“Honestly,” he admits, “I’d do that even if it was just me wearing gym shoes.” He shrugs. “Guess I’m lazy that way.”

He drives the golf cart across the field like it is a go-kart, making big drifting turns and keeping the accelerator flat against the floor. I grip the handle beside me, the only thing that separates me from the outside world, since the cart has no doors.

My knuckles are probably white from my grip, but at some point during the drive, my heart stops racing from panic and starts racing from the thrill. I let out a screech that turns to laughter as he narrowly misses one of the blaring sprinklers.

He is still speeding as we pull up at the side of the house, flying up a sweeping cobblestone drive that leads to a garage with four doors the size of cars and one mini, golf-cart-size door.

I lurch forward as he comes to a halt, breathing heavily as I clutch my chest. “You’re insane,” I say.

He just shrugs as he pushes a button that makes the little door open and we pull in. The garage has that weird distinct smell that all garages seem to have. A staleness of the air, combined with the slight smell of gasoline, the leathery smell of sports equipment and the fresh smell of various gardening products.

But that’s where the similarity ends to every other garage I’ve been in. There is not just a Tesla, but two Teslas, alongside a Porsche crossover and a shiny red, convertible Porsche.

I try not to stare as we walk past cars that look more like works of art than automobiles on our way to the door leading to the rest of the house.

I follow Braden through a mudroom with no shoes in it and into a large living room.

The whole back wall of the room, and maybe the entire house, is glass, opening to a dark view. I make my way across the hardwood floor. Up close to the window, you can see that the house rests on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The darkness of the water is hard to distinguish against the darkness of the sky, but just below, white foam makes the crashing waves visible. I can only imagine how this view must look when the sun is out.

I turn at the sound of movement behind me. “Welcome,” Braden says, extending his arms.

“Whose house is this?” I ask breathlessly.

“Mine.” He smiles. “Well, I mean, my parents’.”

I look down at my dress. Definitely not meet-your-boyfriend’s—or not-boyfriend-but-something’s—parents attire.

“They’re not here,” he adds, as if he knows what I’m thinking. “In Paris this week, I think.” He checks his watch, as if they move countries by the hour; although from what he’s said before, it seems close to that.