Chapter 1: Piece of Cake
Pairing: Joel Miller x Single Mom Reader Chapter Rating: G, right now. Chapter Summary: It's September 2003, and you're starting a new life with your son back in your hometown. You found your dream house; little did you know you'd find your dream man across the street. Chapter Warnings: no outbreak au, alternating pov, slowburn, joel's birthday, grown man with a crush, tommy miller being a menace, sarah's dad joel, lawnmowing, illness of a non-main character, lots of music references, joel saving the day, reader works at a record store, toddlers being toddlers, title taken from mudhoney's 1992 album Words: 4,500
A/N: Beep beep! New, redeeming Joel Miller fic coming through. This time we're rewriting Austin Joel's future. He gets to wear his working watch forever. Sarah lives, and nothing bad happens. This will be a very slow burn with lots of yearning and pining and almosts. My gratitude to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @sin-djarin, & @valevntine for dealing with meeeee and having to hear about this. I hope you enjoy! As always, comments, reblogs, and screaming are very welcome.
Goldenrod Lane Masterlist | Series Playlist
Masterlist
—-
You’ve driven past it four times in the past two days. It almost seems too good to be true. A little suburban home tucked away on a picturesque cul-de-sac. The Austin real estate market is in a buyer’s market, and you took full advantage of it.
Your perfect little house, with the blue siding and giant bay window. It’s modest—two bedrooms, a nice-sized kitchen, and a big yard for your son to grow into.
Your safe and sensible Subaru pulls into the driveway just after 8 AM on move-in day, and the cul-de-sac is peaceful in the autumn late morning.
You know some renovations need to be taken care of… the bathroom is ancient, showing its age with bright pink tile and a toilet to match, the carpet in your bedroom is still shag, and the backyard garden is only growing weeds. But, step by step, you’ll get everything cleaned up and make this house into a home. After six years in Dallas, you’re back home, back where you started, and you’re trying to tell yourself it’s not failure.
Your old boss, Stu, called at the right time, needing your help at the record store. It was a simple decision… a job you already knew how to do, your parents close enough to help you with Layne, and a fresh start. God knows you needed it.
“We’re home,” you happily chirp to Layne in the backseat, who’s already wriggling with excitement in his car seat. You get him out, hoist him onto your hip, and kiss the crown of his head, letting this small moment with your little boy help heal you from the past year.
You unlock the door to your home with a proud smile on your face. You’re going to make this work.
—-
"I think our new neighbors are here,” Sarah beams, purple backpack slung across her shoulder.
“Oh yeah?” Joel asks, tossing his tool belt into the back of Tommy’s truck, squinting against the morning sun.
He follows her eyes as the front door of what once was the Marleys’ house opens. You step out, your hand holding the small hand of a smiling little boy whose mouth is moving a mile a minute. You’re… beautiful, and he swallows thickly, stopping in his tracks. You’re looking down at the little boy grinning and nodding along to whatever he says. Joel recognizes the way you look down at him, like he’s your whole world. He can’t look away, even as he opens the door for his own world.
Tommy grins, leans in, and lets out a low whistle. “She’s cute as hell,” he whispers to Joel, with an elbow to the ribs.
His eyes stay on you, and all he can afford is a nod and grunt.
“Go ahead, introduce yourself,” Tommy teases, “or I’m gonna go over ‘n introduce myself.”
Joel shakes his head, eyes wide, lips together in a firm line. He’s not going to let Tommy anywhere near her if he can help it. “Gotta… Sarah’s gotta get to school now,” he says as an excuse, as if Sarah is ever on time when he’s depending on his little brother for a ride.
Tommy slides into the truck, and the ignition rumbles to life. You’re now kneeling in the grass, wiping something from the boy’s cheek. He wonders what brought you to this street, if there’s a dad still inside the house or already at work, or maybe your story is similar to his.
—-
Your parents arrive around noon, your dad manning the small U-Haul while your mom’s car holds a couple plants and more fragile items.
You and your dad team up to unpack the truck, and you’re a sweaty mess by the third trip. At least it doesn’t take long, and by the time you’re done, your muscles ache with an accomplished pain. You’re going to do it all yourself.
You have no other choice.
Your life changed only ten months ago, a week after Layne’s second birthday. Devon couldn’t “deal with” being a father any longer… or he fell in love with his band’s pretty new singer. Either way, he no longer wanted you… nor Layne.
You left your perfect downtown Dallas loft the next day, drove the three-hour trip to your parents’ home, and became the sole parent to your little boy. You promised yourself that night, lying in your childhood bedroom, holding your world, that you’d make it on your own. Move home, pick up the pieces, heal from the past, and start again.
