Page 71 of Love Story

Haider blinked, then sat up straighter.“What?”

“The hotel is a converted firehouse,” I repeated, the realization hitting me like lightning.

Haider’s fingers flew across his phone.“The Kendall Hotel.That’s where he is.”He tapped some more.“One hour, thirty-two, and we could be there.”

Conor stood, his expression resolute.“Get in my truck, Sam.I’m taking you to pack a bag, and we’re going on a road trip.”

I stared at him, my chest tightening.“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Conor said, his grin wide.“I haven’t even touched my beer, so I’ll drive, and hell, you’ve been miserable without him.Let’s fix that and determine what he’s up to either way.Ryan, you can be the muscle in the showdown, and Haider… well, you can sit on Ben if he tries to escape.”

Ryan stretched and smirked.“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Haider shoved his phone into his pocket.“I can sit.I’m in.”

For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope.I stood; my legs shaky but my resolve solid.“Guys—”

“Get in the damn truck, Sam!”

Haider called shotgun, leaving me in the back seat with Ryan.We stopped at my cabin, and I shoved random items into a duffle: my charger, the battered copy of a book Ben had left at mine, and organized cover with Dad, who promised he was glad to help before hugging me.

“Go get him.We like him,” he said.

“I love him, Dad.”

“Then bring him home.”

WHEN WE LEFTCaldwell Crossing, Ryan and I were quiet, letting Conor and Haider dominate the conversation as always, and it didn’t take long for a debate to kick off.The moment Haider connected his phone to the Bluetooth and Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer” filled the cab, I knew we were in for it.

“Seriously, Haider?”Conor groaned, gripping the steering wheel as if the music offended him.“You’re gonna make me listen to this?”

“What’s your problem now?”Haider shot back, jabbing at his phone to turn the volume up.“It’s perfect road trip music.”

“It’s whiny,” Conor said.“You know what’s real music for the road?‘Enter Sandman’.Now that gets the blood pumping.”

“Right, because Metallica growling into a mic is so uplifting,” Haider shot back, rolling his eyes.“Taylor Swift writes art.She tells stories.She makes you feel things.”

“Yeah, nauseous,” Conor muttered.

“Come on, Conor.She’s not that bad,” Ryan offered.

“Not that bad?”Conor glanced at him in the rearview mirror, looking hurt.“Ryan!I thought you had standards.”

Ryan snorted.“Says the guy who made us listen to “Whiskey in the Jar” for an entire trip to Albany.”

“That’s a classic!You don’t skip Metallica,” Conor barked, as if it was a rule of the road.

Ryan leaned back with a grin; arms crossed.“You guys realize this argument is pointless, right?Apples and oranges.”

Conor’s glare caught me in the rearview mirror.“It’s not pointless.It’s about what’s real.”

Ryan shrugged.“I’m just here for the show.And for the record?Pearl Jam beats both of them.”

The truck went silent for half a second before Haider groaned, and Conor let out an exasperated laugh.

“Pearl Jam?”Haider said, twisting to glare at Ryan.“You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Ryan said, deadpan.“‘Better Man’ is untouchable.”

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