I didn’t want to call Wyatt. That seemed like admitting defeat. I’d set out three days ago to go to him, and go I was doing. I didn’t want him to rescue me or collect me or pick me up. I wanted our Hollywood ending, our love story’s finale, and the romantic forever after. I wanted him to know that I would go the distance, that I would brave the odds, that I would rent a car—okay, a luxury Tesla—and drive to him, and if my piss-poor planning meant I broke down in the final few miles, well then—
