Page 67 of Hauling Ashe

“Could you eat a cupcake on top of that ice cream?”

“There’s always room for a cupcake,” she teases, restored to sweetness after our sugary treat.

I laugh. “There are actually two locations now. Because Cupcakes is owned by her future mother-in-law. Julia’s inheritance covered the investment to open a second location.” I pause, recollecting Rochelle’s upset that Julia enjoyed baking instead of public speaking.

“You’re returning women to the kitchen,” Rochelle barked.

“I’m learning how to run my own business,” Julia argued back.

My sweet girl had slowly learned how to hold her own with her mother.

“I’ll make certain to find the place after the wedding.” After the wedding, when I come back to the area and what? How am I getting home from here? A secondary car service was booked for my return to Chicago leaving on Monday. Knowing the track record of the transportation company coming west, I should confirm my eastward plans. However, I’m still hoping I can convince Mae to share a ride back to Chicago. We can take the highway I drove to get here all those years ago and I can show her all the places I discovered along the way. I’ll be the tour guide this time.

“How are you getting home?” she asks, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or nervous to discuss this topic.

“I was hoping to convince this incredibly annoying driver with a car named Louie to return me to Chicago.”

Mae’s brows lift. Surprise is written across her face. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” I pause. “Look, I didn’t really want to have this discussion in traffic, but I don’t want you to go back across the country alone.” I want to be your man, going with you.

“Oh,” she says, her voice faltering.

“What’s oh? I can’t read oh, sunshine.”

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. You know I planned this trip alone in the first place.”

I arch a brow and side-eye her. “And how’d that work out for you?”

She fights a slow smile. “This annoying man weaseled his way into a ride, and I’ve been stuck with him for six days.”

I laugh as I inch forward in the mess of cars. “That bad, huh?”

She shrugs, and for the first time, I take that action from her. “It hasn’t been awful.” A smile fills her voice.

“Maybe I can make it up to you.” Wiggling my brows, Mae lightly laughs at me.

“What did you have in mind, Mr. Ashford?” A full wattage smile brightens her face.

“You’ll see.”

+ + +

When we arrive at Santa Monica Pier, the area is crowded as I’d expect for the end of a summer day. We finally find a place to park and walk to the famous pier stretching into the Pacific Ocean. Just like in Chicago, the starting point for Route 66, the Santa Monica area has had several official ending points. Mae warns me she read it can be a bit anti-climactic, so she’s focused on the pier as her formal finish line. To our surprise, an unofficial sign stands on the entrance of the pier.

Route 66. End of the Trail.

Mae actually hugs the post and I take several pictures, plus selfies of us, before bringing her in for a tight hug.

“You did it, sunshine. You drove Route 66.” The feat is quite the accomplishment, and while I technically drove a portion of it, we did it together.

“How do you feel?” I ask next.

Is she inspired? Is she restored? Does she have vision and purpose as she thought she would? Laughing at these ideals like I first did when she told me about them no longer feels appropriate. I’ve had my own epiphanies on this adventure, including reminders of what I’ve lost, but also what I’ve gained. Holding Mae tighter, she’s the gift I’ve received on this trip. Her smile. Her laugh. Her touch. Even her orgasms. But I want her heart.

“I don’t know,” she says, her voice bewildered. “Maybe it hasn’t hit me that it’s over yet.” Her eyes leap up to mine and the trepidation I saw earlier today returns.

“Well, it isn’t over yet. We need to celebrate. A ride on the Ferris Wheel. Or a trip round the carousel. Then dinner and the sunset.”