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“I try to,” he says. “Not a lot of time.”

I think, chewing on my lip. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s complicated.”

We’re both pretty tired out, so I turn on the TV while I finish my sushi. Then, he strokes my hair gently while he watches an old western. The last thing I see is the TV glimmering black and white, casting light over him as he scribbles in his notebook. Then, I’m waking abruptly to find him brushing his teeth in the bathroom, freshly showered. Sunlight streams through the window. I roll over and stretch.

“These beds are heaven,” I yawn.

He puts away his toothbrush. “They’re pretty nice. You ready to get moving?”

“Yeah, I need to shower and pack.”

He comes out and kisses me, morning breath and all. “You shower, I’ll pack.”

I jump out of bed and head to the bathroom. Almost everything is already packed up, except for his creased notebook sitting on the table beside three empty paper coffee cups. I wonder how long he was up writing. He doesn’t look too tired, but then he always has that faint movie star glow to him. Or maybe that has more to do with how my stomach flutters when he looks over at me, all handsome angles and more abs than I can count.

When I’m dressed, in my most seductive bikini top and some crochet shorts, sandals on my feet, he hauls our bags down, and I sit in the passenger side while he loads up. He says he doesn’t need help. I’m fine with that. I’m starting to really enjoy this whole new world of being a passenger princess, of having my doors opened, food bought for me. And the best part: getting my hair played with while I fall asleep. I’m being spoiled, and it’s going to hurt when he sends me home.

Will he send me home?

I glance sideways at him.

Deep inside, part of me thinks he won’t. My brain tells me things are changing. My heart is terrified of getting my hopes up and having to pick up all the pieces when he lets me down.

Leaning in, I turn the music up louder, Allison Krause & The Union Station this time.

“Good song,” he says.

I nod in agreement, rolling down my window to let the wind rip through my fingers. We make it through Louisiana and up into Alabama. This time, he’s taking a straight route instead of doing whatever he pleases. I wonder if he’s got a hankering to be in the studio again. He did spend a long time writing in that notebook while I was drifting off. Maybe he’s starting to get his creative spark back.

About noon, we stop at a diner in a vast expanse of gray-brown landscape. It’s one of those hole in the wall places with a roll-up window where we order. I get a plain old hotdog with the fixings. He looks at the menu for a while, squinting behind his sunglasses, then says he’ll have the same. We get our food and go sit on the curb around the side of the building.

He sits. I hesitate, and he glances up, squinting.

“Come on, sit,” he says.

I sink between his knees on the pavement. He stretches a leg out, and I shift back until I’m close. Never close enough. I feel so safe when he’s around me. I lean against his cocked leg and open the bag, taking the warm food out.

“The view is so pretty,” I say. “It’s nice to get a change of scenery from the desert.”

“You like the desert or the hills?”

“Both,” I say. “For different reasons. The flat land makes me think of home.”

He takes a bite, but I think he’s thinking. That tell-tale crease appears between his brows. I have a bite too, and this might be the best hot dog I’ve ever had. The food we’ve had on this trip is bringing me back to life, it’s so good. It’s funny it was all from these little hole-in-the-wall places. Nothing fancy, and I like that.

“It’s real pretty,” he says finally.

I glance over my shoulder, but he’s looking right at me. My stomach flips, and I don’t know what to do, so I just take a sip of my lemonade and wonder what that look really means.

“You miss home?” he says finally.

I dust off my hands, shoving the empty papers in the bag. I think about the lingering unease over what my father thinks of Coen, the guilt over leaving Serena. It covered the twinge of homesickness in my heart.

I love my home, but, more than anything, I miss the people there.

“A little bit,” I admit.