Their daughter laughed when she saw it.
“You looked mean.”
The former CEO stared.
“I looked sophisticated.”
“You looked mean.”
The Single Dad smiled.
“She was terrifying.”
The former CEO turned.
“You flirted with me.”
“You were attractive.”
“I was threatening you.”
“Multitasking.”
Their daughter groaned.
“Please stop.”
The parents laughed.
They stood together in front of the photograph.
The former CEO looked younger there.
Sharper.
Protected by polish.
Her husband looked rougher.
Tired.
Guarded.
Neither person knew what came next.
That moved her.
She slipped her hand into his.
He looked over.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re bad at that answer.”
“You taught me.”
They continued through the exhibition.
Near the end stood CGTR001 itself.
Still olive-green.
Still scarred.
Still imperfect.
A museum visitor nearby said:
“I can’t believe somebody once estimated this at seventy thousand dollars.”
The Single Dad looked toward his wife.
She slowly turned.
“No.”
He whispered.
“Don’t.”
The visitor continued walking.
The former CEO pointed one finger at her husband.
“Say it.”
He smiled.
“No.”
“Say it.”
The Single Dad leaned closer.
“Seventy thousand.”
She punched his arm.
Not hard.
He laughed.
The museum guard looked over.
Their daughter walked away pretending not to know them.
The Single Dad looked at the car again.
The thing had spent decades being misunderstood.
Covered.
Modified.
Dismissed.
Its identity hidden beneath a panel nobody bothered removing.
Maybe that was why he had recognized it.
He understood overlooked things.
His father had too.
The Female CEO squeezed his hand.
“You’re doing it.”
“What?”
“Thinking dramatically.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do.”
He smiled.
Then looked toward her.
“Do you regret it?”
“The estimate?”
“Obviously.”
“The rest.”
She considered.
Then stepped closer.
Same confidence.
Softer now.
Older.
Still unmistakably her.
“I regret one thing.”
“What?”
“I should have kissed you beside the car.”
The Single Dad laughed.
“That would have been wildly inappropriate.”
“I know.”
“You were my client.”
“You were my consultant.”
“Exactly.”
“Still.”