I felt nauseated for a minute, until I reminded myself that in less than an hour I’d be walking through the front door of my dream house—I didn’t need to get sad about not being in this room again. Soon I’d have more rooms than I’d know what to do with, and they’d all need my time and attention. There would be no sitting around moping about Nick, his bedroom, or his bedmates.
The house, the house, the house.
I’d think about that. I’d be happy about that.
Bounding down the steps, I resolved to be in a better mood. I crossed the room, set my suitcase by the door, and smiled at Nick, who was just putting the white-frosted cake into a small cooler. “That looks good.”
“Thanks. Hope it travels OK.” He snapped the lid in place and looked at me. “You look pretty.”
“Thank you. Ready to go?”
“Yes. Let me throw a couple things in a bag, and we’re off.”
While he was upstairs, I put away the Scrabble game, rinsed the breakfast dishes and utensils he’d used frosting the cake, and put them all in the dishwasher. I was just turning it on when he came down, a small duffel bag over one shoulder.
He took the cooler from the island, tucking it under one arm. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind. It’s the least I can do, since you cooked breakfast for me.”
He switched off all the lights and dug his keys from his pocket. “That was my pleasure, as is seeing you in my kitchen. I love how domestic you are now. Shall we go?”
I nodded, walking briskly, picking up my suitcase and vowing not to look back at Nick’s apartment before the door slammed behind me.
“Hey, this is fun, going on a little trip like this,” Nick said, following me down the hall. “It’s like we’re married or something.”
I shot him a murderous look over one shoulder, wishing he didn’t look so hot in those aviator sunglasses.
“Can I carry your suitcase for you, honey?”
“No. I’ve got it, thanks.” Eyes ahead, I strode toward the elevators.
An older woman got on the elevator at the tenth floor and smiled at us. “What a beautiful couple you are.”
“Thanks,” Nick said at the exact same time I said, “We’re not a couple.”
We glared at each other, and the woman remained silent the rest of the way down.
#
“I thought it might be fun to take my car,” I suggested as we entered the parking garage.
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a convertible. Don’t you think that would be fun?”
He looked at me. “My truck wouldn’t be fun?”
“Your what?” I squawked. “I mean…what do
you drive now, another truck?” I tried not to sound snotty about it. Lots of trucks were perfectly nice.
“You know. My pickup. Still got plenty of good years left.”
I stumbled slightly. “You still have that same truck?”
“Not good enough for you?” He was testing me. “You always hated it, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t hate it—I just…” I sighed heavily. “It’s fine. The truck will be fine.”
“Good.”
I followed him up a row of cars and looked around for the big honking heap he called a truck, but I didn’t see it. I was about to ask where it was when
Nick went over to a car that was covered with a giant beige cloth.
“What is this?” There was no way his old pickup truck was under that cover.
Nick put down his bag, setting the cooler alongside it. Then he began pulling the cover off, revealing a shiny red vintage car with a soft top.
I gasped. “That’s your car?”
Nick laughed. “It’s not the one I drive every day, but I thought it would be fun to take it to Noni’s. You like it?”
“Yes!” I ran one hand along its curvy side, admiring the whitewall tires. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”
Nick opened the trunk. “A 1954 Mercury Monterey.”
“It’s a convertible too?” I swept my fingers along the cloth top.
“Yep.” He put the beige cover in the trunk and reached for my suitcase. “Is it nice enough for you?”
I handed it over and smacked his shoulder. “You told me you still had your truck!”
He grinned, adding his bag to the trunk before closing it. “And you believed me.”
“Well, my God, you adored that stupid thing.
Did you actually get rid of it?”
“Sadly, yes.” Nick came around and opened the passenger door for me before opening the driver’s side and setting the cooler on the floor in the back seat. I slid in across the fabric-and-leather front seat, marveling at how roomy it was, how big the steering wheel, how shiny the dash.
I felt like a kid riding the ferris wheel for the first time—my insides were jumping with excitement. Nick got in and started the engine, then unhooked the lever connecting the top to the windshield on his side. “I’ve got this one,” I told him, unlatching the lever on my side.
Nick put the top down, which folded behind the back seat much like it did on my VW, and got out to fasten the cover over it. A few minutes later, we were on our way.
It was hard to keep a smile off my face as we pulled out into the July morning sunshine. I tipped my head back and listened to the staticky sound of AM radio and the loud thrum of the engine as we drove toward Indian Village, delighted with all the stares we got from people on the street or in other cars. Some waved at us, some just smiled, but it was easy to see that the sight of a beautifully restored classic car cruising down Jefferson made people happy.