Page 40 of Married in Michigan

His eyes flit over me, head to toe. “Point is, Makayla, we’re going to have to discuss this a bit more. When I give you something, it will be because I want to. And whatever it is, it will beyours. So when we separate, if you leave your stuff in my condo in DC, I’ll have them delivered to wherever you are, and you can sell them or donate them as you see fit.”

I sigh, smile. “I’d say we’re at an impasse, then.”

“Have you forgotten?” His grin is an arrogant smirk. “I always get my way.”

I pat him on the cheek. “Well, buddy, you don’t know me very well, do you?”

He doesn’t laugh, and his eyes are deep and serious. “No, I don’t.” A pause. “Not yet, anyway.”

Not yet. Not yet?

I put that odd little comment aside and shoulder my bags. “Well. Time to go, I guess.”

He nods, pushes up off the bed and strides past me. I follow him, and then pause at the door. Dig my keyring out of my purse. Funny—there’s only the one key for this apartment. I don’t own a car, or a post office box, or anything else that would require a key. Not even a bike lock. I set the one key on the table beside the couch, and with one last glance around, leave the apartment that has been my home for the last several years.

I don’t look back, once I’m out the front door.

10

Paxton precedes me down the stairs, and then at the bottom, takes my duffel bag from me. Parked at a careless angle in front of the carriage house is the tiny little classic red Porsche of Paxton’s. I expect him to open the trunk at the rear of the car, but instead he opens the front where the engine usually is. This is where he sets my bag. He closes the front trunk, and then rounds the hood to open the passenger door, and holds it for me.

I hesitate. Breathe out slowly, and then lower myself into the sumptuous black leather bucket seat. I clutch my purse on my lap and try to not tremble all over. This car has a much different feeling than the super Ferrari I was in a week ago—that was beyond luxury, hyper technologically advanced, like being in a futuristic spaceship; this, by contrast, is small, sporty, comfortable, open air all around rather than a small removable section of roof. When Paxton slides behind the wheel and starts the engine, the sound is a rumbly feline purr rather than the massive throaty predator snarl of the Ferrari.

He shoves the stick shift forward, nudges the gas, and the little car makes a tight circle, pauses at the end of the driveway, and then we’re zipping out of the neighborhood and onto 31 back toward his parent’s house.

I glance at Paxton: he’s grinning, an ear-to-ear grin of sheer joy, the wind playfully ruffling his hair. I can’t help a grin myself at the fun of being in this car—it’s a visceral experience, a sense of connection to the world and the road.

He glances at me. “Well?”

I know exactly what he means. And I can’t help laughing. “Okay, you were right. Withthiscar, I get it.”

He howls a triumphant laugh, and it’s a joyful, easy, carefree sound; this version of Paxton…I like. A lot.

“You like it?” He says this as he yanks the shifter down, floors the gas, and the car surges forward down the highway.

I nod. “It’s fun, and I don’t feel like I’m going to make it dirty or damage it just by sitting in it.”

He laughs. “I get what you mean. That Ferrari is actually intimidating to drive, even for me.” We come to a curve in the road, and there’s a subtle sense of leaning to the right. He eyes me, grinning again. “Wanna drive?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Come on. It’s fun!” A glance. “Or can you not drive a stick?”

I hesitate. “I, um. I don’t drive.”

He frowns at my answer. “Don’t, or can’t?”

I shrug. “Same thing.”

“Explain.”

“I grew up in Detroit, inner city. Mom didn’t own a car, and never has. Same with me. We used public transportation in Detroit, and once we moved up here, we walked everywhere.”

He shakes his head. “You never got your license?”

“Nope. I have never operated a motor vehicle.” I laugh. “Closest I’ve come is sitting in the driver’s seat of a fire truck during a field trip in third grade.”

“Well that’s…fucked up. Driving is one of life’s great joys.”