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“I got your favorite granola bar at the gas station,” Hugh says, sliding in and revving the engine.

“Thanks,” I whisper, peeling back the paper.

We get on the highway and head away from the city.

“You want McDonalds?” he asks.

I smile, lashes wet. “Yeah, I would love McDonalds.”

“Same order?”

“Yeah,” I manage.

He doesn’t interrogate me yet, but I feel it brewing. We drive through and get a double quarter pounder, a large fry, a diet coke.

“An ice cream cone?” Hugh asks, leaning away from the speaker.

“Hold the ice cream this time.”

“Alright, that’ll be it,” he says cheerily.

I curl up in the passenger seat, kicking my slides off. He hands over the food, and then we’re back on the road.

“Your mom’s really excited to see you,” he says after a while.

“I’m glad. I felt bad just showing up.”

He shrugs. “I mean, you have her pretty worried.”

I’m quiet, working through my fries. Eventually, he turns on the radio, and the screen fills with an album cover of blue water and a guitar half sinking. Dax Williams, Western Midnight Blues. Except this is the remastered version, which means…it’s the version with Coen on it. My stomach drops like a brick.

“Uh, I don’t like this song,” I say quickly.

He frowns, but in concern. “What is going on?”

Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. For the entire drive across the States, I kept my worries bundled up and buried deep, because I couldn't talk about them with anyone, least of all Coen. How can I wonder aloud if I have a chance at long term with him when we only just met? The problem is, he acted like we meant something—in that tent, on the beach with his fingers skimming over my skin where the sunlight warmed it, in the motel room, driving with his hand on my thigh.

He acted like he was mine.

I hit the mute button abruptly and sniff. “Can I tell you something?” I manage.

“I wish you would, honey,” he says.

“Okay,” I rush. “I’m having guy problems. The guy is Coen Taylor.”

He veers a little and rights the car. “What?”

“You know how Dad was friends with Jamie Iron, his agent’s father? Well, Coen Taylor came out to the ranch for the summer. And we had…uh, we, uh—”

“I get it,” he says quickly.

My face burns, and I keep my eyes ahead. “Then he had to go back to Nashville early, and he asked me to drive with him across the entire US. I said no because Dad, and Serena, and everything at the ranch. But then, I got up early and just went with him. And it was the best thing. We had the best time, and I was so, so happy.”

I’m crying, wiping my face furiously with napkins.

“And he’s working on this album, and we got to Nashville, and Jamie said it was the best thing he’s written in ten years,” I babble. “I don’t know what to think, because it felt so real, but he’s not just…a regular guy. I have to take care of the ranch. And Serena, I can’t leave her, because it was my choice to stay with Dad, and sometimes I think you would have been a better father for her, and—”

“Brina,” he cuts in firmly. “Breathe.”