Chapter 7
April
Did I just say that out loud?
I’m not ruling it out.
Jesus.
I meant it as a joke. Sort of. Maybe. But now it’s just sitting in the air like I proposed and asked if he wanted kids someday. I shift in my seat, pulling my sleeves down over my hands.
He didn’t react much. Just raised an eyebrow and gave me that tiny smile. The kind of smile that makes you wonder what he’s thinking while having you suspicious he’s already ten thoughts ahead of you.
That’s who he seems to be. He’s so calm, and so damn mysterious, and weirdly... funny, in a way that sneaks up on you. The worst part? It’s working.
He’s charming without trying. Mysterious in a way that makes me want to know more.
I don’t even know his last name or what he does exactly, yet I just told him I might stick around long enough to meet his best friend?
Who am I?
I turn toward the window, hoping it makes me look cool and contemplative instead of wildly overwhelmed by my own poor life choices.
He’s just driving—one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road—after I mentally filed for joint custody of our hypothetical golden retriever.
Strong jaw—confirmed. Focused—check. Absolutely gorgeous green eyes… ugh! He doesn’t feel like someone I just met, and maybe that’s what’s messing me up.
He feels... safe.
In the way someone feels when they don’t want you to be anything but yourself.
It’s disarming.
And annoying.
But also, it’s kind of hot.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I jump.
MAY
still alive?
or did he push you out of the car because you’re a chronic oversharer?
I smirk, and typing back with one thumb.
ME
alive. spiraling. possibly marrying him idk
JUNE
!!!!!!
you’re already hyphenating your last name aren’t you
MAY
this is why we can’t take you anywhere
I lock my phone before they make it worse.
Then I sit back and stare out the window, thinking This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not the car. Not the conversation. Not the calm. And especially not the feeling that—for the first time in a long time—I’m not running away from something. I might actually be running toward it.
We’ve been driving for almost three hours now. Houston is finally a distant blur in the rearview mirror, and the world outside the windows is open road and the occasional gas station with a beaver and a billboard promisin.
“clean bathrooms”
like it’s the height of luxury.
Max shifts slightly in his seat and glances down at the dash.
“We’re gonna need to stop soon,”
he says, his voice smooth but casual.
“Tank’s halfway, but I like to top it off before we hit empty.”
I nod.
“Smart. Especially since I have zero desire to be stranded in rural Texas with no cell signal and exactly one granola bar.”
“You have a granola bar?”
he asks, glancing over.
“It’s crushed into powder at the bottom of my backpack, but yeah. Technically.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and taps the screen to pull up the nearest gas station.
“You want anything while we’re there? Snacks, drinks?”
“Actually,”
I say, sitting up straighter.
“I’ll grab it. Snacks are on me.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, I want to. It’s the least I can do after you offered to drive me across the country like some kind of emotionally reserved highway hero.”
He gives me a sidelong look, amused.
“That’s a new one.”
“Just let me buy you snacks. It’ll make me feel useful.”
“Alright,”
he says, pretending to weigh it like it’s a serious negotiation.
“But if I go into anaphylactic shock from mystery trail mix, that’s on you.”
“Do you have allergies?”
“Not unless you count bad taste in chips.”
“I absolutely do.”
He beams, and I hate that my heart flutters in response.
Reaching for my phone, I’m already mentally ranking gas station snacks. Top tier: sour gummy anything; bottom tier: suspicious jerky in unmarked bags.
“I feel bad,”
I mutter.
“You’re about to drive all day and all night… for me.”
His gaze flicks over to me, warm but steady.
“I offered, didn’t I?”
“Still. You don’t even know me.”
“Yet,”
he says, smirking.
“Don’t feel bad, April. I said I’d get you there, and I meant it.”
My chest tightens a little—not in a bad way. In a what-is-happening-to-me way.
I nod, tucking my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie.
“Thank you.”
Something unreadable passes through his expression before he shifts lanes after the GPS announces a gas station up ahead.
My sisters haven’t texted in ten minutes, but then my screen lights up.
