Chapter 9
April
Eight hours on the road.
Somewhere between sour gummy worms and the second round of energy drinks, we stopped being strangers. Now we’re just two sleep-deprived chaos gremlins in a luxury SUV with excellent air conditioning and zero plans beyond getting to LA in one piece.
The road has flattened out. Max is still driving—one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console like he’s done this a thousand times.
He glances over at me.
“Okay. You’re officially falling asleep with your eyes open.”
“Am not.”
“You blinked like three times in one second. You look like a malfunctioning AI.”
“Okay,”
I say, stretching my legs out and cracking my neck.
“You’re looking way too composed for someone who’s been driving for eight hours with a near stranger.”
“I like driving.”
“Of course you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have main character energy. Obviously, you like to control the narrative.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Says the woman narrating my character arc.”
“It’s called foreshadowing. You’re welcome.”
“What’s the plot, then?”
“Oh, that’s easy,”
I say, turning in my seat to face him.
“You’re a brooding mystery man with a shadowy job and a secret love of 80s music—on a fateful road trip with a chaotic woman and a bag of gummy worms.”
“Tragic,”
he states.
“It’s a romantic comedy, and you know it.”
“If this turns into a musical, I’m leaving you in Arizona.”
“Fair.”
I grin.
“Let’s play Would You Rather.”
“I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Too bad. It’s happening.”
“Okay… Would you rather be able to teleport but only to your favorite fast food restaurant, or fly, but at a maximum speed of five miles per hour?”
“Fly,”
he says.
“I could hover over annoying people.”
“That’s villain behavior.”
“You knew what this was.”
“Alright, your turn.”
He pauses, actually putting effort into this silly little road trip game.
“Would you rather lose all your pictures or all your playlists?”
Oof. That one hurts.
“Playlists. Pictures are memories. Playlists are just...emotional damage set to rhythm.”
“I’d keep the music,”
he admits.
“Pictures lie, music doesn’t.”
The car goes quiet for a beat, then I lift an eyebrow.
“That was kind of profound.”
“I’m capable of depth.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get deep.”
I crack my knuckles.
“Would you rather always say what you're thinking... or never be able to speak again?”
He stares at the road.
“Always say it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, even if it scares people, I’d rather be honest.”
I nod slowly.
“Same. Silence is overrated.”
“You’re not exactly quiet.”
“Exactly,”
I say.
“I’d combust in a week.”
He smiles, it barely moves his mouth but still hits me behind the ribs.
“Alright,”
he says, glancing over.
“Would you rather beloved and never fully understood... or understood completely but never really loved?”
I blink.
Whoa.
That’s not a casual road–trip game question.
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as I glance out the window, then back at him.
“Loved,”
I say.
“Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s not perfect.”
He nods like he knew I’d say that.
After a while, he shifts in his seat and rubs the back of his neck.
“We should probably stop soon,”
he says.
“Top off the tank, stretch our legs.”
“Yeah.”
I reach for my phone.
“Let me find the nearest gas station and…”
There’s a new email notification, so I immediately open my email app. I’m staring at the email but unable able to believe my eyes:
Subject: INTERVIEW RESCHEDULE– FRIDAY, 9:00 AM
I open it, and my heart starts thudding.
Dear Ms. Moreira:
Due to unforeseen scheduling conflicts, we will need to move your interview to Friday at 9:00 AM. We hope this does not cause you any inconvenience and look forward to meeting you later this week. Please feel free to message me if you have any questions.
Violeta Ramirez
HR Liaison | Verve Magazine
Friday.
Which means… we have so much more time.
“Change of plans,” I say.
Max glances over.
“What kind of change?”
“My interview got pushed to Friday afternoon.”
He blinks.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Just got the email.”
“That’s... actually kind of great.”
I nod.
“We don’t have to race through the night now.”
He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, eyes still on the road.
“How do you feel about making this a proper road trip? Taking our time getting there?”
I’m caught off guard—but kind of charmed. I think about it for a moment.
“I mean… I don’t have any plans in LA besides the interview. I’ve got time.”
He smiles.
“I rescheduled my week. So… should we find a place to stay tonight?”
I nod, pulling up Google.
“Sure. Let me find something.”
