I know Annika is weirded out by this crazy connection we have, and I’m supposed to be the calm and confident one, but honestly I’m a little weirded out too. I spend the next few days packing up my former frat life and making plans to drive home, and I want her desperately. I want that again—that delirious pleasure that sweeps me away—but I also don’t want it because it’s terrifying too. Things used to be stable, normal, fine. And now, for better and worse, they’re not. I feel stuck, unable to go back to the way things were and unable to move forward either.

We keep our interactions to text exchanges about logistics so we don’t see each other again until I pull up next to her dorm late one afternoon to load her stuff into my car. And the sight of her standing at the curb releases such a flood of memories and emotion that I have to pause to get a grip on myself. It’s been three days. And after I drop her in D.C. I won’t see her for three months. Recently that obvious fact has been popping into my head more and more, like a nagging pain. Until then, though, we have some five hours together in the car and I’m not sure how I feel about that either.

“Hey,” she says, giving me a tentative smile as she moves toward the car. I look her over thoroughly, greedily—her expression is subdued, her hair is up in some kind of loose bun. Even without makeup, wearing cropped jeans, a Carlyle College tee shirt, and flats, she’s achingly beautiful.

I swallow and gesture to the rolling suitcase on the sidewalk. “Is that all you’re bringing?”

She nods and watches while I fit it into the trunk around my boxes and bags. “Why do you have so much stuff?”

I shrug. “Moving out of the frat house. I threw away a lot of junk I’d collected there, but still.” I turn to get in the car but pause when I see she hasn’t budged.

“Moving out?” she repeats, frowning.

I sigh. It’s not something I want to explain to Annika. “It’s time,” I say simply, hoping she’ll understand that it was time to move out and it’s also time to go. She gives me a look, but gets in the car.

“When do I get to drive?” she asks eagerly, turning toward me. I smile and pat her leg because I have to touch her, even just a little.

“It’s a long way to D.C.—I promise you’ll get to drive,” I answer, amused. I glance around campus as we pull out, feeling a twinge of something. Next year will be different and I’m not sure how.

Annika watches me. I think of myself as a pro at hiding my thoughts in public, but sometimes she has an almost uncanny ability to read me. “Where will you live next year?”

“Not sure yet,” I say vaguely. “Maybe with Kyle since he’s coming back. You know he’s prepping for med school, right?” She nods. “What about you?”

“Lani and Holly and I requested housing together and got a suite in Blake.” She shook her head. “I’m looking forward to it.”

I glance at her and can tell she still can’t quite believe it. I smile, relieved for her.

“Next year will be very different,” I say out loud. Then we discuss directions and agree to swap drivers every few hours. The sun is shining and once we get out of New York the driving is easy—long stretches of interstate with little traffic. We talk occasionally about final grades, next year’s courses, D.C., the World Cup…. We’re both clearly avoiding anything personal, but it’s still comfortable and I’m glad to be near her, and able to glance over and soak in the sight of her whenever I want.

We stop for dinner at a truck stop off the highway. Annika looks around at the taxidermy on display, her eyes round. We slide into a vinyl-covered booth and a middle-aged waitress hands us two huge menus then slams two glasses of water on the table without a word.

Annika leans forward to whisper, “This place is so weird! Are those stuffed animals?”

“Stuffed animals are toys. These are animals that have been stuffed to exhibit. Not the same thing.” I whisper back.

“Oh,” she says, sitting back and leafing through the menu. “And I guess I shouldn’t order the fish?” She sounds disappointed.

“I’d stick with a hamburger.”

Annika just wrinkles her nose. The waitress returns for our order and eyes her suspiciously, especially after hearing the accent.

“Where you from?” she asks Annika in a loud voice, glancing at me as if to say what’s wrong with American girls? I just smile politely.

“Estonia,” Annika replies. “It’s a small country on the….” But the waitress nods and walks away before Annika gets the rest out.

“What are you doing for your mom’s campaign this summer?” She looks thoughtful. She knows that my summer plan is to help out at re-election headquarters in Connecticut.

“Not sure,” I say easily, though in fact I’m uneasy about it. “I agreed to it last fall. She probably has something in mind. Like putting me in front of someone who can later write a letter of recommendation for me for law school. She’s usually a few steps ahead of me. Of everyone.” That’s just the way it is.

