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"Oh yeah," he says. "It's a race against time."
"Well, we're on the road already," I say. "Now what are we racing against?"
"Wouldn't want you to get cranky here," he jokes.
"I could see it in the morning," he pretends to be afraid.
"Tonight, you're sleeping on a proper bed, with your arms to yourself. God forbid in your anger at me, you try to cuddle me again or something."
"What the hell?" I screech, now giggling along with his antics. "I did not try to cuddle you. You cuddled me."
"Did not too," he says, like a child.
My stomach lurches as the car speeds around another curve, and I swallow hard against the nausea rising in my throat.
Anthony glances at me again, brows furrowing. "Are you alright?"
I nod, but it's not convincing. My face must be pale, my discomfort obvious.
"You look like you're about to hurl," he says bluntly. "Do you need me to pull over?"
The thought of stopping makes my stomach flip again. But if I throw up in Anthony's car, he'll never let me live it down.
"Maybe for a few minutes," I admit through gritted teeth.
Anthony pulls onto the shoulder, concern etched into his features.
"I'm sorry, I should've realized the winding roads might make you sick. Do you want me to get you some water or ginger ale from the trunk?"
I shake my head, taking deep breaths of the fresh air escaping through the open window.
"I just need to sit still for a bit."
He nods, stroking my hair away from my face.
"Take your time. We're not in a rush."
A few minutes later, my stomach settles enough to continue the drive, but Anthony insists we stop for a break.
A few miles down the road, Anthony helps me out of the car and into a diner he parked outside of, settling me into a booth.
"I'll get you something simple to help settle your stomach," he says.
"And maybe some ginger ale."
I nod gratefully.
The thought of food still makes me queasy, but I know I need to eat if I'm going to make the rest of the drive.
While Anthony orders at the counter, I glance around the diner.
It's a kitschy place, chrome and neon, remnants of the fifties still clinging to its bones.
A jukebox croons in the corner, competing with the chatter of other patrons.
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine this is just a normal road trip.
That Anthony and I are any other couple stopping for a meal together, free of the shadows that dog our every step.
