I laugh, a weird giddiness rising in me, like I’m filled up with champagne bubbles. “My sane side put up a good fight.”

“And then your crazy side decided I’m just way too good in bed to pass up.”

“Exactly.”

“Damn, Nat, I’m so freaking happy you’re here.” He kisses me again. “I can’t even be cool about it.”

I grin. “I know exactly how you feel. But listen, if we’re really going to do this, we need to set some ground rules first.”

He sets me down and puts on a serious face. “Okay. You’re right. There are probably things we should know about each other since we’re going to be trapped in small spaces together for a long time.”

“Right. I’ll go first.” I step back a little but keep my hands on his chest because I have this need to touch him after denying myself the privilege the last few days. “For road trips, I require beef jerky and Twizzlers at all times. And I have very high standards for public bathrooms, so I get to make the call on where we make pit stops. And I have an affinity for weird tourist attractions so plan on National Lampoon’s Vacation–style detours.”

“Like the largest ball of twine and shit?”

I nod, my tone grave. “Exactly.”

“I can work with that. Now my turn. Let’s get the biggest bomb out of the way first. I am a relentless morning person.”

I grimace. Ugh, mornings. “I’ll take that into consideration as long as you don’t expect me to be a morning person.”

“And I’m a complete control freak about driving—worst backseat driver ever.”

“I happily cede my feminist right to be behind the wheel.”

“We will go to restaurants that look like dives, but I promise you I’ve done my research and it will be worth it. And I will sometimes be completely annoying with my opinion on the food.”

“Understandable.”

“Also, I have more than one pig T-shirt.”

“I have more than one Justin Timberlake concert T-shirt.”

He puts a fist over his heart like I’ve stabbed him. “I think I’m out.”

I shove his shoulder. “Shut up. But, seriously, we should probably cover that, too. Music could be a deal breaker. That’s a lot of hours on the road.”

He grabs my hands and laces his fingers with mine. “Yes, this is serious. Here goes. Our fate lies in this. I hate hip-hop, techno, and modern country. I can tolerate some pop and like hard rock. Old-school country is good sometimes.” He bows his head. “And I have a deep, completely un-ironic love for eighties metal.”

I snort. “Seriously?”

“Yes, it’s true. Even the hair bands. My dad raised me on that stuff. Are you cutting me loose now?”

I use our linked hands to pull him against me. “You’re really lucky you’re good in bed because that . . . that’s just appalling.”

“You will learn to love it. I promise.”

“I’ll make you a deal. For every one of those songs I have to listen to, I will subject you to Katy Perry or Taylor Swift.”

“I accept this deal.”

He guides my arms around his waist, and I bury my face in his T-shirt. “God, Monroe. This could turn into such a disaster.”

His hands slide into my hair and he tips my face upward. His blue eyes are clear and earnest. “This is going to be amazing.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re so good in bed.”

I roll my eyes. “Right.”

“It’s going to be amazing”—he takes one of my hands and puts it over his heart, right where his tattoo is—“because we’re chasing our bluebirds, Nat. And nothing feels better than that.”

I swallow hard. “Think we’ll catch them?”

He lowers his face, a breath away from mine, his palms cupping my jaw. “Yeah, I think we will.”

And then he kisses me, and any doubts I have left are lost in the rush of emotions.

This feels good.

This feels right.

This feels . . . like happy.

I may have even heard a bird sing.

Epilogue

Natalie

I close my eyes and listen to the rise and fall of the waves, the quiet roar of the ocean so much a part of me now that soon my breaths are matching the beat. In and out. In and out. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. My late summer soundtrack.

I may never be able to sleep again without that sound.

“How’s the inspiration break coming?”

The voice behind me brings a smile to my face. I open my eyes and roll over. It’s dark out, but the porch light from the beach house gives off just enough of a glow for me to see the outline of Monroe heading toward me in the sand in only a pair of board shorts.

“I wrote for a while then needed a break and started a letter to my mom instead.”

Monroe plops down next to me in the sand and leans over to kiss me. Comfortable. Familiar. Effortless. That’s how we are with each other these days. “Yeah? How’d that go?”

I prop up on my elbow. It’s still a little strange to be talking openly about my mom and her problems. Usually, I do my best to not let anyone know where I came from and all the problems in my family. But I’ve spent endless hours with Monroe. On the road. In our tent. And for the last few weeks, in his friend’s beach house. And everything has been talked about at some point. He’s amazingly easy to talk to. We even made a brief stop in Oklahoma for me to check in on my mom.

Monroe, of course, insisted on being introduced. I thought I’d die of embarrassment when he saw the beat-up trailer we called home and met my mom, who was clearly one too many pain pills past her limit for the day. But he’d been kind to her and hadn’t given any signs that he was disgusted by anything. Even when Mom pulled me aside and told me none-too-quietly, “What is wrong with you, Nattie? That’s the kind of boy who will use you up and leave you on your ass, little girl. Don’t you be stupid like me and fall for a pretty face. And you better be on the pill because I’m not raising some baby for you.”

I’d almost laughed at that. Like I’d ever let her near a kid. But when I had walked into the next room and realized Monroe had heard the whole exchange, I’d wanted to fall into a crack in the floor. He pretended like he hadn’t heard, but I knew he had.

So when we got back on the road after the three-day visit, I’d felt more than a little strung out and ashamed. But Monroe hadn’t let me get away with my moping. He’d driven us straight to a place that served the “Best Banana Splits in the South” (according to the sign) and fed me ice cream (that did turn out to be pretty damn good). And when we settled in later that night, he’d pulled me into his arms, kissed me, and told me, “You, Natalie Bourne, are an amazing girl. I’m sorry that your mom has too many of her own problems to see that, but know that I see it. And the rest of the world will see it. You are not that past.”

I’d cried. And he’d let me get all snotty all over his sleeve.

Then when I got control of myself, he’d added, “And we would so not let her raise our baby.”

That had made me laugh. And after that, I hadn’t felt any fear about telling Monroe anything at all.

I shift on my elbow, trying to sit up a little more, but the sand beneath the blanket is fighting me. “Still a work in progress. How’s your mission for the ultimate crab bisque?”

His expression sours. “I can’t get the texture right with this batch. It’s too thin. But I think I’ve nailed the seasonings down. I could go get you a bowl if you want to—”

“No.” I hold up my palm. “Seriously, I love you, but one more bowl and you’re going to cream of mushroom me like your mom did to you. I’ll never be able to eat crab again.”