“Yep.”
“You rode all that?”
“Most of it.”
“For Mama?”
I look up.
Amelia is standing on the other side of the hood, coffee in hand, frozen.
The kid waits.
Kids do that. Ask a question and then stand there like you either answer truth or prove grown-ups are full of shit.
“For both of you,” I say.
August nods like that is acceptable.
Then he points at the map. “Can we stop where there’s fries?”
“Probably.”
“With ketchup?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
Amelia hides a smile behind her coffee cup.
Good.
Let her smile.
Even if everything under it’s cracked.
We drive into the second night with August asleep again. This time, Amelia asks to drive. I hate it for six separate reasons, but the biggest one is my own need to be useful.
She sees it.
“Passenger seat, Derby. Revolutionary concept.”
“I’m not good at passenger.”
“I know.”
“You trying to teach me trust with highway speeds?”
“Maybe.”
I switch seats because I’m an idiot in love and apparently determined to learn every uncomfortable lesson this woman offers.
The first mile is torture.
By the tenth, I stop gripping the door handle.
By the twentieth, I let myself look at her instead of the road.
She drives carefully, both hands on the wheel, eyes scanning mirrors, shoulders tight but steady. The headlights paint her face in passing gold. Her hair is clipped up, which leaves the little crown visible behind her ear.