"That was logical," Danny protests. "Paprika should not be next to vanilla extract."
I laugh, thinking about my own compulsively organized life. "Danny, I think you and I are kindred spirits. I organize everything."
"Really?" His voice lights up. "What's your system?"
"Well, my closet is organized by season first, then by color within each season, then by function. Work clothes, casual clothes, special occasion clothes."
"That makes sense," Danny says approvingly. "What about your spices?"
"Alphabetical, actually. But I'm thinking about switching to your system—it sounds much better."
Blair is grinning at our conversation. "I've created a monster," she says. "You two are going to reorganize my entire apartment when Danny visits New York, aren't you?"
"Only if you ask nicely," I tease. The casual reference to future plans, to being in her space, to this continuing beyond what I can imagine—it should scare me but it doesn't.
The death metal accordion music finally ends, replaced by a Japanese children's song.
"Danny," Blair says, "how many songs are on this playlist?"
"Four hundred and thirty-seven," Danny replies. "I wanted to make sure we had enough variety."
"Variety is definitely the right word," I say with a chuckle, then turn up the volume because the song is actually kind of catchy.
We're driving past farmland now, endless fields of corn and soybeans stretching toward the horizon. It's beautiful in that quietly Midwestern way—not dramatic or spectacular, just peaceful and vast. I'm wearing Blair's baseball cap and it smells of her shampoo and makes me feel ridiculously happy.
"Did you know," Danny announces, "that Illinois produces more soybeans than any other state except Iowa? And that soybeans were first cultivated in China over 5,000 years ago?"
"I did not know that," Blair and I say in unison, which makes Danny giggle.
"You guys said that at exactly the same time! That's called synchrony, and it happens when people spend a lot of time together and start thinking alike."
I glance at Blair, wondering if Danny's observation is more accurate than I'm comfortable admitting.
"Danny," I say, deflecting. "What's your favorite thing about road trips?"
He considers this seriously. "I like that everything is temporary but also a great memory. Like, we'll probably never see the Clabber Girl Museum again, but we'll always remember it. And I like being in the car with people I love because you can't go anywhere else, so you have to just be together."
The simplicity and truth of his answer makes my throat tighten, and Blair reaches over and takes my hand, intertwiningour fingers. The gesture is casual, automatic, like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
The Japanese song fades into something that sounds like elevator music played on a banjo, and I realize I'm going to miss this chaos when we get home.
"Blair," I say quietly, so only she can hear over the music and wind, "thank you for letting me come with you."
"Thank you for coming," she replies, lifting our joined hands to kiss my knuckles. "I can't imagine doing this without you now."
And neither can I. Maybe that's growth. Maybe that's what taking things day by day looks like—not constantly bracing for disaster, but allowing yourself to be present in the good moments.
"Hey guys?" Danny calls from the backseat. "Are we almost there?"
We all dissolve into laughter, and I think Danny might be right about wishing this could last forever.
EPILOGUE
LIV, 1 YEAR LATER
The last of the limos disappears down the winding drive of Château de Malmaison, their red taillights blinking like fireflies against the darkness of the Provence countryside. I kick off my heels and sink into one of the gilded Louis XVI chairs scattered across the ballroom. My feet are screaming after fourteen hours of coordinating the wedding of the year in this fifteenth-century French castle with its soaring stone walls.
The silence is delightful. Even my team is breaking down quietly, clearly appreciating the relief for their eardrums as much as I do.