Now, the blue house on Goldenrod Lane will be where your son will grow up happy and healthy. He’ll go to good schools, play in the park a street over, and only be ten minutes away from grandma and grandpa. Layne will always know he’s wanted.
It doesn’t take long to unpack and set the house up, it’s not like you have much furniture. The IKEA in Round Rock is calling your name. You take care of the most important room first… Layne’s. Your dad’s putting together Layne’s new bed, complete with sheets covered in construction vehicles. Your mom helps unpack and put Layne’s books and toys away as he “supervises” in the specific way a toddler can. You hang the decals of cars and trucks on the wall, and you note to yourself to draw roads, buildings, and the sky around them one day.
After your parents leave, the closest pizza place turns out to be good enough for dinner. You and Layne eat it on the new couch—your parents’ housewarming gift and watch a DVD of Elmo episodes. It’s certainly not a housewarming party, but it’s just right after a day like today.
That night, when you tuck Layne in, he tells you, “I love my new house, Mommy.”
You snuggle him a little longer than usual. At the end of the day that had the chance to be so much sadder, lonelier, or worse, you let yourself be okay and happy. You kiss him goodnight, and he’s asleep before you finish closing his door.
It’s so quiet now. The house is unfamiliar in the dark, full of new noises. The ancient thermostat ticks, the fridge compressor whirs loudly, and the wind occasionally rattles the back door. You walk the rooms, checking the locks, then head to your room. You’re used to an empty bed now, and sleep comes quickly.
—-
Joel’s sure the lawnmower’s been trying to die for three straight summers. He knows every trick to get the battered red thing to keep it limping along. Today, he chooses to swear at it. It stutters, hacking up the smell of grass and gas. He wants to lift the damn hunk of junk up and toss it into the Colorado River. This is the last thing he wants to be doing on a Saturday morning. He wipes sweat off his brow and grumbles.
Sarah bounds out the front door, oblivious to any type of strife, skipping down the step. She pauses, watching across the street, and Joel follows her gaze. The new neighbors are outside.
You’re standing in the sun, bare-legged in cut-off jean shorts and a baggy black tee, a coffee mug in your hand. Your kid’s on the grass, trucks splayed out in front of him.
Sarah sighs a little. “She looks so cool. We should go over and say hi. C’mon, Dad.” She yanks him by the wrist, and he has no other option than to be dragged into the street before he can protest.
You look up at the sound of footsteps, and you grin a tired but wide smile that Joel couldn’t look away from, even if he tried. Up close, he can see you’re in a tee with a Soundgarden logo in the middle of the chest, tiny holes across the worn shirt, because of course you like one of his favorite bands.
“Hi!” Sarah says, more to the boy than you. “I’m Sarah. From across the street.”
“I’m Layne!” the kid introduces, then points at you. “That’s Mommy.”
You laugh and introduce yourself with your actual name, and Joel lets your sweet voice repeat in his mind, until he realizes he’s just standing there in silence. “Joel,” he blurts. “I’m Joel. Also from across the street.”
You hmph a sound like you’re entertained by his nervous antics. “It’s nice to meet you, Joel,” you say, and he knows he’s blinking like an idiot.
Sarah’s already got Layne enthralled, squatting down to play truck versus tractor with him. Joel’s fingers patter at his thigh, trying to think of something, anything, to say. He’s not so good at the small talk stuff, especially when it’s with someone as pretty as you.
“It’s a good neighborhood,” he finally offers. “Safe. Quiet. Been here since Sarah was four.”
“It seems it,” you say. “We’re back in Austin from Dallas. It was never quiet there.”
“It’s quiet here,” he repeats. Christ, this is close to the first normal adult conversation he’s had outside of work in… years, and he’s pretty sure he’s screwing it all up.
“So, I’ve heard,” you jest.
Joel lifts his hand to the back of his neck, feels how hot it is when you smile. His eyes drop to your mouth, but snap right back up. Sarah was right. There is something cool about you. Maybe it’s the way you lounge on the step in the bright patch of sunlight, your smooth legs on display, your oversized shirt giving him a glimpse of your shoulder. Maybe it’s in the way you talk, quick and bright, but a bit of reserve there too.
“Well, uh, should go back.” He clears his throat. “Got yard work.”
“Aww,” Sarah groans disappointingly.
“You can stay over here, if it’s okay with your dad,” you offer.
“S’fine with me. I, uh, better get back to mowin’ the lawn. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks, Joel.” You gift him an amused smile, and he responds with a dopey, uneven nod.
His feet can’t move fast enough as he rushes back across the street, feeling like a damned fool.
