Chapter 8
Max
I’m not a sentimental person.
At least, that’s what I’ve told myself for the last… over a decade.
Then this woman—this stranger—walks into a Texas gas station with her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands and a mission in her step, and suddenly I’m questioning everything.
After getting the pump going, I walk away from the car, pulling out my phone.
April’s been inside maybe three minutes, and I’m already scrolling like a middle schooler waiting for a crush to text back.
Which is ridiculous. This isn’t a date. It’s across-country detour with a woman who talks with her hands, glares at vending machines, and accidentally shares texts about my jawline on a car screen.
And still—I open the text message thread with Nico.
ME
she went inside to grab snacks
offered to get mine too
who does that?
Three dots, of course.
NICO
hot strangers with kind hearts and zero red flags
I’ve read this one before
you fall for her in chapter 3
ME
shut up
she’s funny. sharp.
actually makes me laugh
NICO
…so when’s the wedding
ME
never texting you again
NICO
what’s her name tho
ME
April
NICO
max+april
bro that sounds like a romcom from 2006
tell me she has chaotic little sister energy
ME
She’s the oldest
two sisters
feral
she calls the.
“chaos in matching cardigans”
NICO
I’m crying
you’re already done for
Maybe I am.
I’m about to shove my phone back in my pocket when the other one rings—my work phone. I check the screen. A mix of missed calls and names. Everyone is wondering where the hell I am. I step farther from the car and answer.
“Yeah. Reschedule all of it. I won’t be in the office for at least the next three days.”
The pause on the other end is brief. My assistant is used to this.
“Just tell them I’ll call back Friday,”
I add, then hang up.
I’m not thinking about the meetings, or the emails, or the fact that I just pushed half my week off the map like it was nothing.
I’m thinking about her, which is... dangerous.
Then I hear plastic rustle and jump when April is standing right there like this is normal, like we’ve done this before.
“You didn’t have to do that,”
she says, nodding toward the phone.
“Reschedule your life for a stranger.”
“I offered.”
She lifts the bag like an offering.
“Hope you’re not allergic to gummy worms.”
“Only emotionally.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile is unwavering.
“I got you jerky, water, and almonds to balance it out, I figured you would appreciate that.”
“You already know me so well.”
Somehow, I’m feeling like I just got hit by a truck full of dopamine. Once we’re back on the highway, the tension in my shoulders eases.
“Want to play some music?”
I ask her.
“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.”
She grins, unlocks her phone, taps something, and then it starts. That synth line…
Take On Me”
starts playing, but I don’t react—at least I try not to—but it hits me square in the chest.
She doesn’t know. She couldn’t know.
This song was always playing in our house on Sunday mornings when I was a kid. My mom would sing it at the top of her lungs, terribly, out of tune. Always dancing while pancakes burned.
Pretending it doesn’t wreck me a little, I stare ahead at the road. April hums along to the chorus, completely unaware of the hurricane she’s stirring up in my chest.
“How long would this trip take you if I wasn’t in a rush?”
she asks suddenly.
I glance at her.
“Two, maybe three days. Depends if I stopped.”
“Do you think it’s safe to drive straight through?”
“Probably not. But I’ve done worse.”
She shifts in her seat, eyes on the road now.
“You’ll tell me if you get tired, right? I can drive.”
I consider that. She’s trusting me, more than she probably should.
I can meet her halfway.
“If I start to feel it, I’ll let you take over.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She settles back, content with that.
The next song on her playlist start.
“Don’t You (Forget About Me).”
I almost laugh. Almost. The timing is cruel. Or perfect, or both.
She doesn’t skip it and leans her head against the window. I keep my eyes on the road, fingers tightening slightly around the wheel.
April.
This strange, funny, impossibly open woman who got stuck in the same travel nightmare I did and somehow ended up in my car.
What the hell am I doing?
I should’ve kept walking and minded my business like everyone else. But I didn’t; I stopped, and now we’re three hours out of Houston with gummy worms between us, and I already know I’m going to remember this road trip forever.
Even if she doesn’t. Even if I’m just a layover on the way to the life she’s chasing.
Don't you... forget about me.
As if I could ever forget about you.