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As the night lingered on, we ended up curled up by the fire on the blanket, Nacho came back out of the tent to lay with us, the stars spilling across the sky like someone had thrown glitter over black velvet.

We didn’t talk much—just sat in silence, breathing, healing, slowly remembering what life felt like before we’d been emotionally mugged by a woman who claimed deodorant was “oppressive.” And even though the ground beneath us was hard and the bugs weren’t aggressive to my surprise, I was this close to starting a fight over who forgot to pack Nacho’s premade liver dinners but there was peace to it.

A strange, delicate little pocket of peace.

Jon looked over at me and smiled, “I’m glad we’re here.

” I didn’t say anything. I just nudged his foot with mine and handed him another beer.

Because I was glad too. Even if we were two messes on a runaway camping trip with an opinionated dog and emotional baggage stuffed into a rental SUV, I wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to run away with.

That night by the fire was the kind of night that makes you wonder why people live in cities at all.

The stars were stupidly bright. The fire cracked and popped, throwing light across Jon’s face, and for a moment I forgot that just days ago we were living underneath the rhythmic stomping and chaos magic of Patricia “Flabby Patty” and her spiritual warfare yoga that she also forced big burly Blake to try with her.

Nacho was still curled up between us like a tiny space heater, snoring softly with the occasional twitchy dream leg.

I sipped the last of my whiskey and let the heat of the fire and the drink melt the tension out of my shoulders.

Jon hadn’t said much, just leaned back on the blanket beer in hand, staring into the flames like he was finally starting to exhale after weeks of white-knuckling his sanity.

“This doesn’t suck,” I said finally, kicking my foot toward his under the little folding table we had our food on. He gave me a slow grin.

“Not even a little.”

With the fire crackling down to its last glowing embers and the air thick with the smell of grilled salmon, pine, and a hint of whiskey breath, I felt more at home than I had in a long, long time.

Jon wrapped the leftovers like they were national treasures, tucking the foil parcels carefully into the cooler with a kind of precision that made me weirdly swoony.

We doused the fire with water until it hissed in protest, then shuffled into the tent—Nacho leading the way like he owned the lease on our campsite.

Under the soft rustle of Utah pines and a sky littered with stars, we all collapsed onto our sleeping bag in a happy, smoky pile and passed out like a couple of overfed woodland creatures.

The next morning, we woke up tangled in each other like a pile of limbs and campfire smoke.

My hair smelled like charcoal and regret, and Nacho was aggressively licking my cheek like we’d overslept our shift at his imaginary office.

I pulled myself out of the sleeping bag and stumbled toward the cooler like a gremlin in search of caffeine.

Breakfast was hot dogs sliced up with scrambled eggs—don’t judge, it’s called camp cuisine—and somehow it hit the spot harder than a five-star brunch.

The eggs were fluffy, the hot dogs crispy, and Jon had his usual gas station coffee.

We sat there in the folding chairs we brought from the garage, greasy paper plates on our laps, and somewhere in the distance, a loon made a noise so hauntingly dramatic it sounded like it had just seen Patricia’s aura.

“I kind of don’t want to leave,” I said, licking ketchup off my thumb. Jon looked out at the lake and nodded.

“Want to stay another night?” I didn’t even hesitate.

“God yes. Nacho needs more nature therapy.” Nacho barked once in agreement, which I took as legally binding. So, we stayed.

We spent the day walking the trail that hugged the lake, weaving through tall pines and stepping over rocks like seasoned outdoorsy types (me, tripping every third step while Jon pretended not to notice).

The air was fresh and cool, birds chirped in the kind of perfect harmony that made me hum along with them, and the lake itself glistened like it had a built-in Instagram filter.

At one point, Jon turned to me, eyes sparkling, and asked, “Think I can fish?” I blinked.

“Are you asking for permission or just letting me know you’re about to enter your Bass Pro Dad era?” He grinned and pulled a collapsible rod out of the back of the SUV like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

He fished for an hour or so while I laid out on the blanket reading trashy romance on my Kindle and pretending I wasn’t checking him out every time he turned his back.

Eventually, he caught a rainbow trout—slippery and shimmering and surprisingly not horrifying-looking.

He held it up like a trophy, beaming like a kid with his first science fair ribbon.

“Dinner,” he said proudly.

“I hope you know how to clean that thing because I’m not emotionally equipped for fish guts.”

We picked up some fresh corn and asparagus from a roadside stand just outside the park—run by a sweet older couple who gave us a discount after Jon told them we were “on a romantic camping getaway,” which is possibly the most generous euphemism for our escape-from-hell tour.

Back at the campsite, Jon grilled the trout with lemon and a little olive oil he’d packed (because apparently, my man is that prepared), threw the corn right on the coals, and pan-fried the asparagus with some leftover chicken seasoning.

The result? Unreasonably good. Like… “we could charge people for this” good.

