She slammed the spacebar and the video played.
It was her, dramatically tossing her cane into the yard, then dancing stiffly to Megan Thee Stallion. The editing was bad. The lighting worse. But her confidence? Untouchable.
Danny stared.
"Did you film this alone?"
"Used my Crock-Pot as a tripod."
He looked around. "Why?"
"Medical bills. Boredom. I'm not dying boring, Daniel."
"Okay but... do you want people to see this?"
She clicked on the comments.
> "ICON."
"Slay grandma."
"Better than my ex."
"Apparently," she said, "they already are."
He sat next to her, genuinely impressed. "You're going viral."
"I don't know what that means but if it gets me a GoFundMe and some validation, I'll take it."
She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him. "Now you. Help me edit. I want slow motion."
He laughed. "You're addicted."
"Better than gin."
They spent the next hour adding sparkles and sound effects. Danny showed her transitions. She taught him how to roast internet trolls. It felt stupid. It felt good.
It felt like something.
Later that night, back in his apartment, Danny sat at his desk.
He finally opened the email.
> "Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we've decided to pass at this time."
Classic.
He almost shut the laptop again.
But instead, he opened a new document. Blank page. Fresh.
Title: "Keep Austin Awkward"
Genre: Slice-of-life comedy with mild trauma and taco-related violence
He started typing.
> INT. H-E-B – FROZEN PEAS SECTION – DAY
A man drops tofu dogs while locking eyes with his past.
He paused. Smiled.
Maybe he wasn't washed up.
Maybe he was just collecting scenes.