Page 194 of The Wife Situation

GIVE THIS FAKE COUPLE AN OSCAR.

They used pictures from our time in Fiji and called it overacting.

I suck in a deep breath, then turn off my phone. I place it in the glove box. Easton hands me his hand, and I do the same.We have a GPS guiding us to the hotel we’re stopping at for the night.

“Just us,” he says. “No devices for the rest of the time.”

“I can do that,” I tell him, smiling.

“Want to join me in myfuck itera?”

“I thought I already had,” I tell him, shooting a wink, and he gives me that smirk.

The engine revs, and soon, we’re soaring down the highway without a care in the goddamn world.Together.The way it was always supposed to be.

Ten hours later, we’re pulling off into a roadside motel parking lot. The M is crooked, and the curtains look like they were hung over thirty years ago. Easton glances at this place, which looks like it was dropped straight from a Hollywood set.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, glancing at me. I can sense his unease.

I tilt my head at him. “Are you scared?”

“Scared?” His voice lowers. “Darling, I’ll fuck you on the ground. I don’t care.”

“Adventure,” I tell him with a nod, and he shakes his head.

He opens my door and we make our way to the office. The bell rings on top of the door. A coil of cigarette smoke twirls upward from the ashtray on the counter. A woman with blue eyeshadow and bright pink lipstick studies the two of us.

“Where’d you two come from, Hollywood?” She glances between us.

I can’t help but snort. “I thought the same thing when we pulled into the parking lot.”

The world melts away when he glances at me and then turns back to her. “We’d like a room for the night.”

She glances at our rings, inhales her cigarette, then blows the smoke toward the cracked-open window. “I need you to fill out this paperwork and gimme your driver’s license. Then, it’s one hundred dollars a night, plus a two-hundred-dollar deposit.”

Easton sets five hundred dollars down on the counter. “You can keep the change if you don’t make me fill that out,” he says.

She gives us a physical key, and we walk outside.

“It’s going to be fine,” I say, trying to stay positive as we walk to our motel room.

He places the key inside the door, then swings it open, flicking on the orange-tinted lights. There’s a huge stain on the carpet in the middle of the floor.

“Nope,” he tells me. “I can’t do this.”

“A dingy motel is your limit?” I laugh.

“You found it,” he tells me, turning around. He returns the key to the office, grabs my hand, and leads me to the car without glancing over his shoulder.

“You paid five hundred dollars for that room.”

He laughs. “Oh fucking well. In the car we go. I’ll figure it out,” he says, opening the door. He shuts it, shaking his head.

Easton climbs in and taps the GPS, programming in a different location. It would be easier to turn on our phones, but it’s best if we don’t.

Twenty-five minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a camping store. Easton and I go inside and grab the gear we might need for the night.

An hour later, we turn into a roadside campground. We’re assigned our campsite and given the code to the bathroom doors.

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