I hate to hear this. My career is one of the few things about myself I can’t promise to change for her, and it saddens me that she might always feel conflicted about what I do—that it might be a tension we just have to live with.
“I get it,” I say. “I wish more than anything that I could fight for her. Not to be selfish, but I feel like this was an opportunity to prove myself to you, and Rob ruined it. But Dezzie will find a great lawyer—we’ll make sure of it.”
Molly leans over and gives me a peck on the lips. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me, Seth. But I have my issues, and they don’t go away just because I love you.”
Oh God, the relief to hear those words.
“I love you too,” I whisper back.
I hold her in my arms until her breath slows, grateful that we’ve survived our first real fight as a couple.
In the morning, I wake up before her and sneak off for a run. (It’s much harder in her mountainous neighborhood, and I can see why she refuses to do it.) When I get back, she’s already dressed. She waves off my desire to cook her breakfast—she wants to take me to her favorite Mexican diner for horchata and chilaquiles to fuel us for our journey.
I order mine the way she recommends—half mole sauce, half verde, with a runny egg on top. The owner knows her and calls her mija, and suddenly I wish we were staying in Los Angeles instead of going to Joshua Tree—I love seeing her in her world.
But if things go the way I hope they will, I’ll have the rest of my life to do that.
The drive to the desert is at first flat and bright and nondescript, and then becomes beautiful. The brown earth sprouts thousands of tall white windmills. The roadway opens up into rugged mountains. After about two hours I catch my first sight of a Joshua tree. I’ve never seen one in real life before, and I marvel to Molly at the way their branches divide over and over into Seussical formations. We drive down a road evocatively named Twentynine Palms Highway, past a rugged town with a mix of old-timey saloons and hipstery boutiques and strip malls and abandoned shacks, until Molly turns off the highway and navigates down a series of unpaved roads to a gate with a wooden sign reading JACKRABBIT RANCH.
“This is us,” she says. She hops out, fishes a key from the back pocket of her jeans, and unlocks the gate to let us in.
Molly’s friend Theresa sent me pictures when I was making my secret arrangements for the weekend, but I’m still blown away by how perfect it is. The yard is thick with mature Joshua trees and spidery ocotillo cacti. The front yard is landscaped with a beautiful rock garden and a bench big enough for two lovers to make out under a starry sky. I happen to know that if you drive about a thousand feet past the entrance there’s a second gate, which leads to a guesthouse. Theresa usually keeps it closed during the winter, but she sent me the keys on the sly.
“How big is this place?” I ask, because I don’t want Molly to know I already sleuthed it out.
“Ten acres,” she says. “Theresa bought two parcels next to each other in the aughts for nothing and renovated the old 1950s bungalow that was here originally. It’s amazing. Just wait.”
We grab our bags and unlock the screened-in porch. The house is low to the ground and seems to be made entirely of wood-paned windows with views of the trees. Everything inside looks hand chosen to feature in an Architectural Digest article about retro chic.
“This is amazing indeed,” I say.
“You’ll be pleased to note there’s a fire pit.”
Molly knows from our Wisconsin days that I’m a bit of a pyromaniac.
We unload culinary delicacies out of the cooler and into the old-fashioned SMEG fridge in the kitchen. I admire the milky green dishes stacked on the shelves, which Molly informs me are called “Jadeite” and are “ungodly expensive.” She says this with such covetousness that I mentally note to find her a Jadeite kitchenware collection of her own.
“Are you ready to go to the park?” Molly asks.
“Yep.”
“Great. Put on your hiking boots. I’m just going to check in on Dez real quick.”
She goes into the bedroom and closes the door. I hear soothing tones coming through the wall, though the words aren’t distinct.
“How’s Dez?” I ask when she emerges.
“A little better today,” Molly says. “She managed to get ahold of one of those lawyers you recommended and has a consultation lined up for Monday.”
Thank goodness. I texted all three of them to see if they could squeeze in a call, but it’s so close to the holiday that only one—the fearsome Geneva Bentley—was still in the office.
“I’m so glad,” I say.
“Me too. Ready to go?”
We drive ten minutes to the entrance of the national park, and Molly pulls in at the trailhead for what she calls a “normal people hike,” a short, flat loop through boulders that leads to Skull Rock. (A rock, she helpfully informs me, that looks like a skull.) Then, to “honor my desire for punishing exercise,” we drive to another trail and spend two hours trekking up and down a mountain.
The hike is vigorous and the view is beautiful, and I’m exhilarated with fresh air and endorphins by the time we get back to the car.
“We should get out of here before it starts getting dark, but I want to take you to my favorite place first,” Molly says.
“If it’s your favorite place, it’s my favorite place.”
“You’re a real cornball.”
“I do live in the Midwest. Home of corn.”
For now.
We drive through groves of Joshua trees as the sun begins to set, turning the surrounding mountains purple.
Molly stops at a parking lot with multiple large signs warning of bees. I look around warily.
“Molly?” I say.
“Seth?”
“Is this a prank to try to kill me?”
