Chapter Forty-Two
Nora scribbled a few lines across the page of her notebook, her pen moving quickly, words pouring out. Something about a girl with thunder in her veins and a boy who kissed like rock and roll, unpredictable but somehow always right on time.
Mind-blowing. Magical.
The start of something. Or another practice page in what she was starting to think might be a novel.
“Is this seat taken?”
She glanced up, blinking against the sun, to find Joe standing there, notebook under one arm and a vinyl record under the other. His dark curls were still damp from the shower, and he smelled faintly of soap and something woodsy.
Her cheeks flushed, and she shut her notebook with the pen marking her spot.
The thought of him in that shower—with her—sent a ripple down her spine.
“I’ve always got an open seat for you.” Nora patted the seat, aiming for casual, though her pulse had other plans. Joe settled beside her, and she swore her entire side lit up just from his nearness.
“I picked something up for you yesterday.” He held out the record.
She took it carefully as if it might combust in her hands. A Jimi Hendrix album—The Jimi Hendrix Experience—the iconic bright yellow cover with the band encircled in brilliant colors. But what stopped her was the sharp black marker scrawl across the front.
“‘To Nora,’” she read, stunned. “Jimi signed this?”
Joe shrugged, grinning. “I figured it might be a decent way to remember the summer.”
Her fingers traced the loops of Hendrix’s signature like it might disappear. “This is insane.”
“I know. You’re welcome.”
She stared at him for a beat longer, heart thudding. “Robin Stone has nothing on you.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “Robin Stone?”
“From The Love Machine,” she said, cheeks warming. “He’s supposed to be the ultimate fantasy, right? Powerful, sexy, mysterious…”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Sounds like a real catch.”
“He doesn’t hold a candle,” she said, lifting the record. “This is better than fiction.”
Joe nudged her knee with his. “You’re better than fiction.”
Nora grinned, then leaned over and kissed him, soft and slow. Not because of the record. Or the famous signature. But this sunlit, music-filled, wild, impossible summer that felt more like a dream than anything she could’ve written.
And the boy who, somehow, kept making it feel more real.
Because clearly, this summer hadn’t given her enough to remember already. The truth was, it had already tattooed itself across her bones. She was pretty sure this summer was going to shape the rest of her life.
“Thank you,” she said softly, still staring at the signed record like it might disappear.
Joe shifted beside her, cracking open the sleeve. Inside, in the upper left-hand corner, was a ten-digit number scribbled in pen.
“Jimi gave me his phone number?” she teased.
Joe chuckled. “It’s mine,” he said casually. “In case you want to call.”
Her heart hiccupped. The way he said it, either this was the softest breakup in history or hope hanging on a telephone wire.
“Do you want me to call?” she asked.
Again, he smiled, and there it was, that dimple in his cheek, like punctuation on a promise. “I do,” he said. “But I didn’t know if you wanted me to stick around long enough to see where the story goes.”
She glanced down at her notebook, suddenly hyperaware of how she’d been borrowing little bits of him—his jokes, eyes, that smile—and filtering it through fictional characters. He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.
Right?
“The story of us?” she asked, voice soft.
“Something like that,” he said. “I mean, you’re headed off to Yale. And I’ll be in school. So…”
So.
So this might be it.
A summer song.
A long, slow fade-out.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the record sleeve, grounding herself.
She wasn’t naive. She knew how these things went.
People went to college. They grew, changed, and moved on.
She’d probably meet a brooding philosophy major with shaggy hair and bad posture and fall head over heels just because he quoted Kerouac at exactly the wrong time.
Because Kerouac was French Canadian, and knowing he spoke French would probably only remind her of Joe, and she’d be looking for a rebound.
But when she thought about never seeing Joe again, never hearing him say something ridiculous just to make her laugh, never watching him scribble notes in the margins of his notebook like his life depended on it, her chest ached.
Joe Dumas had certainly left an imprint.
And she didn’t want to erase it just yet.
“Well, enough of the sadness,” she said, giving the record a fond pat like it was a friend she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to. “I think we should just enjoy ourselves for the rest of the day. What do you think?”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “I think that sounds like the perfect plan.”
There was still one final day of music left, and Nora had a feeling her mom wasn’t going to let them miss it.
Her grandmother wasn’t scheduled to perform again, but Eleanor had made them promise not to leave until the very last chord was strummed, the last body swayed, and the last guitar wailed.
This was the finale—the exhale at the end of a wild, wonderful, unexpected adventure.
And truthfully, Nora wasn’t ready for it to end either.
She wasn’t ready for reality to swoop back in with its structured schedules, meal plans, lectures, and internships. A reality where Joe wouldn’t be one of the first people she saw in the morning, grinning over a bowl of questionable muesli with Santana playing in the background.
Though she was absolutely looking forward to a toilet without a line and air that didn’t constantly smell like smoke and herbs.
She stood, brushing a crumb from her sundress, and leaned in to kiss Joe on the cheek. “Thanks for everything.”
His eyes softened. “Anytime.”
He laced their fingers together like it was second nature, and they started the walk back toward the motel.
“Meet you back out here in a sec?” she asked when they reached the walkway.
“You bet.”
Inside the motel room, her mom was zipping up her suitcase even though they weren’t leaving until tomorrow morning. Of course, she was. Leanne had always been the type of person who packed early and double-checked the map twice.
Still, she looked different now. Free in a way Nora had never quite seen before. Like maybe this road trip had unraveled something inside her too.
Something that wasn’t going to be packed back up again.
There was a certain set to her mother’s mouth, a quiet resolve that made Nora’s chest tighten. That wasn’t just end-of-summer tiredness. That was the weight of a woman bracing for reality.
Nora lingered in the doorway, watching Leanne smooth the bedspread one last time, even though she’d rumple it again tonight when they went to bed.
“Last day,” Nora said softly.
Leanne looked up, her smile warm but tinged with sadness. “Yeah. This really has been…incredible. I’m going to miss being out on the road with you.”
“Me too.” Nora didn’t sugarcoat it. “I’m going to miss you, Mom.”
The words cracked something open in Leanne’s face. Tears pooled instantly, and she blinked hard, looking up at the ceiling like she could will them back into her skull. But Nora saw them.
Instead of calling her on it, Nora stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her mother.
The hug caught them both by surprise.
They stood there in the middle of the motel room, holding each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like the months—maybe years—of tension hadn’t happened.
Nora didn’t know how long they stood there, but eventually, tears pricked her eyes, and she pulled back with a sniff, fanning her face with both hands.
“Why am I so emotional?” she half laughed, her voice thick.
Leanne chuckled through her own tears. “Because our epic trip is coming to an end.”
But it was more than that. Nora could feel it. This wasn’t just goodbye to a road trip. This was goodbye to the version of herself that had climbed into the Lincoln Continental weeks ago, full of expectations, pressure, and plans.
Goodbye to the freedom of the open road. The freedom of reinvention.
And she didn’t quite know how to let that go.