MAY
we found the perfect outfits for after you get the job
please check the Pinterest board title.
“April’s boss b*tch energy”
and hydrate. you forget to drink water when you’re stressed
JUNE
also: gummy worms. for the road. this is non-negotiable.
I smile, then I tuck my phone away and look out the window, the sky opening wider ahead of us. Maybe this isn’t the worst detour I’ve ever taken.
The gas station is aggressively fluorescent. It hums with that slightly too-hot, slightly too-loud energy that only roadside convenience stores and waiting rooms have mastered.
It smells like burnt coffee, floor cleaner, and synthetic bacon. But honestly? It’s kind of perfect.
I grab a basket by the door and make my way down the first aisle.
Water bottles first.
Then two energy drinks—just in case.
I toss in a pack of gummy worms—June would disown me if I didn’t—a bag of a beef jerky, unsalted almonds—balance—and, after a brief mental debate, a king-sized chocolate bar because trauma deserves chocolate.
On the way to the register, something colorful catches my eye. A rack of cheap graphic T-shirts with things like I Got Gassed in Texas and Highway Honey printed in neon block letters.
I snort, then pause. There’s a matching set in soft gray cotton that read: We are not lost and We’re just making memories.
I bite my lip, then grab them.
This is absolutely a trip we’re both going to remember—even if it turns out to be the weirdest twenty-four hours of my life.
I pay in cash and head back out into the Texas heat, the plastic bag in one hand, with drinks clinking against each other as I move across the pavement.
Max is a few feet away from the car—well away from the pumps, thank God—with a phone pressed to his ear.
His mouth settles into a firm line, and his eyes narrow slightly—not tense, exactly, but focused. It’s as if he’s slipping into a different version of himself. The one that does… whatever it is he does.
“Yeah,”
he says.
“Reschedule all of it. I won’t be in the office for at least the next three days.”
I slow down without meaning to.
If I wasn’t on a schedule—if I didn’t have to be in downtown LA by 2:00 p.m. tomorrow—how long would he have taken to get there?
Would he have stopped overnight? Slept in? Gone sight seeing? Would this have been some slow, scenic trip across state lines instead of a caffeine-fueled sprint?
My stomach twists.
This complete stranger is pushing meetings, shifting plans ,and casually letting his assistant handle everything.
“Yeah. Just tell them I’ll call back Friday,”
he states before hanging up.
He slides his phone into his back pocket and turns—startled to see me there.
“Hey,”
he says, recovering fast.
“Sorry, I just had to—”
“You didn’t have to do that,”
I say, holding up the bag of snacks.
“You know, reschedule your life for a stranger.”
“I offered,”
he states.
I don’t have a good response for that, so I hold up the bag again.
“Hope you’re not allergic to gummy worms.”
“Only emotionally.”
I roll my eyes and smile.
“I got you jerky, water, and almonds to balance it out. I figured you would appreciate that.”
“You already know me so well”.
We climb back into the car, and when he starts the engine, the air-conditioning kicks on with a low hum.
“Want to play some music?”
he asks.
“Unless you need a break.”
“Nope. You’re stuck with me and my weird taste in road trip playlists. Any genre boundaries I should know about?”
“Are you gonna judge me?”
“Absolutely.”
I grin, unlock my phone, and pull up a playlist labele.
“road trip magic”
and hit shuffle.
The opening synth o.
“Take On Me”
by A-ha fills the car.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see something akin to recognition flicker across his face. Maybe even… fondness?
He leans back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, and listens to the music.
“How long would this trip take you if I wasn’t in a rush? ”I ask.
He glances over, then back to the road.
“Two days, maybe three. Depends on if I stopped.”
“Do you think it’s safe to drive straight through?”
“Probably not. But I’ve done worse.”
I bite my lip.
“You’ll tell me if you get tired, right? I can drive.”
He considers that for a second, then nods.
“If I start to feel it, I’ll let you take over.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Settling back into the seat as the chorus kicks in, wind from the A/C rustling my hair, Texas rolling by outside the window, I realize something kind of dangerous.
I don’t want this drive to end.