Fitz drums his hands against the steering wheel. “I know you already know this, but if you’re thinking about waitressing”—he pauses when I whip my head to face him—“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, alright? I don’t have the patience or endurance to work in hospitality. What I’m saying is it definitely won’t fly with your family.”

“My family?” I ask. “Or you?”

When the light changes, Fitz pulls into the intersection. “Well, it doesn’t exactly go well with our brand.”

Both of my eyebrows escape north. “We have a brand?”

“Kind of. If you consider how people on the internet are referring to us as Captain and Mrs. America, we sort of have something to go off of.”

“It’s kind of cringy,” I say.

“Maybe a little,” he agrees, but I watch a smile take hold of his face. “But we could be called worse.”

I snort. “Yeah. Like frauds.”

Fitz laughs. “I was thinking more of Barbie and Ken.”

“I’m no Barbie.” I warn him. “That would be Madeline. The perfect one.”

No one sends Barbie off to prison, I think to myself. But the truth is, I never needed anyone to see me as perfect. I just needed to be seen, to be heard, to be held. After Honey died, life turned upside down. It was like suddenly, I woke up, and someone was there telling me, This is your life now, Parker. These are your parents. Really, they felt like total strangers. And I was right. Family wouldn’t do what they did. No way in hell.

Fitz cuts through my thoughts. “Perfect is relative.”

I lean against the seat and turn my head to him. “Are you saying I’m perfect for you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Figured as much. Sorry you’re soon-to-be wife is pretty imperfect⁠—”

“I’m perfect.”

I tsk. “Don’t rub it in.”

“No, I don’t mean me.” Fitz chuckles. “Imperfect spells out I’m perfect. So if you think about it that way, you’re perfect exactly how you are right in this moment.”

Fitz’s words sink into me, each one warming every bit of my body, thawing out what I’ve been told most of my life—the exact opposite.

“And,” Fitz continues, “Yeah. I don’t like the thought of you waitressing. But that’s because it implies I can’t take care of you.”

“Fitz, we already discussed this⁠—”

“I get it. You’re independent. You don’t need a man to take care of you, blah, blah, blah. Who would you rather do it? Me?” he asks. “Or your parents?”

He has me there.

I sink lower into my seat. “I just need to find more things up here. I get that you’re on vacation.”

Fitz shoots me a scowl as he slows.

“Okay, sorry. What did you call it? Active recovery.”

“You could come work out with me.”