Page 19 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

“This is a route I drive when I need to think,” Van says. “Or if I’m in the middle of an audiobook, sometimes I’ll just drive and listen. It’s pretty.”

It’s more than pretty. The road loops and winds like a line of cursive written through the hills. It’s late spring and the trees are lush and heavy with green. Every so often, we get a perfect view of Harvest Hollow down below, looking quaint and adorable. Which, really, it is. The sky also seems somehow closer up here, the colors richer, even as the sun lowers, casting longer shadows from the trees and hills.

I can almost picture what the sunset must be like—a whispered outline of gold edging the darkness as the stars blink awake. Then I imagine Van driving this way alone, an audiobook playing over the speakers. The thought makes my chest pinch, and I’m not sure why.

“Do you want to listen to an audiobook now?” I ask.

“Nah. I’m in the middle of a space opera. It would be weird to drop you into the middle of that.”

I yawn. “I don’t mind.”

“You want to nap?” Van asks. “Nothing like a good angry nap when you need one.”

“You take angry naps?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. I also post-game nap, sleepy nap, sad nap—you name it, I’ll nap it.”

I can’t stop a giggle from escaping. This seems to please Van, who offers me a crooked grin.

“Good to know you have a plethora of naps at your disposal. I think I’m too keyed up to sleep.”

My blood feels carbonated, a jittery edginess that fizzes through me. It reminds me of the time Morgan and I were up late cramming for exams and I thought it would be a good idea to take one of those six-hour energy drinks.

Spoiler alert: it wasnota good idea.

I was too wired to focus on studying, then conked out with my face on my notebook. Morgan barely woke me up in time, and I had to sprint to class and take the exam with a spiral notebook mark on my cheek.

Right now, I’m feeling the same effervescence in my blood and am probably about six-degrees of separation from mild—or possibly medium—hysteria.

“You don’t have to talk about it, but how are you doing? Today was a lot. And you seem surprisingly okay.”

“I might be in temporary denial. I don’t know exactly how I’m feeling,” I admit. “But definitely not how I’msupposedto feel. I don’t think? I wish there were some kind of guidebook.”

“There probably is,” Van says. “But you could write your own with the rules you make up. You told me you’re a writer, yeah?”

He remembers. Such a small thing, but it feels bigger. Or maybe I’m attaching meaning to things I shouldn’t. Getting attached to a man I hardly know who just so happened to play my hero for the day.

“I write,” I hedge.

“Then you’re a writer.”

“But they’re not, like, published things.”

Just dreams. Aspirations I haven’t quite pinned down yet. A Substack account with about seventy-two followers. Three of whom I suspect are Morgan using different email addresses.

“Can I ask a nosy question? One that’s none of my business,” Van adds.

“Oh, you’re asking for permission now?” I tease. “After basically diving nose-first into my business today?”

“Not gonna apologize.”

“I wasn’t asking you to. By the way—thank you.”

He waves off my thanks. “So, that’s a yes to my nosy question?”

I laugh. “Sure.”

“What did you see in that guy, anyway? Like, is he your type? The dream guy? Because he just seems so beneath you. No offense.”

---