That next morning—later than we should have—we emerged from the hotel room refreshed as newlyweds. Our next destination was McDonald’s, then the road. Finally, I understood the sparkle that could mark a woman in love from miles away. Rasul wasn’t the finest thing I had ever seen—his lips reminded me of a bird’s, he was rail thin, and his face was so skinny you could see all the little bones in it. Not to mention the funny white spots in his face. He wanted to wear cornrows, but his hair wouldn’t grow in thick no matter how much Bergamot and African Pride he saturated it with. The most he had going for him were his eyes—they were kind of green, but his skin was so pale that his eyes seemed to fade away along with the rest of his face whenever he was in bright light like today’s. But I swear, he could look at me and make me feel soft faster than the coldest brother on the block. He had a way of looking at my eyes and putting his hands in my hair that made me feel like I was the only girl he had seen all day—not just the latest one to catch his eye. I wondered if that look was part of what the old ladies at Second Baptist meant when they had talked to us about “heart love,” not “hot love.”

I turned around and smiled at him after I had taken a few steps out of our hotel room, daring him to chase me to go farther, but he only rolled his eyes at me and headed toward the “Ramobile.” For the first time since we had pulled over, I looked around in all four directions. I turned, and the wind blew my hair around with me. We weren’t even that far from Chicago, really out in the middle of Indiana’s extensive nowhere, and yet I had never seen so many trees in my life. On Monday morning, the Travel America was busy with all those heading back after weekend getaways. An older White man walked a little toy dog while his wife followed behind with a cane. I noticed they wore crisp white shorts and short-sleeved striped tops; it wasn’t that nice outside. A dark Mexican family—two little boys, a man, woman, and maybe a grandma—made sandwiches and laughed out loud at one of the picnic tables. Spanish music played inside a van nearby where they sat—the grandma soon got up to dance with her hips while the rest of them laughed louder. I always liked their music. It seemed like what you would listen to when you owned a big house and had to spend a whole Saturday cleaning it, but you didn’t mind because it was yours and not somebody else’s.