Chapter 13
Max
Nico’s text is the first thing I see when I unlock my phone before heading back to the car.
NICO
how are you?
in love yet?
I roll my eyes and toss the phone on the middle console. The thing is… it wouldn’t be hard. It wouldn’t be hard at all to fall for someone like April.
She’s easy to be around. Light, not surface-level, but the kind that feels rare—the kind that makes everything in me unclench, like being seen without having to explain myself. Strong in ways that aren’t loud, and when she talks about her sisters, her mom, or the job she’s chasing? She lights up, and I feel that slow, sneaky pull. The type that starts in the chest and works its way outward.
She climbs into the car, tucks her legs up under her, and plugs her phone into the aux cord.
“Okay,”
she says, pulling up her playlist.
“No judging. I’m feeling nostalgic.”
The first guitar riff plays through the speakers, then his voice—smooth, warm, a little rough around the edges—fills the air; it’s Elvis’.
“Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
She’s staring out the window, grinning.
“My mom loved Elvis,”
she says.
“Like... obsessed. She used to sing this to us when we were little. It always felt like a lullaby.”
I just let it play because some songs deserve silence.
An hour passes, the miles blur, and just when I think we’ve settled into the quiet, she shifts in her seat, facing me.
“Want to play a game?”
“That depends. Is this another round of Would You Rather or am I about to reveal something deeply humiliating again?”
She laughs, and God, that sound could carry me across a desert.
“Nope. Just a question game. No rules. No turns. Just ask and answer. Whatever comes up.”
“Alright. You start.”
She thinks for half a second.
“What’s your ethnicity?”
“My grandparents on my dad’s side were Cuban, and my family on my mom’s side is from Brazil.”
“Wow! I’m half Brazilian!”
“I thought Moreira could be Brazilian,”
I say with a smile.
“How about your other half?”
“My mom was white,”
she says.
“from the mountains of Caucasus.”
We laugh, and she continues our question-and-answer game.
“Do you like dogs?”
I glance over.
“Is that really a question?”
“It’s crucial.”
“Then yes. I love dogs. Grew up with a rescue lab mix named Murphy.”
“Murphy,”
she repeats, grinning.
“That’s a solid dog name. We had a golden retriever named Rosie. She used to follow my mom around the house like a shadow.”
Her voice goes soft at the end, and I file that away—another thread connecting us.
“Okay,”
she says, perking back up. “Next question, how do you feel about people who put pineapple on pizza?”
“They’re brave, and probably chaotic.”
“So… not a fan?”
“Not a hater. Just… aware.”
She grins.
“Your turn.”
“Do you want kids?”
The question hangs in the air for a second, but she doesn’t shy away.
“Yeah, one day. I think I’d be good at it. Oldest of three, I’ve had some practice. You?”
“Yeah, I do.”
She nods once.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to adopting,” I add.
She looks over, and something gentles in her face—her lips part, her eyes warm, carrying a trace of longing that makes my chest tighten.
“Same,”
she says.
“There are so many kids who just need someone to show up.”
And there it is again—the thread.
“What’s your real-life superpower?” she asks.
“Remembering weirdly specific details about people. Like... favorite drinks, bad dates, childhood allergies.”
“That’s not weird,”
she says.
“that’s thoughtful.”
“What about you?”
“I can tell when someone’s about to cry before they even know it. I think it’s from growing up in a house full of emotional hurricanes.”
I chuckle.
“So... emotional radar?”
“Exactly.”
We’ve covered favorite foods—hers are street tacos, and mine is grilled cheese. Favorite childhood movies. Hers is The Parent Trap, and mine is The Waterboy. If we’d ever live in a tiny house. She said yes, as long as it had a porch, and I said no, unless it came with unlimited coffee and a dog.
Every answer connects us further. Every moment brings us closer, yet neither of us say what we’re both probably feeling. This is no longer just a layover; it’s something more.
The dashboard clock reads 2:06p.m.
“We should stop soon,”
I say.
“Top off the tank, stretch, maybe restock snacks.”
“On it,”
she says, reaching for her phone.
“Siri, girl, let’s find the nearest gas station.”