—-
Sarah doesn’t stop talking. She’s fourteen, a Cancer, plays soccer, and loves butterflies. She can’t wait to be a counselor at the summer camp she’s been going to since she was eight, is into X-Men, and is amazing with Layne. Her giggle is high-pitched, and her comedic timing is sharp and a little sarcastic. She instantly charms you.
And yet, all you can focus on is her hot dad. Joel’s keeping busy in the front yard, mowing the lawn. You pretend to be present and listen to Sarah tell you all about Beyoncé’s VMA performance. Still, you’re locked on across the street watching her dad and the way his forearms flex on the mower handle, the way the sheen of his sweat shines under the sunlight even all the way across the street. You’re thankful for your dark-lensed wayfarers and how they block out your eyes following him and the steady back-and-forth as he turns at the end of each row. He stops to wipe his brow, pulling up his shirt to his face, gifting you a peek of golden belly, and you hide your gasp with an “oh wow,” to Sarah. The mower sound begins to fade as he makes his way to the backyard, and you mourn the loss of your show.
“Lemonade?” you ask Sarah.
The first thing Sarah does when she gets in your house is make a beeline for the small CD tower you have by the TV. She spins through it, fingers running down the spines of each jewel case.
“Pearl Jam, my dad’s obsessed. He has like, all their tapes.”
“I didn’t know Nirvana had this many CD’s.”
“Jeff Buckley! I have a picture of him on my wall.”
Sarah’s high-pitched squeal makes you jump as you put away the lemonade. “Oooh!” She pulls a CD out, Combat Rock by The Clash is thrust up into the air, her smile beaming behind it. “Can we listen to this?”
You walk into the living room with two glasses of lemonade and Layne’s lidded juice cup tucked under your elbow. “Of course.”
The opening chords blare.
This is a public service announcement with guitars!
“My dad loves them too,” she says, her head bobbing along to the jangly guitar and drum beat. She grabs Layne’s hand, and they spin in awkward circles, both laughing, and it’s genuinely the happiest and most alive your house has felt since you moved in.
Sarah still talks your ear off, even as the Clash plays. She tells you about school, her favorite movies (Legally Blonde, The Brave Little Toaster, the first Curtis & Viper), and her secret hope to one day dye her hair neon blue, but she’s pretty sure her dad will kill her if she does.
Layne toddles over, climbs on the couch, and lays his head in your lap, too tired to keep up with Sarah. You smooth his hair and wonder if he’ll end up a music nerd or a soccer kid. Sarah’s the kind of older kid who makes you hope he’ll end up like her one day.
Sarah tells you she should head home after “Overpowered by Funk” fades out and you tell her not to be a stranger. You watch from the front door as she crosses the street and talks to Joel, who's now bent over his lawnmower that’s flipped over in the driveway. She looks back at you, and his eyes follow. He holds a grease-stained hand up and waves. You return it and close the door, wondering what it would be like to listen to Joel’s favorite songs with him.
—-
“You’d love her CD collection. She’s so cool, Dad!”
“Oh! And she went to school for business management! She could probably help you get Miller Contracting even more established!”
“Layne’s named after the lead singer of Alice in Chains!”
Sarah doesn’t shut up about you all day. Not from the moment she plopped down on the grass after leaving your house while he struggled with the lawnmower, to eating the slightly burnt Stouffer’s Lasagna he forgot to set the timer for. Hell, even when he said goodnight to her, she had to mention that you also love the Curtis & Viper movies.
The inner quandary of whether it’s good or bad luck that his dream girl has moved in across the street from him makes him toss and turn in bed. He faces the dead plant that sits on his side table, then turns his back to it, staring at the exercise machine stroke closet, and the cluttered dresser. One day he’ll get his life, and this bedroom, together.
Can’t sleep. Stupid. He’s too old to be lying awake thinking about somebody he’s seen for all of five minutes.
You just looked like someone he’d like to know.
—-
“So, new records usually come in on Thursdays, the day before release, and they’re delivered in—”
“I got it, Stu, I worked here all through high school and my summer breaks, remember?”
“Sorry, mind’s just not the same.”
Everything else has changed since you last worked here, and yet River City Records is exactly the same. Rows and rows of records, paperbacks, used CDs, folded band tees, a wall of used VHS and DVDs, and posters upon posters ranging from At The Drive-In to ZZ Top are hung across the walls. The place hasn’t changed, and neither has Stu... though you see how much older he is, his beard is even whiter, his godawful tie-dyed tees hang looser on his skinny frame, and he coughs a hell of a lot more.
You instantly pick up everything, like six years haven’t passed. You man the register, restock, and recommend Mudhoney to a high schooler with raccoon eyeliner and a Nirvana pin.
