Traffic Jam
The cars were gridlocked in tight rows, motionless in either direction for the past half hour. All the windows were rolled up, air conditioning humming against the unbearable heat outside—well over thirty degrees, just as the weather report had warned.
The air shimmered and wavered over the sunbaked asphalt, hot from tyres and the relentless sun. Inside the Toyota, it was cool, but sitting still, staring at the frozen scene outside, was starting to grate on his nerves.
Layla unscrewed the cap of 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 down to it. But she acted as if he weren’t even there.
“How much longer is this going to last?” Layla asked, irritation sharp in her voice.
They hadn’t spoken since leaving the cottage. Her silence was worse than shouting. At least she’d let it out then. Now, she just went quiet for hours, even days, making it clear with every look that James was in the wrong. He’d apologise, listen to her lecture, and they’d move on.
“Why are you just sitting there? Do something,” Layla snapped again, as if the traffic jam on the M25 was his fault.
This time, he stayed quiet. What was there to say?
“And why did we even go to that stupid cottage? Fine for you, but me? Just sitting on the other side of the fence while you fuss over your daughter? I’d rather have gone shopping. Or had ice cream with Lucy.” She sniffled.
“Great, now my nose is blocked. Like I needed to catch a cold from this blasted aircon.”
James turned it off.
“Are you joking? The car will be an oven in minutes. Do you want us to suffocate?”
He didn’t remember her ever talking this much. It unsettled him, but he stayed silent, switching the aircon back on. Ahead, a man wove between the cars, climbing into one just before reaching theirs.
“Did you see that? He came from up ahead. Maybe he knows why we’re stuck,” Layla said.
“Maybe.”
“So what, you’re just going to sit here? Go ask him.”
“What’s the point? The jam could stretch for miles. You think he walked the whole thing in half an hour? Doubt it.” James glanced at her and felt that familiar pang of guilt.
“Oh, come on. It’s the M25, not some back road. Half of London’s stuck here. We’ll move eventually.”
Silence.
“Fine.” James got out of the car.
The rows stretched endlessly in both directions. The man had climbed into a red car. James rapped on the window, and it rolled halfway down.
“Excuse me—did you walk up ahead? Any idea what’s happening?”
“Whole M25’s at a standstill. Could be an accident. Or worse.”
Nothing new. He’d already guessed that. The heat outside was unbearable, like a sauna. His shirt stuck to his back by the time he returned to the Toyota. The radio played news—no mention of the jam.
“Well?” Layla demanded.
“Nobody knows. Might be the whole motorway. Someone said it could be an attack.”
“Knew I shouldn’t have listened to you.”
James agreed. He shouldn’t have convinced her to come. He’d have stayed at the cottage with Emily, left later when the heat died down.
But it had started so well…
***
James woke to his phone ringing. Half-asleep, he answered without looking.
“Dad, are you coming?” Emily’s voice.
“Hello? Did you forget your daughter’s birthday?” His ex-wife’s voice now, sharp with accusation. “Bet you haven’t even got her a present yet.”
“No, I didn’t forget. I’m leaving now,” he lied, blinking awake. The sun was high—already half past nine.
He’d remembered until last night. Then he and Layla had gone out with friends, and it slipped his mind.
“Dad, I don’t need presents, just come!” Emily shouted in the background before the call ended.
They’d married thirteen years ago. Spent ten of those fighting. He hadn’t loved her—just woken up in her bed after a university party, barely recalling her name.
A month later, she’d found him on campus. Pregnant. “She’s not bad,” he’d thought, and agreed to marry. His parents begged him not to. His mother doubted the child was his.
He took the test after Emily was born. No question—she was his. The moment he held her at the hospital, he fell in love.
So he endured his wife’s jealousy, her nagging. Might have stayed, if not for Layla.
Cold, distant, stunning—she never shouted. She punished him with silence. Slipping around the flat in tiny shorts and a top, teasing him. He’d apologized, even when he wasn’t wrong.
He still couldn’t believe she was with him.
After Emily’s call, Layla asked what was wrong. He confessed—he’d forgotten. Promised to visit the cottage where his ex and daughter stayed in summer.
“You’re leaving? Now? So I’m just stuck here alone?” She pouted, strode naked to the bathroom. The sight of her short-circuited his brain.
“Come with me,” he blurted.
“You’re inviting me to your ex’s cottage?”
“Yeah. What’s the problem? We’re divorced.” He was sure she’d refuse. “It’s beautiful—river, woods, we could swim…”
“You’re serious?”
“Of course. But we need to hurry.”
They bought Emily a present and drove out. As expected, Layla chickened out at the last second, waiting in the car.
Emily leaped into his arms, and James realised how much he’d missed her. The hours flew by. When he said he had to leave, she clung to him, crying.
His ex hovered nearby as he muttered excuses about traffic, work tomorrow…
“Dad has to go. Someone’s waiting in the car. Too scared to come in, was she?”
James ignored her.
“I’ll visit next Sunday,” he promised Emily, peeling her arms away. His heart ached with love, guilt—toward her, toward Layla sitting outside.
He thought he’d been quick. Forty minutes. Layla shot him, turned away.
As he drove off, he glimpsed his ex and Emily through the fence. He thought she was smirking. Maybe. Hard to tell.
He apologised the whole way. Couldn’t just leave Emily crying. Layla stayed silent, even when the traffic jam swallowed them.
Why had he brought her?
***
“Why did you make me come?” Layla asked again.
“I didn’t know we’d get stuck!” he exploded. “I’m not bloody psychic.”
She blinked, startled by his outburst.
“Don’t shout at me.”
“Sorry. Let’s just wait it out.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t get it.” Her calm tone chilled him.
“I don’t love you. Haven’t for ages. I can’t do this anymore. You never decide anything.”
She got out, turned, gripping the door—so she didn’t see the cars behind her lurch forward.
“I don’t love you!” she repeated, stepping back to slam the door.
“Layla, wait!”
Too late. The van accelerated, and she vanished beneath its wheels.
***
The traffic moved at last. Sirens wailed.
“No broken bones,” the young doctor said. “She’ll stay overnight. You can come back tomorrow.”
James brought flowers and fruit the next day.
The doctor was sitting beside her bed, stroking her hand. She smiled at him.
James left the gifts at the nurses’ station and walked away.
A week later, she came back for her things. From the window, he saw the doctor waiting outside.
He never found out what caused the traffic jam.
Didn’t matter anymore.
***
A year passed.
A dog ran into the road. James braked, but not in time. A woman dashed over.
“Is this your dog? Where’s its lead?”
“Not mine. We need to get it to a vet.” She spread her coat over the back seat.
The dog’s breathing was ragged, its leg twisted. James paid for its treatment, drove the woman home.
At her place, she offered tea, lent him a shirt.
“Your husband won’t mind?”
“My father’s. He died two years ago.”
The kitchen was warm, simple. Familiar somehow.
“Have we met before?”
She smiled.
“Unlikely.”
“You’re a teacher?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Just guessed.”
Easy. Comfortable. Not the fiery passion of Layla, or the mistake of his marriage.
This was different.
“I don’t wantAnd as they sat there in the quiet kitchen, the dog curled at their feet, James realized—for the first time—he was exactly where he was meant to be.
