Page 60 of The Americana Playbook

“Figured as much. Sorry you’re soon-to-be wife is pretty imperfect?—”

“I’m perfect.”

I tsk. “Don’t rub it in.”

“No, I don’t meanme.” Fitz chuckles. “Imperfect spells outI’m perfect. So if you think about it that way, you’re perfect exactly how you are right in this moment.”

Fitz’s words sink into me, each one warming every bit of my body, thawing out what I’ve been told most of my life—the exact opposite.

“And,” Fitz continues, “Yeah. I don’t like the thought of you waitressing. But that’s because it implies I can’t take care of you.”

“Fitz, we already discussed this?—”

“I get it. You’re independent. You don’t need a man to take care of you, blah, blah, blah. Who would you rather do it? Me?” he asks. “Or your parents?”

He has me there.

I sink lower into my seat. “I just need to find more things up here. I get that you’re on vacation.”

Fitz shoots me a scowl as he slows.

“Okay, sorry. What did you call it?Active recovery.”

“You could come work out with me.”

It’s my turn to scowl. “I don’t really think the gym is my thing.”

“That’s true.” Fitz agrees. “You always cut PE.”

I snort. “Yeah, I think I probably would’ve ended up being the first student ever to fail gym class if I…”

I have to take a deep breath that leaves my lungs no room to spare and tilt my head toward the window so Fitz doesn’t see my face when I exhale.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I change the subject.

He drums his hands against the steering wheel. “I do like to let loose sometimes.”

“Color me shocked,” I snark. “And what’s your idea of letting loose exactly?”

Fitz slows down, pulling into a large, relatively empty parking lot.

“Was I wrong yesterday? Are drugs your idea of letting loose now? Because one time I took you with me to pick up a dime bag, and you had a panic attack in the car and almost threw up.”

“No.” He scoffs, turning off the car. “But you’re really in for a wild ride.”

I reach for the door.

“Don’t insult me.” Fitz hops out of the car and walks over to my side. Opening the door, he offers me a hand.

I take it even though I do so under duress of the gesture’s wholesomeness. “You don’t have to do that. No one is around.”

Fitz drops my hand but drapes his arm around my shoulder. The weight and warmth of his arm is startling, but I don’t twist away.

“What do you mean? You’re here.”

For a second, I want to ask him what he means by that. Because, in one way, I get what he’s saying. But when it comes to me—to us—it doesn’t quite make sense. After all, we know the truth.

“What do you?—”

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