You get twenty minutes of precious alone time when you leave work to pick up Layne from your parents’. The sun’s beginning to set, and as you pull into the driveway of the home you grew up in and get out, it almost feels like you’re back to being a teenager, especially when you pass the concrete slab near the basketball hoop that still holds your handprints. But then, you hear Layne’s high-pitched laughter and feel the past years and all of its ups and downs age you right back to where you are now.
Your family’s in the backyard, dad sitting in his beloved wicker patio recliner, mom at the patio table, with a book in her hand, keeping an eye on Layne, who’s busily dumping pebbles into a dump truck like it’s his job. Everything feels normal and domestically sweet, as if nothing’s ever gone wrong and you didn’t waste five years with your ex… like this is where you were always meant to return to. You take a seat at the table and tell your parents about your first day back at the record store. They’re happy for you, and even happier that you’re back doing what you love, letting the music you love surround you.
Your mom sends you home with a giant container of her famous triple chocolate chip cookies and some leftover pepper steak, “just in case” you’re too tired to cook. You see right through her, knowing she made double portions just to help you.
You smile when you pull into your driveway at dusk, kids are still outside playing as the sun begins to set over your suburban cul-de-sac. Layne’s going to learn to ride a bike on these sidewalks, learn to walk off a skinned knee, get grass stains all over his jeans here, and always know someone will be waiting at home for him.
Layne hops out of the car once you unbuckle him, and he's off, arms pinwheeling. You're still folding yourself out, diaper bag on one shoulder, your purse on the other, giant containers of cookies and pepper steak balanced in your hands. 'Layne!' you shout.
Layne doesn’t listen, in true toddler fashion. You hurry after him, across the lawn, fighting through the end-of-day exhaustion. You and all the contents in your arms nearly tumble, as Layne sprints straight for the street where the older neighborhood kids are playing basketball. There’s no real danger in a cul-de-sac, but the sight of your little boy barreling into the chaos makes the adrenaline spike inside you.
“Layne! Wait!”
He’s already past the curb, velcro’d light-up sneakers on the pavement, heading straight for the teens. The older kids are in the zone. One goes for a jump shot right as your son heads towards the chaos. All you can see is disaster, straight out of a mother’s worst nightmares. You’re fumbling with panic, half-running, shouting Layne’s name.
“HEADS UP!” Joel’s voice calls from across the street so loud and commanding, it freezes every kid in place.
He bounds out, fast, striding across the street quicker than you ever could move. He lifts Layne up, hauling him out of the way. Layne laughs, completely unbothered, like this is all fun to him and Joel’s just a broad human jungle gym. You want to cry when you catch up, especially when you see how gentle he’s cradling your son.
Your heart is racing, and you try to calm your voice. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
Joel shakes his head, dark brown eyes serious under furrowed brows, but his smile is soft and comforting. “S’okay. Toddlers are going to be toddlers.” He holds Layne out to you. “Here, trade ya’.” He relieves you of the heavy containers and Layne’s diaper bag as Layne settles against you.
“I go fast!” Layne repeats, proud of himself. You nod, try to smile, and wonder if you’re a terrible mother or if this is just what parenting small boys is like.
“Thanks,” you say, a little bit of embarrassment heating your face and voice. Joel just shrugs with a half-smile, following you to your porch, where you lead him inside your home.
Other than his daughter and your parents, Joel’s your first guest, and when he steps into your living room, you’re aware of how empty the house is. No personality, no art on the faded beige walls, the only decor in the living room is a framed photo of you and Layne with your parents from last Christmas, and a pile of toddler toys in the corner. Layne’s already upended his bag of trucks, metal and plastic, clattering across the floor. You’re too tired to feign hostess, and you lean against the kitchen counter while Joel hovers in the threshold.
“Been in here once before, when Mr. Marley needed help moving his freezer,” he notes, as if you know every last bit of this house’s history.
You don’t answer, you just let him keep looking around as you grab a Ziploc bag, load it with cookies, and offer it to him. “Here. Take these, as a thank you, for, um, saving my kid… and my dinner.”
Joel eyes the cookies. “Really?”
“I insist.”
“Thanks.” He takes the bag and gifts you a soft, grateful smile.
You walk him out, allowing yourself to admire how his broad shoulders fill your doorway. For a second, when he steps onto the porch and turns back to you, you both just stare. His warm eyes search yours, the setting sun bronzing his skin even more golden, and you forget to breathe and think, but you do see a flicker in his eyes when he studies you.
“Thanks again, Joel,” you almost whisper.
