The Anniversary Road Trip That Almost Wasn’t Mine
I woke up to the smell of heaven—crispy bacon and cinnamon toast, warm and sweet, wrapping around me like a hug. For a second, I thought I was dreaming.
Then I saw him.
Clay stood at the foot of the bed, barefoot, hair messy from sleep, holding a breakfast tray like it was some kind of treasure. On it: golden-brown toast dusted with cinnamon, a pile of perfectly crisp bacon, and my favorite chipped mug steaming with coffee.
His smile was small but real. The kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Happy anniversary,” he said, setting the tray on my lap like it was the most important thing in the world.
I stared at him. “You remembered?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. But it was something. A big something.
One year together. One year of figuring each other out, of stupid fights and quiet laughter, of learning how to fit into each other’s lives.
Clay wasn’t the kind of guy who made grand gestures. He’d told me early on that his last relationship had left him… broken. The word love didn’t come easy to him. He never said it. Neither had I.
But this—breakfast in bed, the way he watched me like he was holding his breath—this felt like a beginning.
“I made plans,” he said, clearing his throat. “Road trip. Just us. No phones. Whole weekend.”
I blinked. “You planned this?”
He nodded, eyes bright. “You’ll love it. I promise.”
And in that moment, with the scent of cinnamon and bacon still in the air, I believed him.
The Open Road
We hit the highway by midmorning, the sky stretching wide and blue above us. Iowa’s cornfields rolled past, golden and endless, swaying in the breeze. Clay drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping along to some old rock song.
Every few miles, he’d glance at me, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Still not telling you where we’re going,” he teased for the third time.
I laughed. “You’re really committed to this whole mysterious vibe, huh?”
“Just wait,” he said. “Trust me.”
We passed winding rivers, crumbling barns, and fields dotted with wildflowers. At one point, I pointed to a patch of purple and yellow blooms.
“That reminds me of my grandma’s garden,” I said.
Clay’s face flickered—just for a second—before he shook his head. “That’s not the point. Look at the light on the hills. That’s what matters.”
I frowned. “Okay…?”
He turned back to the road, quiet.
Something twisted in my chest.
The Waterfall
By afternoon, we pulled into a gravel lot near a state park. The air smelled like pine and damp earth. Clay was out of the car before I even unbuckled, walking fast like he couldn’t wait another second.
“Come on,” he called. “This is the best part.”
We followed a shaded trail until the trees opened up to reveal a small waterfall. Water tumbled over dark rocks, mist catching the sunlight like silver dust.
It was beautiful.
“I think I’ve been here before,” I said softly. “When I was a kid. My parents brought us camping—”
Clay’s face went still. “You’ve seen it before?”
“Yeah, but—”
He turned away sharply. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“What do you mean?”
But he was already walking back to the car.
The Truth in the Bark
At the motel, Clay dropped our bags and sat on the bed, staring at the wall.
I stepped outside, needing air. Needing space.
That’s when I saw it.
Carved into the bark of an old tree near the trail—a heart. Inside it: Clay + Megan.
My stomach dropped.
Megan. The name he never talked about. The one who’d broken him.
I walked back to the motel, my heart pounding.
The Conversation
I stood at the window, arms crossed, watching a moth flutter against the glass.
“This wasn’t about me, was it?”
Clay exhaled hard. “It was supposed to be for us. A fresh start.”
He rubbed his hands together. “But yeah. I came here once. With her.”
I didn’t move. “Do you still love her?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. Maybe I just miss who I was with her. That version of me felt… happier.”
The words cut deep. Because suddenly, I understood—this trip wasn’t for us. It was for her. For a ghost.
*”I need you *here,“ I whispered. “Not back there. Not with her.”
He didn’t answer.
So I said the words I’d been holding back for months.
“I love you.”
His head snapped up—surprised. But he didn’t say it back.
I turned and walked out.
The Real Ending
The parking lot was quiet, the sky turning soft purple as the sun dipped lower. I wiped my eyes, my chest aching.
Then—
“Wait!”
Clay’s voice cracked through the silence. I turned just in time to see him running toward me—barefoot—gravel digging into his feet as he skidded to a stop.
He grabbed my hands. “I was stupid,” he said, breathless. *”I thought if I recreated the past with you, I could erase it. But you’re not a replacement. You’re *real.“
His grip tightened. “I love you, too.”
Then—because Clay never did things halfway—he turned and shouted at the top of his lungs:
“I LOVE HER!”
A window creaked open. A dog barked. Someone muttered, “Keep it down, man.”
But Clay just grinned, pulling me close.
This wasn’t someone else’s story.
It was ours.
And for the first time, I knew—really knew—he meant it.