We ate in silence, save for the occasional moan of food joy, and Nacho got a few grilled asparagus pieces tossed in with his dog food like the little prince he is.

After dinner, we hit the campsite showers which were… not the Ritz, but after two days in the wild, I would’ve happily bathed in a bucket. Jon emerged shirtless, towel slung low, and I swear I nearly proposed then and there. Camping may not be sexy, but that? That was objectively hot.

Back at the tent, we got a little drunk on what was left of the whiskey and Bud Light, and things…

escalated. Let’s just say the tent walls were tested for structural integrity, Nacho stayed in the tent by choice, and I discovered that pi ne-scented shampoo is weirdly arousing when used on the right person.

We kissed like we were making up for lost time, whispered things we didn’t quite say aloud in daylight, and got tangled up in the kind of slow, breathless intimacy that feels more like remembering than discovering.

I could stare at this man’s penis all night long…

The next morning, the air was chilly and damp with dew, and the fire pit had gone cold.

I woke up sore in all the best ways, hair a mess, wearing Jon’s hoodie because my clothes were still in a crumpled pile somewhere by the tent zipper.

We cooked up another batch of scrambled eggs—this time with the last two hot dogs sliced in for good measure—and sat quietly while Nacho watched a squirrel from a safe but judgmental distance.

Packing up took less than an hour. Jon folded the tent like a military Tetris master, and I made sure we didn’t leave behind anything except good smells and a slightly emotionally scarred squirrel community.

We hit the road with twelve hours left on our trip to Texas.

The sun was rising behind us, turning the mountains soft and golden.

I glanced over at Jon, who looked… lighter.

Not fixed, not perfect, but better. I reached for his hand across the center console, twining my fingers through his.

He squeezed gently, his eyes st ill on the road.

“Next stop?” I asked. He smiled.

“Home.”

And I realized—I wasn’t just riding shotgun on a road trip.

I was building something with him. Somewhere between Idaho and Texas, in the silence of pine trees and the sizzle of campfire trout, we’d started writing a new chapter.

Together. Nacho sneezed in the backseat and promptly curled up on top of our laundry pile.

Twelve hours left. Just twelve more hours in a car that smelled like trail mix, wet dog, and leftover campfire dreams. We were sun-kissed, slightly crusty, running on gas station coffee and bad decisions—but somehow still grinning.

We drove in comfortable silence, save for Nacho’s occasional huffy sigh from the back seat every time Jon missed a turn or I took too long choosing a playlist. Somewhere near Albuquerque, my lower back gave me the middle finger and Jon’s knee started cracking like an old haunted door, so we pulled into a La Quinta Inn for the night.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it had a real shower, two fluffy beds, and air conditioning that didn’t sound like it was dying.

Jon let Nacho take the bed closest to the window (because of course he did), and we passed out watching Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives while eating KFC we picked up on the way in.

The next morning, we were back on the road by 9 a.m., smelling like soap and optimism. I made us stop at three different gas stations—each one sketchier than the last—because my bladder works on toddler time, and Jon graciously refrained from making fun of me (to my face).

At some point in East Texas, hunger hit us like a semi-truck.

We saw a Saltgrass Steakhouse off the interstate and swerved into the parking lot like our lives depended on it.

I devoured a ribeye like I’d been raised by wolves, and Jon ordered chicken-fried steak the size of a Texas license plate.

We brought Nacho the grilled chicken breast from the “not for dogs but we’ll pretend” portion of the menu.

He licked his mouth, then farted once—loudly—and passed out in the back seat once again.

By the time we crossed into Houston city limits, the sun was sinking behind the horizon in a gold-and-pink haze.

Traffic was its usual chaos symphony—honks, brake lights, and one man who seemed to be arguing with his steering wheel.

Jon drove with quiet focus, his hand resting on my thigh, while I navigated and pointed out old landmarks like I was leading a very nostalgic, very judgmental tour.

And then, there it was. My parents’ house on the lake.

Stately, sun-soaked, and radiating that unmistakable aura of Trini household energy—you could practically smell the curry and hear the soca music before we even pulled into the driveway.

The water behind the house shimmered in the fading light, dock lights twinkling, the porch chairs still creaking in the breeze like they remembered me.Jon parked, turned the engine off, and we both sat there for a second in silence.

“Ready?” I asked, my heart suddenly thumping like I was about to introduce him to royalty.He gave me a crooked smile. “Do I have to take my shoes off?” I laughed.

“If my mom’s in a good mood, maybe not. But don’t say anything bad about her pelau and you’ll live.”

Nacho popped his head up, tail thumping wildly, like finally, a proper house.We stepped out of the car, bags in hand, road-worn and sun-drunk and smelling like every state we’d driven through.

As we walked up to that big warm door, Jon reached out, took my hand, and squeezed.

Home. Texas.It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t quiet.

But it was a relief—and now, maybe, his too.