Traffic Standstill
The cars were frozen in tight rows, not moving an inch in either direction for the last half hour. Everyone had their windows rolled up, air conditioning blasting. Outside, the heat was unbearable—over 30 degrees, just like the weather forecast had warned.
The air shimmered over the sun-baked tarmac, hot enough to fry an egg. Inside the Honda, it was cool, but sitting still, staring at the same frozen snapshot of traffic, was driving him mad.
Laura twisted the cap off her plastic water bottle and took a few sips. James noticed there was less than a third left. She kept drinking without offering him any. Not that he’d take it—he’d give her the last drop if it came to it. But she acted like he wasn’t even there.
“How long is this going to last?” Laura snapped.
They hadn’t spoken since leaving the cottage. Her silence was worse than shouting. He’d rather she yelled. They weren’t fighting, but when she got like this, she’d shut down for hours, sometimes days, making it clear *he* was the problem. He’d apologize, listen to her lecture, and eventually, things would smooth over.
“What are you just sitting there for? *Do* something,” Laura said, as if the M25 gridlock was his fault.
This time, James stayed quiet. What was there to say?
“And why did we even go to that stupid cottage? Fine for you, but me? Just sitting outside the fence while you fussed over your kid? I could’ve gone shopping. Or grabbed ice cream with Nina.” She sniffed.
“Great, now my nose is blocked. Just what I needed—getting sick from this bloody AC,” she muttered.
James turned it off.
“Are you joking? The car’ll be an oven in minutes. Do you *want* us to suffocate?”
He didn’t remember her ever talking this much. It unnerved him. But he said nothing, flipping the AC back on.
Up ahead, a man weaved between the cars before slipping into one a few rows over.
“Did you see that? He came from the front. Maybe he knows what’s going on?” Laura said.
“Maybe,” James agreed.
“Well? Go *ask*, then.”
“What’s the point? This jam could stretch for miles. You think he walked that far in half an hour? Doubt it.” He glanced at her, guilt creeping in again.
“Look, we’re not stuck here forever. It’s the M25—half of London’s probably stuck too.” He trailed off. Laura just stared ahead.
“Fine. I’ll go.” James stepped out.
Rows upon rows of cars stretched behind them, same as ahead. The man must’ve gotten into that red Ford. James tapped the window, and it rolled halfway down.
“Excuse me—did you go up front? Any idea why we’re stopped?”
“Whole motorway’s at a standstill. Could be an accident. Or worse.”
No new info. James had already guessed as much. The heat outside was brutal, sweat soaking his shirt as he leaned in. He climbed back into the Honda—the radio said nothing about the jam.
“Well? Learn anything?” Laura pressed.
“Nothing. Might be the whole motorway. Someone mentioned a terror threat.”
“*Figures*. Why did I even let you drag me into this?”
James agreed silently. He shouldn’t have talked her into coming. He’d have stayed at the cottage with Emily like she wanted, driven back in the cool evening once the roads cleared.
It had all started so well…
***
James’s phone jerked him awake. Half-asleep, he answered without looking.
“Dad, are you coming?” Emily’s voice.
“Hello? You forgot your daughter’s birthday?” His ex-wife now. “*Shocking*—bet you didn’t even buy a gift.”
“No, no, I remember. Just leaving now,” he lied, blinking at the time—9:30.
He *had* remembered… until last night’s pub crawl with Laura and his mates wiped it clean.
“Dad, I don’t need a present! Just come, I *miss* you!” Emily shouted before the line went dead.
They’d married young, thirteen years ago. Ten of those were pure chaos. He hadn’t even loved her—just woke up one morning after a uni party next to a girl whose name he barely recalled.
A month later, she tracked him down: “*Pregnant.*” “*Fine,*” he’d thought. Parents begged him not to, Mum even doubted the kid was his. He did the test *after* Emily was born—no question she was his.
Holding her for the first time, he’d fallen hard. That was why he’d endured the fights, the jealousy. Might’ve kept enduring, if not for Laura.
Cold, stunning, *untouchable*—she never yelled like his ex. Silence was her weapon, and it worked. Her *only* flaw. She’d wander their flat in tiny shorts, teasing him. He’d apologize for *everything*, even when he wasn’t wrong.
After Emily’s call, Laura asked what was up. He admitted he’d forgotten the birthday, that he’d promised to visit their summer cottage.
“So you’re ditching me? On our only day off?” She stormed off naked, and James—brain short-circuiting—chased her.
“Come with me.”
“You’re *seriously* inviting me to your ex-wife’s cottage?”
“Yeah. So? We’re divorced.” Bold words—he *knew* she’d refuse. “It’s gorgeous—river, woods, we’ll swim…”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. But we gotta hurry.”
They bought Emily a gift and drove out. Predictably, Laura chickened out at the last second, waiting in the car.
Emily leapt into his arms, and for a moment, he forgot everything else. Time flew. When he said he had to leave, she clung to him, crying.
His ex stood nearby, hearing his weak excuses about traffic, early work mornings…
“Dad’s gotta go. Your little *passenger* too shy to come in?” his ex sneered.
James ignored her. “I’ll visit next Sunday,” he promised, prying Emily off. His heart split between her, his guilt, and Laura stewing in the car.
He thought he’d been quick—turned out *forty* minutes. Laura shot him a look and turned away. He drove off, catching one last glimpse through the fence. His ex *smirking*? Hard to tell.
He apologized the whole ride. “I *couldn’t* just leave—she was *crying*!” Laura stayed silent, even as the M25 swallowed them.
Why *had* he brought her?
***
“Why did you *make* me come?” Laura demanded again.
“I *didn’t know* we’d get stuck!” he snapped. “I’m not bloody Nostradamus!”
She blinked, surprised by his outburst.
“Don’t *shout* at me.”
“Sorry. Let’s just wait it out.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, *no*?”
“You don’t get it.” Her calm tone chilled him. “I don’t love you. Haven’t for ages. I can’t do this—you can’t *decide* anything.”
She stepped out, holding the door, not noticing cars behind her lurching forward.
“I don’t love you!” she repeated, stepping back—
“*Laura, wait—!*”
A van accelerated. She vanished under its wheels.
The lane lurched to life. Horns blared. People were *done* waiting.
Laura lay unconscious, no obvious injuries.
“Not my fault—she *jumped*—” the van driver stammered.
“Help me get her in,” James said—no clue when an ambulance would arrive. He drove her to A&E himself, the van driver tailing them.
The young doctor assured him no bones were broken, said to come back tomorrow.
He returned with flowers and fruit.
Laura was in bed—the doctor holding her hand. *Smiling.* James left the gifts at the nurses’ station and walked out.
A week later, Laura collected her things. Through the window, James saw the doctor waiting downstairs.
He never learned why they’d been stuck that day. Didn’t matter now.
***
A year later, James braked hard as a dog darted into his path. Too late—it yelped under the wheels. A woman on the pavement gasped, rushing over.
“Your dog? Where’s its *lead*?”
“Not mine—but it needs a vet. *Please*…” She stripped off her cardigan, draping it over his back seat.
James lifted the whimpering spaniel—side bleeding, leg twisted. They left it at the clinic. He paid the bill, drove her home.
At her doorstep, she offered tea, a fresh shirt.
“Won’t your husband mind?”
“My dad’s. He passed two years ago—couldn’t throw his things out.”James took a deep breath, realizing that sometimes life doesn’t give you answers—just quiet moments of peace, like the way the evening light fell across the kitchen table where they sat, tea steaming between them, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the need to rush anywhere.
