Page 87 of Fade into You

“Nope. I told you, it’s a surprise.”

She smiles and shakes her head, looking at our feet for a moment before she speeds off down the driveway toward Daniel’s car, shouting, “Race you!”

She wins.

“Okay, first things first,” I begin, once we’re both in the car. “We have caffeine—or probably more like coffee-flavored high-fructose corn syrup—aaand…” I reach into the plastic bag behind her seat to pull out the gas station balloon. “For you.”

“Happy Un-Birthday?” she says with a crook in her non-pierced eyebrow.

“Yeah, it was a whole deception thing. I told Daniel it was your birthday and that’s why I needed to borrow his car for your surprise.”

“So bad,” she teases. Her fingers tickle at my thigh through my jeans, another tease.

“I know, I know. But this might be one of those rare instances where the end really does justify the means.” And I try to push away the thought of how, more and more, I’m sure that our plan to break up our friends was absolutelynotone of those instances. But I don’t want to spoil our time—our precious time.

“How Machiavellian of you.”

“Thanks… I guess? And second things… um,second. I know you probably brought your own collection, but I bestow upon you all my very best CDs for our little road trip.” I hand over my bag that has my Joni Mitchells and Ani DiFrancos, and that Tori Amos album that we totally scream-sang together start to finish while driving around aimlessly that night. “You are in control of the radio for the next three hours.”

“Oh my god, yes!” She takes my bag and then reaches into hers to pull out an overstuffed binder full of her own CDs. “Score! Thank you, Daniel’s car, for having an actual CD player!”

“I thought you’d like that.”

“Wait, did you saythreehours?”

I nod.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away,” I answer.

“Mm, I like the sounda that,” she muses as she buckles her seat belt.

I make sure my printed directions are within reach on the dashboard and check all my mirrors before carefully pulling out.

The first hour of the drive, we go through the chocolate doughnuts and crappuccinos and Jessa has taken us on a tour of the highlights of the Velvet Underground’s entire catalogue since the 1960s.

She keeps her hand on my knee or at the back of my neck the whole time, and once we get on the highway, she even leans across the seat and kisses my cheek. It’s the perfect kind of day. Overcast and cool but not so cold we need the heat on. Windows cracked for fresh air. I’m feeling so good until I see the construction signs ahead, the roadblock, the neon-orangeDETOURsigns forcing us off the only route I’ve planned for.

“Uh-oh,” I say as I reluctantly follow the signs. “We’re lost.”

“The detour?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see the directions.”

“No, it says where we’re going.”

“Okay, well, how many miles till we were supposed to do something?”

“Like thirty miles, I think.”

“Well, just take the detour for thirty miles and then we’ll assess. Sound good?”

“Um, I—I—g-guess.”

“Hey, even if we do get lost, I don’t mind being lost with you.”