“Fair? After you quit your job, Laurel called me in a panic. Then I got this weird message about buying the van—which was so obviously from you…”
I stare at that smug smile of his in utter disbelief. “You already knew everything I was telling you. Thewholetime. And you let me make that humiliating speech?”
His hands find the dip of my waist. “I did. And thank god for that, because your plan was to ambush me in Wet Ted’s parking lot with no warning,” he complains, but his lovestruck smile tells me he’s not the least bit disappointed.
“I hate you,” I say into his neck. He smells as sweet as ever.
His hands grip me tighter and his eyes dance all over my face as though he might not believe I’m real and in his arms after all we’ve been through. “You don’t, though.”
“I don’t.” I barely get the words out.
I can hardly remember a time when I was afraid of this. Of what would or wouldn’t happen when I jumped into the arms of my best friend. I love him—I’ve always loved him—but I was so certain love was this fragile thing that would slice mypalm when it inevitably shattered. But it turns out we’re not so brittle, and I’m not that delicate.
“Wanna go home now?” He gestures with his chin toward the van. “Your name’s on all the finance documents, by the way. Which was another tip-off that ‘Sutton River’ was an alias.”
I pull him closer by the back of the neck. “I get it. I have no future in espionage.”
“So, where do you want to live, Beekman?” he asks, pressing our heads together. “The van’s too small. We’ll have to start looking for places soon or we might kill each other. Or you might kill me, more accurately.”
“Okay, rude. I can cohabitate in a van without resorting to murder.”
He squeezes me. “Sure you could.”
“You have no faith in me.”
“Have you even taken a second to consider the dark sides here?”
“Nope,” I answer, rolling my forehead along his. “It’s bright sides only from here on out, Powell.”
“Let’s do a week,” he suggests, his voice a little thick. “Then see where life takes us.”
I step back and lead him to the van, enjoying the weight of our clasped hands the whole way.
“I could try that,” I agree, sliding open the door.
Epilogue
Can We Keep the Physical Manifestation of Our Love With the Beer Koozies?
Two Years Later
“Did you stealmy straw?” I ask. It’s not really a question but an accusation. More of a fact, honestly, because the mandefinitelystole my straw.
Ethan and I stare each other down in our kitchen—our immovable kitchen in our town house on Lake Lewellen. The vanwastoo small, though I made it way more than a week. (Seventeen weeks, if we count the six days our engine conked out and we had to stay in a KOA, which I am 1,000 percent counting.)
The nomadic life is hard! And it’s not just me who can’t hack it. Ethan has fully leaned into his sappy sentimental side now that he has a permanent address to store cheesy mementos of our relationship. He keeps everything these days: gas station key chains that spell my name right, state park maps, every innuendo-emblazoned trucker T-shirt we stumble across.We’re only at the beginning, and I don’t want to forget any of it, he said when he handed the cashier at Yellowstone a twentyfor a T-shirt that readOld Faithful Blowsover a confoundingly sexual illustration of the geyser.
I don’t think he knew how much that moment meant to me. The way he casually announced there was no ticking clock on this thing between us. It made me like the shirt more, even though I’d groaned for a solid ten seconds when he’d first plucked that ugly thing from the circular rack.
He’s also pretty obsessed with Cat Power, the Maine coon kitten we found wandering around a Walmart parking lot somewhere outside of Bend, Oregon, and named after the singer-songwriter. Though she tolerates road life, her favorite spot on the planet is in front of our fireplace at home, and now that Ethan’s writing songs—and no longer performing in bustling student unions during Rush Week—it’s his favorite spot too.
We furnished the place slowly, picking pieces one at a time from antique stores and estate sales all over the country and decorating the walls with my photographs from our trips. Gone are the days of empty rooms and Airbnb-caliber art. Our home is intentional.
But that doesn’t mean my boyfriend can justtakemythings.
“Powell,” I caution. The forks and knives clank together as I scour the utensil drawer, searching for the familiar phallic novelty straw. “It’s not in any of its usual spots.”
He looks to the ceiling for strength. “This is an intervention. You’ve become desensitized to it. Last time my parents were here, you were just sipping away on that thing like it wasn’t shaped like a penis.”
