Chapter 6
April
I’ve officially entered the part of this adventure where I keep forgetting how to breathe.
It’s been twenty minutes since I got into a car with a stranger, and I’m still waiting for my fight-or-flight response to kick in properly, but weirdly… it hasn’t.
I’m alert, sure—hyperaware of every sound and every breath and every glance, but I’m also...
calm. Which is either a sign Max really isn’t a serial killer, or I’m already too far gone to care.
The car is stupid nice—the air-vents-have-customizable-fragrance-settings.
I’m still pretending it’s just a fancy rental. I’m not about to ask how much this thing costs and confirm what I already suspect: this man is way out of my tax bracket.
He has one hand resting on the wheel, his posture relaxed.
Not chatty, but not cold either. Just quiet in that deeply self-possessed way that makes you want to know what he’s thinking.
Which is really unfair, because I am trying to think.
Specifically, about not saying anything dumb for at least the first hour. That seems like a good benchmark.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
MAY
how’s it going
is he secretly an actor
has he kidnapped you yet
blink once for yes
twice if he has good arms
I smirk.
ME
he’s driving
quiet
focused
stupid hot
like I hate how hot
but I kind of want to put him in a museum
JUNE
SHUT
UP
MAY
pics or it didn’t happen
and by pics I mean at least one bicep shot
JUNE
or the jaw. we need jawline confirmation
ME
I hate both of you
but also yes to the jaw
it could cut glass
JUNE
you’re done for
MAY
is he single
are you single
wait is he your soulmate???
I’m giggling silently into the collar of my sweatshirt, totally immersed in this unhinged sister thread, when a message pops up on the screen in the middle of the dash.
My message.
My eyes go wide.
No. No, no, no.
I fumble for the screen.
“Oh my God—why didn’t you tell me my texts were showing up?”
Max glances over, way too calm for what’s happening.
“I guess it defaulted to screen sharing.”
I should crawl into the glove compartment and die there.
Stupid hot. I kind of want to put him in a museum.
It's all right there—on a touchscreen.
His lips twitch, and he looks away, but not fast enough—I catch the spark in his eyes. He’s trying not to laugh.
“So…”
he says.
“the jaw, huh?”
I choke.
“Please delete me from existence.”
He chuckles—actually chuckles—and it only makes it worse.
“Are those your sisters?”
he asks, still grinning.
“They seem... intense. But fun.”
I groan.
“They’re chaos in matching cardigans.”
“April, May, and June.”
I shoot him a look.
“Please don’t.”
I’m smiling now. Flushed, but smiling.
He eases back into the lane and adjusts the A/C. as if I didn’t just confess to objectifying him in full hi-def surround sound.
“They clearly adore you,”
he says after a beat.
I glance over. “Yeah,”
I murmur. “They do.”
And somehow, in the middle of Houston traffic and mortifying text reveals… I feel okay again.
“For the record… I’ll take that jawline review. Solid marks, if you ask me.”
She glares harder, but the corners of her mouth are twitching.
The silence settles again, lighter this time.
Her embarrassment is fading. I’m trying not to let my ego lift off in a hot air balloon, and for the first time since we pulled out of the airport, it actually feels as though we’re in this together.
I can’t stop looking at her.
She’s trying so hard to keep her cool.
I respect the effort, but it’s not working. Not when she’s clearly two seconds away from shriveling up from embarrassment and throwing her phone out the window.
“So, May and June,”
I say, easing us into the next lane.
“Older or younger?”
“Both younger,”
she says proudly.
“May’s two years younger. June’s the baby.”
“So you’re the big sister.”
“With all the unnecessary pressure and barely any perks? Yeah, that’s me.”
“That explains the chaos.”
“You’re not wrong. May thinks she runs the world, and June’s been stealing my clothes since she could walk.”
“And the group chat is called ‘the battlefield’?”
“Exactly. A warzone of unsolicited opinions and Taylor Swift memes.”
She pauses, her expression softening just a little.
“But they’re my people. If I so much as sneeze weird, they’re already planning a funeral—or revenge.”
“Efficient.”
“Feral,”
she corrects.
“But yeah, effective.”
“They knew you were thinking about doing this?”
“Knew before I did. I texted them, and they were already checking rental car availability and probably googling whether I could legally carry mace across state lines.”
I chuckle.
“Remind me never to piss them off.”
“Honestly? Too late. May’s probably already built you a psychological profile.”
She's still curled up with her backpack between her legs, but the tension that was holding her hostage earlier has started to fade. Her thumb rubs over the edge of her sleeve—but now she’s present, letting herself be here.
“They really seem to care about you.”
She nods. “They do.”
Turning toward the window, she rests her head against the glass and lets out a deep exhale. I keep driving, wondering what it would be like to have that kind of loyalty waiting at the other end of the road.
Then she turns toward me, one leg folded up in the seat.
“So, what about you?”
she says.
“You’ve asked all the questions. Time to share.”
I glance at her, then back at the road.
“Fair enough.”
“Only child?”
“Yeah. Only child, only grandchild too. Basically grew up with all the attention and none of the privacy.”
“That explains the bone structure.”
That gets a real laugh out of me.
“Strong genes and stronger expectations.”
“What do you do?”
“I work in media,”
I say, keeping it vague.
“That’s ambiguous.”
“That’s intentional.”
She arches a brow.
“So… journalism? Marketing? Are you the guy who writes horoscopes for a living?”
“Definitely not. Though I do know my star sign.”
“Let me guess… Capricorn.”
“Wow.”
I side-eye her.
“That predictable?”
“Extremely.”
I smirk.
“Alright, psychic. What school do you think I went to?”
“Mmm… Dartmouth?”
“Stanford.”
“Ah. That tracks,”
she states.
“The West Coast confidence, the quiet, rich guy vibes. The I-definitely-owned-a-Patagonia-fleece-before-I-could-drive energy.”
“I’m offended, but you’re not wrong.”
“What’d you study?”
“Business, with a minor in rowing badly and sleeping through economics.”
“Wow. Rebel.”
“I was less rebel, more ‘please don’t let me drown in shame.’ My best friend and I nearly failed our first semester. Somehow, we both walked out with degrees and matching shoulder injuries.”
“Just rowing? Or are you also a football jock?”
“Just rowing. Mostly just us pretending we were invincible until our bodies said otherwise.”
She laughs a little, eyes softening.
“You still talk to him?”
“All the time. He’s basically family. Has been since day one.”
“No siblings, but you got yourself a brother.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s his name?”
“Nico.”
Her mouth quirks like she’s trying it out in her head.
“Nico sounds like trouble.”
“He is. The good kind. The kind who’ll fly across the country just to talk shit in person.”
She smiles at that. Not a polite one, a real one.
“You talk about him like you actually like him,”
she says, more surprised than teasing.
“I do. People don’t stick around unless you let them.”
She nods, then looks out the window for a beat before saying.
“I hope I get to meet him.”
I raise a brow, lips twitching.
“You planning on sticking around long enough to meet him?”
She shrugs, but there’s something unreadable behind her smirk.
“I’m not ruling it out.”
And just like that, the air shifts.