Rear-view Romance, an Auslly oneshot

I do not own Austin and Ally. Sorry about the lack of updates, trying to post when I can. Enjoy!

It's quarter past ten, and the roads are pretty clear, save for a garbage can rolling across the street. It blocks his path, and there's no way for him to continue, short of entering the other lane, where a car is coming at him full speed. Fuller speed than the limit allows. He'd prefer to get to his recording session in all one piece, thank you.

He checks the rear-view mirror to see if anybody is behind him. There is.

And good God, she's gorgeous. Wavy brown hair, a concentrated smile. Her polished hands grip the wheel at ten and two, and he knows that her foot must be hovering over the break, like one of those careful drivers. He used to be that type, up until the day he got his license. Then his hand started to droop, from ten and two, to ten and four, to ten and pretty girl's hand.

None of them compared to this girl though. Not as far as he can tell.

He slows down, waits for the left lane to clear. Checking the mirror again, and for the color of her eyes while he's at it, all to discover that she's slid her sunglasses over them, he maneuvers around the can.

The light at the corner turns red, and he looks in the mirror again. Her car is at the side of the road, and she's dragging the garbage can across the road into the yard, depositing it face down. Her glasses fall off her face as she does this.

He watches as she bends forward to pick them up. The car behind him has to honk to get him to move.

He was right. None of them compare to this girl.

Not even close.

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It's quarter past ten again, and he slows at the yellow light. Normally he'd speed up. Except that red car is behind him today, the one with the cute girl, and he likes the idea of having her in his rear-view mirror. There are a lot of other places he'd like to have her, not that he'll mention names. It'd be weird to start calling the shower Albert or the bed Daisy, solely for the purpose of having a name to mention for this sort of thing.

Isn't he too old for these hormones?

Isn't he too old to be getting his hopes up over a stranger?

The light turns green, and they start to move. She follows him, straight through the next three lights, until he wants to turn left. The nose of his car is out in the intersection, yet no one will let him complete his turn until the light turns red.

He frowns as he turns the radio up.

She'd been using her left blinker.

(the page breaks here)

He glances at the kitchen clock. It's almost ten, and his shoes are already laced. He scrolls through a mountain of text messages left by his ex-girlfriend. He deletes them one by one, wasting those extra few minutes.

Why he had to wake up early and throw his schedule off is beyond him. Why he has to wait until precisely ten to leave isn't.

He wants that girl in his rear-view mirror again.

This morning he gets a man picking jelly doughnut out of his beard. He watches in disgust until the light turns green.

Glancing back, he sees a new reflection in his mirror.

It's the mystery girl.

She's chugging something out of a travel mug, coffee the most likely suspect. Her music is turned up too. He can hear the deejay announce the station. Out of curiosity, he tunes in.

Pop music, not bad.

His song comes on the radio, and he swears the music gets louder. He turns his volume down.

That's not his radio.

She's singing along to his song.

They both get to turn left today, and the sound of his music follows him, until he needs to turn into the parking lot. By the time he gets out of his car, he can't tell which way she has gone. Could she not have had something more distinguishable than a red car, like a neon orange punchbug?

Things Austin is not sure about:

Where the pretty girl went.

Why he cares where the pretty girl went.

If neon orange punchbugs exist.

How to get this girl's attention.

(the page breaks here)

He calls the station early that next morning, asking if they'll play a certain song at a certain time with a certain message.

You can probably fill in the blanks on your own.

In case you're as out of the loop as this girl, whose jaw is dropping as they hit the red light, he's playing that song she sang along to, at ten fifteen.

"This next song is from the blue car to the red car stuck at the traffic light."

Her jaw drops, though he doesn't need the mirror to tell him that. (He still looks anyhow, and then promptly hits the gas.)

When they reach his destination, he pulls in and stops to see where she goes. She continues out of his sight.

A car behind him honks, and he moves the car.

He's getting way too interested for a rear-view girl.

(the page breaks here)

He leaves early the next morning. The best way to get over a girl is to remove her from his life. So he stops at the light to see an elderly gentlemen behind him.

Definitely not his mystery girl.

As he turns on his blinker for the recording studio, the deejay catches his attention. "This next song is from the red car to the blue car."

His heart hits the floor, his foot the brake. The lyrics flood his ears, and he is filled with feelings of regret. He should have waited this morning. He should have left her his phone number, or an email, something.

That's it. Tomorrow he'll be in her rear-view mirror.

(the page breaks here)

He pulls over and pretends to take a call. Her car passes his, and he goes to merge back into traffic, only to get cut off by the man with the beard. There's no jelly in it today.

But there is someone in her rear-view that isn't him.

(the page breaks here)

It's the rear-view girl. He had been on his way home, hit a shard of glass in the road, popped his tire. Now he's waiting in the coffee shop for somebody to come help him.

There's no way it can be her. It's not possible, that she's here, fixing him a hot chocolate, singing along to the radio, not far enough under her breath to not be heard.

"Here you go," she says, sliding it across the counter.

Ally. That's what her name tag says.

"Thanks." He takes a napkin from the stack. "What station is this?"

It's the station. This has to be the girl.

He needs some fresh air.

Walking outside, he sees her car parked on the side of the building.

It's the girl.

(the page breaks here)

He has the day off today. There's no reason for him to go anywhere.

Today seems like a good day for a run. A nice, long run. In the general direction of that stoplight.

He runs for miles, until he can't feel his legs anymore. Then he stops in at the coffee shop, where his mystery girl is MIA.

He orders a smoothie anyhow, sucks down half of it, and places his forehead against the table. At some point he must have fallen asleep, because he's being prodded awake.

It's the girl.

"I didn't want to wake you, but my co-workers were getting concerned." She tucks her hair behind her ear, smiles at him.

"Sorry." He picks up his cup, gets up to leave.

He can't tell if it's the exhaustion or if he's just waited far too long to this but as he drags his feet down the street, he pulls out his phone.

He needs to call in a favor.

(the page breaks here)

The next morning his new song comes on the radio.

"This next song is for the red car."

When he turns into the parking lot, the car follows. He parks, and she takes the spot next to him.

Approaching the window, she sees his face. Recognition kicks in. "You're the blue car?"

"I'm the blue car."

"Why me?"

"Why not?"

She grabs for her hair. "You don't even know me."

He takes her hand.

"I know that you like my music. And that you're a good singer. And you move garbage cans out of traffic and work in a coffee shop and that you're pretty." He takes a breath. "Really, really pretty."

Her eyes glance to the road and he wonders if he's gone too far.

Her keys jangle. He's gone too far.

"I should get going. I need to let my grandma's dog out." She hurries into her car, fumbling to get the key into the ignition. There's panic across her face.

It didn't work.

(the page breaks here)

Ten fifteen comes, and behind him is that red car. He considers attempting to floor it through the yellow light.

"This next song is for the blue car. Red car, if you're listening, she's sorry and wants to know if you're busy this Friday night." The song starts and he rolls his window down to stick his head out.

She follows suit. "What time?"

"Seven, at Jacks Flaps."

The light turns green, and he has to stick his head back inside. He acknowledges her question with a thumbs up.

He doesn't know where this is going, but he wants to. No more looking in the rear-view mirror.

He's moving forward.

They're moving forward.