“Course,” he half-smiles. “Sarah used to take off like that. She was a hellion. If you ever need any help, I’m right across the street.”
You mumble a thank you, your eyes tracking down to his strong arms.
Joel turns and walks away, and you let yourself imagine what it’d feel like to have his big arms wrap around you after a long day like today. But before you can dream too much, a large yawn escapes you, and Layne whines that he’s hungry.
—-
“Put that out,” Joel grumbles.
“Happy birthday to you.” Tommy flicks the cigarette out of the truck.
Joel buckles his seatbelt, and when he looks up, you’re outside, putting Layne in the car. You’re in a denim dress he swears is the color of the sky. It really is his birthday.
The truck revs to life, Tommy backs out of the driveway, honking twice when he passes your house. You jump a little, look up, and wave with a smile.
Tommy rolls down Joel’s window. “Hey neighbor! It’s his birthday today!”
You take a few steps forward, hand blocking the sunlight that’s lighting you so beautifully, Joel can hardly focus. “Happy birthday, Joel,” you grin.
Joel’s sure he can feel the deep, red blush taking over his cheeks, and all he can offer is a “thanks,” before Tommy drives off.
“Happy birthday to you,” Tommy repeats, with a shit-eating grin.
—-
“I take this pill for my blood pressure, and this one to keep my liver from shitting out,” Stu’s saying, holding up his Monday-thru-Sunday pill organizer.
You dig through stacks of trade-in CD’s behind the counter, armpit-deep in OK Go and Counting Crows, pretending not to notice his Gollum-like knuckles trembling as he pops open his Wednesday door.
“You need to drink more water,” you tell him. “The human body is like seventy percent water. Yours is at least half bong resin.”
You’ve been spending the past week reorganizing, re-cataloging, stacking, sorting, and calling distributors, and in between, listening to Stu half-joke about his impending doom. The place is a mess, but you’ve made progress: at least the bins are labeled, and the floor isn’t full of half-opened boxes and stray price guns. You’ve even found time to put up a display by the register. Women In Rock. A full spread of Patti and Janis and PJ and Karen O.
At four, you clock out, leaving Stu to take care of himself for the last two hours of store operation. You pick up Layne from your parents’, your mom and you fall into a quick routine of handoff, hellos, and I love yous before you head home.
You’re three streets from Goldenrod Lane when you spot Sarah, walking down the sidewalk, backpack and hair bouncing. You slow the car and roll down the passenger window. “Hey, Sarah!” you call. “You want a ride home?”
“Yeah!” she shouts.
You pull over, and she slides in next to Layne’s car seat.
“Hi Sar-uh!” he shrieks with delight, and she turns in her seat, grinning wide. There’s no awkwardness between the teen and toddler. She gets him.
“Why you walking home? Where’s your dad?” you ask.
She shrugs. “Double shift today. It’s his birthday, and he still has to work.” There’s an edge of betrayal in the way she says it, but she masks it with a smile.
“That’s a shame, working on your birthday is never fun.”
“He’s supposed to bring a cake at least, but I’m sure he’s going to forget.”
You look at her in the rearview mirror and see the slight sadness in her bright eyes. “Tell you what, if you’d like, we can make him some cupcakes. I haven’t had a chance to break in the new kitchen.”
“Really?!”
“Really.”
“Awesome! This will get me out of having to go to the Adler’s,” she grins widely. “She always bakes the worst cookies.”
“I know,” you say. “She brought me over a plate after I moved in. Who puts coconut in a ginger snap?”
—-
Another late night, another late shipment. Tommy drops Joel off at 10, an hour after he promised he’d be home. An hour after he was supposed to bring home a cake for his own goddamn birthday. His whole body aches, 16 hours of hard labor will do that. What a way to spend his 36th birthday.
Joel sighs, sticking the key in the door, happy to find it’s actually locked.
“You remembered to lock the door for once,” he notes to Sarah when he walks in.
She’s on the couch, magazine in her lap, and a chocolate cupcake half-eaten in her hand. “Welcome home,” she says, mouth full of cupcake.
“Cupcakes?” he asks, brows rising.
“Homemade cupcakes.”
“Mrs. Adler actually let you make something good?”
“Not Mrs. Adler.”
Joel freezes when Sarah says your name, and he can only respond with an “oh.”
Sarah reaches the tray out, and Joel plucks a cupcake from it. “Layne put the sprinkles on. Don’t worry, I helped him wash his hands before.”
He kicks off his boots, settles on the couch with a huff, and takes a bite. He hums at the first taste, and he can feel his exhausted body loosen just a bit, thanks to the lightness from your kindness. He can’t remember the last time someone’s done something this sweet for him.
—-
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