We’re still in the middle-of-nowhere Texas—miles from anything with a skyline or more than one Yelp review. I scroll through motels and inns with names like Sunset Rest and The Lone Cactus.
Everything decent is booked or weirdly far off the highway.
Except one.
“There’s a place about ten minutes ahead. Looks like a budget place. Kind of sketchy... but the reviews say the beds are clean?”
“Works for me.”
“One room left.”
I glance at the details.
“Two queen beds.”
He shrugs.
“Guess you’re stuck with me, roomie.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Promise not to snore?”
“I promise nothing.”
Her interview got moved to Friday, and my heart does this weird stutter-step.
I act normal.
Cool.
Unbothered.
As if my brain isn’t already recalculating the timeline of this entire trip with a silent “hell yes”
under my breath, because now we have time.
Time to slow down. Time to stop pretending this isn’t something I’ll think about when it’s over.
The sky is fading from gold to a gray blue, headlights flicking on as the sun dips just low enough to shadow her face in warm light.
She hums softly, her cheek resting against the window, hoodie stretched over her knees, and I just keep driving.
The motel is one of those places that probably looks sketchier in daylight. The sign flickers like it’s seen some things. The parking lot is gravel. The lobby smells faintly of some type of cleaner and old wood paneling.
She walks in ahead of me, brushing her hair back with one hand. I follow her to the counter where a woman in her sixties sits behind a register, her name tag reading “Sheryl”
in glittery marker.
“Evenin’, y’all,”
she says.
“Welcome to Sunset Pines Inn. What can I do ya for?”
“I have a reservation,”
April says.
“I booked online.”
Sheryl clacks her long nails against the keyboard, nodding.
“Yep, I gotcha right here. April Moreira and… husband?”
“Oh—”
April starts, eyes wide.
“We’re not married,”
we say at the same time, too quickly.
Sheryl waves a hand, unbothered.
“Don’t worry, sugar. Y’all ain’t the first couple passin’ through. I’m real sorry, though—all I’ve got left is a room with two queens. Hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,”
I say before April can answer.
“Plenty of room for activities.”
Sheryl winks, then activates our key cards.
“I’ll cover it,”
I add, pulling out my wallet.
“I’m traveling for work, so it’s on the company.”
April opens her mouth to argue, then closes it.
Good.
There is no way I’m letting her pay to share a room with me in a place with “Pines”
in the name and no actual trees.
As soon as we’re checked in and walking down the breeze block hallway toward our room, I slide my phone out of my back pocket and text the only person who’s going to make this worse.
ME
one room
two queen beds
older lady at the desk thinks we’re married
I’m losing it
NICO
AHHHHHHHHH
THE TENSION
I CAN HEAR THE SPARKS FROM HERE
ME
shut up
what do I do
help
NICO
okay, breathe!
rule #1: don’t freak her out with morning wood
rule #2: don’t snore
rule #3: if you decide to cuddle her, don’t make it weird
ME
you’re terrible at this
NICO
I'm married. I am THRIVING.
listen to me.
let her shower first
offer her the bed she wants
ask for extra towels, she might want to wash her hair
also pillows. trust me, girls love options
and tomorrow, wake up early and bring her coffee. you do that, you’re golden
I stare at the screen.
ME
why do you know this?
NICO
because I pay attention
also deep down I think you enjoy being the little spoon
ME
goodbye forever
NICO
you love me
don’t fart in your sleep
I pocket my phone and exhale.
She’s already unlocking the door and pushing it open.
The room is... about what I expected. Muted-beige everything. A sad painting of a desert landscape over the bed closest to the window. The A/C unit hums like it’s barely holding on.
She sets her bag down, stretching her arms over her head with a soft groan that nearly short-circuits my self-control.
“Would you like to shower first?”
I ask, voice way too casual.
She turns, surprised.
“Oh. Yeah, sure—thanks.”
“I’ll call the front desk, and ask for extra towels. Pillows too?”
“That’d be great.”
She grabs her toiletries and disappears into the bathroom, and I sit on the edge of the bed closest to the door and stare at the ugly lamp like it’s going to give me life advice.
This is fine.
This is totally fine.
It’s just one night.
Just one room.
Just her.
And somehow… that’s the part that makes it dangerous.