Page 64 of Main Event

She shuts the door and looks at me. “I moved both meetings.”

“Good.”

“Mrs. Alvarez thinks this is hilarious.”

“Also good.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘About time that man did something sensible.’”

I pull out of the lot. “I’m wounded.”

“She also packed us napkins, bottled water, and a container of cookies from the staff room because apparently she trusts your planning less than I do.”

“She’s right to.”

Andi sets the bag at her feet and looks through the windshield at the storm. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No.”

“Are we staying in Georgia?”

“Yes.”

“Are we running from something?”

I glance at her. The question is too casual to be casual. “No,” I say. “That’s the whole point.”

She looks at me then. Really looks. I keep my eyes on the road.

“We’re not running from anything today,” I say. “We’re going somewhere because I want to take you there.”

The rain pounds harder for a few minutes. Then, as we head north, the storm begins to loosen its grip. Atlanta stays behind us under a sky the color of wet slate. The farther we drive, the lighter the horizon becomes.

Andi watches it happen. “We’re driving out of it,” she says.

“Yeah.”

She leans back in the seat. “You planned that?”

“I planned north. Weather did the rest.”

“Very impressive coordination.”

“I have layers.” I shrug one shoulder, as if she should already know this about me.

She hums softly, unconvinced, but she doesn’t argue.

The city thins. The roads open. The rain turns to mist, then stops completely. Wet pavement gleams beneath us, reflecting breaks in the sun that begin to push through the clouds. The mountains rise slowly in the distance, blue and green, softened by the last traces of the storm.

Andi goes quiet. Not the working quiet. Not the kind where she’s building a case or sorting variables. This is different. The farther we get from Atlanta, the lower her shoulders drop. Inch by inch. As if her body understands the escape before her mind gives permission.

I keep one hand on the wheel and the other on the console, palm open. After a while, her hand finds mine. I don’t close around it right away. I let her choose the contact, the pressure, and the meaning. Then I lace our fingers together.

She falls asleep somewhere north of Gainesville. I drive the rest of the way with her hand in mine, the windows cracked just enough to let in the clean scent of rain-washed road and wet leaves, and the mountains waiting ahead as if they remember me.

She wakes up when I turn onto a road outside Hiawassee. Her eyes open slowly. For a second, she doesn’t move. Then she lifts her head from the seat and looks around.

The mountains are closer now. The sky has cleared to a hard, bright blue, with the last storm clouds retreating behind us in slow, gray heaps. The road curves between trees and small houses, with glimpses of water flashing through the gaps.