I can’t wait to meet you, little one. To watch you grow, to guide you, to learn from you, and to love you harder than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone in my life. You’re going to be so lucky, and I hope you know that so am I.
The highway unwinds before me, stretching toward a horizon that never seems to grow closer, no matter how many hours I spend chasing it. Above it, the sky is a hazy, washed-out blue, bleached by the late-afternoon sun.
A light vibration rattles through my bones as the road hums beneath my tires. I quickly tired of the interstate, with nothing but the same green exit signs promising gas, food, lodging, and relief. Instead, I’ve been following back roads that carve through the countryside like lazy rivers for the last few weeks.
At some point, they all began to blur together. All of them with faded white and yellow lines dividing the pavement, creating lanes that don’t do much of anything when you’re the only car for miles. Each cuts through similar small towns with such a tiny cluster of buildings that don’t even register as a dot on a map, but never failing to have a bar. The Owl’s Nest, Last Chance Saloon, Whiskey River, Frank’s, and a slew of other dives that feel like they werebuilt specifically for men like me, men with nowhere to go and nothing else to lose.
My hands rest loosely on the steering wheel, the leather worn smooth beneath my palms from decades of use. Rosie always teased me about how much I loved this car.
We’ve been driving for hours. No destination. No plan. Just the two of us on the long open road, with the windows down, and the warm summer air flooding the car.
Despite my ample protests, Rosie has her feet kicked up on the dash, her bare toes tapping absent-mindedly to the rhythm of each song wafting through the speakers. Her hair whips around her face in chaotic strands, catching the sunlight. It weaves threads of caramel and amber through the otherwise-umber locks with every turn of her head.
“You know,” she chimes casually, her voice raised slightly to speak over the rush of wind, “you’re rich and famous.”
“Really?” I snort. “Because I hadn’t noticed.”
She completely ignores my sarcasm. “I’m just saying, you could afford a fancy car.”
“Thisisa fancy car.” I tighten my hands around the steering wheel like her insult is a personal attack.
Rosie laughs, a full, unfiltered, head-thrown-back laugh that fills the car. “This”—she waves her handsaround at the cracked leather seats and sun-faded dashboard beneath her feet—“it’s a relic.”
“It’s vintage.”
“It’sold.”
“It has character,” I retort, running my hands over the smooth leather of the wheel.
“It has problems.”
I cock a brow and shoot her a playful look. “Youhave problems.”
She gasps, dramatically pressing a hand against her chest. “Wow. All these years and this is how it is.”
“This is how it is,” I confirm, solemnly.
“You’re impossible.” Her eyes are narrow as she shakes her head, but there is no hiding the smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“You love me.”
“I do,” she replies without a second of hesitation, leaning her elbow against the open window. Her fingers thread through her hair, combing it out of her face. “But I think you love this thing more than me.”
“I could never loveanythingas much as you.”
Reaching across the seat, I wrap my fingers around her wrist. She gasps with surprise as I tug her toward me. “Easton.” She laughs, bracing her hand against my shoulder as I drag her across the bench seat and into my lap. “You’re driving.”
“I’m aware.” When she’s fully across my lap, I snake my free arm securely around her waist. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to be there.
Her hand slides up my chest and curls into the fabric of my shirt as she shakes her head. “You’re insane.”
Not pulling my eyes from the road, I press my lips to hers as I veer onto the shoulder and slip it into park. Barely breaking our kiss, I whisper, “Absolutely crazy for you, dreamer.”
The gas light flickers on, and the small amber glow on the dashboard pulls me back to the present. WELCOME TO KANSAS, a big blue sunflower-adorned sign announces my arrival. I don’t remember crossing through Oklahoma, but I don’t remember passing through Arkansas, either.
My days since leaving Nashville have bled into long, indistinguishable stretches of asphalt and alcohol. I thought fleeing our home would fix the parts of me Rosie’s death broke, that being somewhere else would dilute the grief. Foolishly, I thought that, if I put enough miles between myself and the life Rosie and I built together, I might stop feeling like a ghost haunting my own existence. But as the anniversary of her death approaches, I only miss her more.
Instead, grief climbed into the passenger seat. It buckled itself in and is determined to come along for the ride. It sleeps beside me in bed and stares back at me from empty pillows at three in the morning. It follows me into every bar, wrapping itself around my throat until the only thingthat loosens its chokehold is whiskey.Even then, it doesn’t really let go.
