I want to go home, and yet I don’t. Everything will change when we get to L.A. How can it not? I live there. Jake lives in Milwaukee. That’s a lot of miles to solve.

“Your mom. Is she why you eat the way you do? Is she why you take such good care of your body?” I grunt a laugh. “That’s actually odd if the answer is yes because you were a fighter. You let people beat the shit out of you. That’s the opposite of taking care of your body. Right?”

“I was the guy beating the shit out of other fighters. But thanks, Ave, for assuming I suck.” He grabs my knee and squeezes it until I jump.

Why does Jake the fighter turn me on? I’m not a violent person nor have I ever been into watching any sort of fighting. I don’t even care for action movies. Yet the idea of Jake winning fights makes me squirm in my seat, well, that and the memories of the laundromat.

“Why? Was it for the money?” I grab his hand on my knee and bring it to my lips, kissing his knuckles one at a time.

“The money was good. But no, that’s not why I started fighting. My uncle was a fighter. When he saw me spiraling out of control after my mom died, he trained me, put me in the ring, and told me to fight the demons. I did. I fought my father, the memories of my mother losing herself, the kids who made fun of her right in front of me. Everything … I just kept knocking everything down. I was never going to use food the way my mom did. I was never going to take another snide remark from my father. I wanted—I needed—total control of my life.”

“And vegans are in control?”

He laughs. “Sure. And that explains why you’re such a hot mess. You consume too many angry animals’ spirits. They’re pissed off about being slaughtered and having their udders pumped to the point of bleeding.”

“Ew … too far.”

Jake laughs more. “Sorry. Probably a tad too far.”

“Can you love me even if I eat said slaughtered animals?” I slap my hand over my mouth.

Oh my god.

“That was …” I shake my head, mumbling through my cupped hand. “Not what I meant to say.”

“Your life, Ave. Not mine. Your journey. Your conscience. Your beliefs. Not mine.”

He fails to acknowledge the L-word I just flung in his direction. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or terrified.

I twist around when Swarley makes a noise. “Oh my gosh!”

He vomits on the seat.

“Jake! He’s sick.” I unfasten my seat belt and wedge my body behind the console to flip up his blanket so the vomit doesn’t run down behind the seats.