The Road Trip That Wasn’t Really About Me
I woke up to the smell of bacon. Crispy, smoky bacon — the kind you smell before you even open your eyes. Mixed in was the warm, sweet scent of cinnamon toast. It wrapped around me like a cozy blanket.
For a second, I honestly thought I was dreaming. That kind of breakfast doesn’t just happen. Not on a random Wednesday. Not unless something special’s going on.
Sunlight peeked through the blinds, making little lines of light across the blanket. I opened my eyes slowly — and there he was.
Clay stood at the foot of the bed, barefoot, with messy hair and sleepy eyes. He was holding a tray like it was something precious.
On the tray? Two perfectly golden slices of cinnamon toast stacked like treasure, a mountain of bacon, and a single white mug — my favorite one, the one with the chipped rim.
He smiled. Not a big smile, just that soft one he rarely gave. The kind that didn’t show his teeth but made everything around him warmer.
“Happy anniversary,” he said gently and placed the tray on my lap.
I blinked. “You remembered?”
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. Oh, it was huge.
It was our first anniversary. One full year. That might not sound like much, but for us, it meant everything.
We had made it through awkward conversations, silly fights, quiet nights where neither of us knew what to say. We’d learned each other — slowly, carefully. And now, this breakfast felt like a reward.
Clay wasn’t the kind of guy who made big romantic gestures.
He told me early on that his last relationship had shattered him. It didn’t just break his heart — it broke his ability to trust.
Since then, he hated talking about the future. The word “commitment” made him shut down. He had never said “I love you.” And neither had I.
Maybe I was scared. Maybe I was waiting for him. Maybe both.
But right now, sitting on the edge of the bed, he looked nervous — like he’d done something huge and was scared of how I’d react.
“I made plans,” he said, clearing his throat. “A road trip. Just us. No phones. Whole weekend.”
I stared at him. “You… planned all this?”
He nodded. His eyes were shining a little.
“You’ll love it. I promise.”
In that moment, with warm toast on my lap and bacon scent filling the room, I believed him.
I wanted to believe him.
We hit the road by mid-morning. Our coffee cups were still warm in the cup holders. Clay’s playlist played softly — old rock songs with deep guitar riffs and soft lyrics.
The sky above us was wide and blue, like it had been washed clean. Cornfields stretched on both sides, golden and swaying gently in the breeze.
Clay drove with one hand on the wheel and tapped the other on the dashboard in time with the music. Every few minutes, he’d glance at me with a quiet smile.
“I’m still not telling you where we’re going,” he said again.
I laughed. “You’re really serious about this mystery, huh?”
He grinned. “Just wait. You’ll see. Trust me.”
We passed rivers that shimmered in the sun, cliffs that looked like something from a fairy tale, and old barns with peeling paint and slanted roofs. Clay pointed them out one by one.
“Look at that barn,” he said, excited. “The way it leans? Like it’s been thinking about falling but decided to stay standing.”
I smiled. “Want a picture?”
“Yeah. But get the hill behind it too — the light is perfect.”
I raised my phone and snapped a photo, though it didn’t look quite right to me.
Then we passed a field filled with wildflowers — purples and yellows dancing in the wind.
“That reminds me of my grandma’s garden,” I said. “She had flowers just like that near the porch.”
Clay’s face changed. Not angry. Just… distant.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Forget the flowers. Look at the slope. Look at the light.”
I paused, surprised. “Right… okay.”
He turned back to the road and went quiet.
Suddenly, the car felt different. Like something had shifted.
I stared out the window, pretending not to feel the silence growing between us.
Still, I reminded myself — He planned this. He brought me breakfast. He’s trying.
Even if it didn’t look like my version of love, maybe this was his.
But deep down, a small voice whispered: Why does this feel like a test I didn’t even know I was taking?
By late afternoon, we pulled into a tiny gravel parking lot near a state park. The tires crunched on the stones.
Clay jumped out of the car before I even unbuckled my seatbelt.
“Come on,” he called. “This is the best part.”
I followed him down a trail covered in soft moss and fallen leaves. Tall trees stretched over us, their branches swaying gently.
As we walked, I could hear the sound of water — soft and steady, like nature’s own heartbeat.
Then we turned a corner.
The waterfall wasn’t huge, but it was beautiful. Water spilled over dark rocks into a pool below. Mist sparkled in the sunlight. It looked like something from a dream.
Clay just stood there, staring at it like it meant something.
I stepped closer and whispered, “I think I’ve been here before… When I was little. My parents brought us camping. I’m pretty sure this is the place.”
His whole body stiffened.
“You’ve seen it before?” he asked, voice tight.
“Yeah, but—”
He turned away. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
But he was already walking back.
That night at the motel, Clay barely spoke. He dropped the bags, sat on the bed, and stared at the floor.
I stood there, feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room.
I needed to think. Needed air. I stepped out, following the path again.
And then I saw it.
On a tree near the trail — carved into the bark — was a heart. Inside it: Clay + Megan.
My breath caught.
Megan. The name he said was “part of the past.” The one he “never thought about anymore.”
But she wasn’t gone. Not really. She was here — in this place. In our weekend.
Back in the motel, I stood at the window, arms crossed. The lot outside was empty except for a single moth fluttering against the glass.
Clay lay on the bed, hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling.
“This wasn’t about me, was it?” I said quietly.
He sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, still not looking at me.
“It was supposed to be for us,” he finally said. “A fresh start.”
Then he sighed. “But yeah… I came here before. With her.”
My heart sank.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he whispered. “It was one of the best weekends of my life. I thought if I came back — with you — I could replace the old memory. Make it new. But everything came back too fast.”
I didn’t answer. My thoughts were a mess.
“Do you still love her?” I asked.
He looked like the question hurt. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But maybe I miss who I was when I was with her. I was lighter then. Happier.”
And there it was. The truth.
This trip wasn’t for us. It was for a memory. A version of himself he wanted back.
“I need you here,” I said, barely more than a whisper. “Not in the past. Not with her.”
He nodded, still not meeting my eyes.
And then, without meaning to, I said it.
“I love you.”
His head jerked up, shocked. But he didn’t say it back.
Tears filled my eyes. I grabbed my sweater and walked out.
The sky was turning soft blue and lilac. The wind tugged at my sleeves. I stood in the lot, hugging myself.
Why had I said it first? Why now? And why did it feel so lonely?
Then I heard the motel door slam.
“Wait!” Clay’s voice cracked through the air.
He ran to me barefoot across the gravel, not caring who saw.
He grabbed my hand and held it like it was the only thing keeping him standing.
“I was stupid,” he said, breathing hard. “I thought I could fix the past by copying it. But you were right. This isn’t about her. It was never supposed to be.”
His eyes burned into mine.
“You’re not a replacement. You’re everything. The real thing.”
He took a deep breath. “I love you too.”
Then he pulled away a little and shouted at the top of his lungs:
“I LOVE HER!”
A window creaked open. Someone peeked out, confused. A dog barked.
Clay ignored it all.
He looked at me, softer now. “I love you.”
He rested his forehead against mine. His skin was warm. His hands were trembling.
And for the first time, I believed it.
This wasn’t a memory. This wasn’t a ghost.
This was ours.
Whatever shadows followed us — they would always be behind us.
Because we were finally stepping forward. Together.