“But you’ve told them you don’t want to go to law school.” She frowns and plays with her silverware.

I grin. “I don’t think that’s sunk in yet. That’s maybe my real goal for the summer. Getting my folks to accept that.”

Annika smiles back. “I’m amazed that all this doesn’t seem to get you down. You don’t seem to resent them or even worry about their reactions or expectations, like Lucy did. How do you manage that?”

Our food arrives, which lets me stall a little. We eat for a while in silence.

Finally I push my empty plate away and meet her eyes. “I told you weeks ago that I may have trouble figuring out what I want but when I know what I want things are pretty simple. I’m okay with what I want. And so my parents will be too. Eventually,” I add with a smile.

Annika looks serious though and her teeth worry her lower lip. For the rest of the meal we stick to impersonal topics.

* * *

“The speed limit is 65!” I repeat, watching Annika pass another truck.

She ignored me the first time I said that. Now she glances at the speedometer, then at me, frowning.

“In miles? What is that in kilometers?”

I laugh shortly. “Doesn’t matter, Annika! 90 is still way over 65 regardless of the units!”

I check and the speedometer has dropped to 85 now that she’s passed the truck. But there’s another truck up ahead.

“On the autobahn….”

I cut her off because I’ve heard a lot about the autobahn since she started her turn at the wheel. She drives very well, and I’d enjoy watching her if I weren’t worried we were about to get pulled over.

“We’re not on the autobahn!” I repeat, raising my voice.

She sighs and slows down a little. “I knew this car would be fun to drive!” she mutters to herself.

I laugh, relaxing a little now that she’s almost within an acceptable range of the speed limit. “You need cruise control,” I suggest.

“Cruise control! Where’s the fun in that?”

I smile at her expression, then settle in for the best part of her shift: admiring the view. Her eyes dart around the road so I can stare at her profile all I want. Her hand on the stick shift is ridiculously seductive. And suddenly, despite all our best efforts, the sexual tension is back again.

I clear my throat and try to look away, but my gaze keeps pulling back to her. She turns her head to change lanes and I’m drawn to the long lovely line of her neck.

“I love this side of you,” I blurt out. God, did I just use the L word? She shoots a glance at me. “The part of you that’s daring and fearless and takes risks.” Her cheeks flush and I pause, but it’s too late to stop. “Why don’t you like it?”

She tenses and doesn’t answer so I continue, lowering my voice. “I like it because it’s real. It’s complicated. And this wild you is so private. Not everyone gets to see it like I do. I love that,” I admit.

Annika squirms in her seat and gives me an agitated look. I want to touch her, but I stop myself. I’m already pushing her hard.

“Let’s be frank. We’re talking about sex, right?”

She does have a way of cutting through crap. I nod slowly and she must see me in her peripheral vision because she grips the wheel more tightly and continues.

“So you don’t mind it? You aren’t even a little bit confused by our…sex-making? that we go so wild?”

Sometimes I think Annika makes mistakes in English on purpose. Sometimes I know she does. This time I’m not sure so I don’t correct her. I don’t know what to say, even though I started us down this road. I’m very, very tempted to bullshit and bluff. But then Annika usually sees through that.

“I don’t mind it, no. It’s one of those times when I can accept what I want now that it’s right in front of me. But yes, I’m a little confused by it too.”

I rub my sweaty palms on the leather seats like I shouldn’t, then swallow and push on.

“I know you were the virgin, but with you I kind of feel like I was too.”

There’s a long silence after this amazing sentence actually comes out of my mouth—and I wish I could reel it back in. I’m afraid to look at Annika so I keep my gaze out my window, relieved we aren’t sitting face to face.

“It’s just so different,” I mumble finally, trying to explain and feeling lame. Then I feel Annika’s warm hand on mine. She squeezes it briefly before letting go and I relax a little.

“Tell me about the girls before me,” she demands with a sideways glance.

I straighten to look back at her. “Seriously?” I snort.

“Uh huh. So I know what to expect when I start dating.” She’s smiling now, enjoying herself, and I grit my teeth because no one is better at riling me up than Annika. And that’s the answer, isn’t it?

“You want to know what sex is usually like, huh?”

She should be careful what she asks for.

She nods and I gaze out the window again, though there’s nothing to see but telephone poles and exit ramps. The car and the road create a self-contained bubble. We could be anywhere.

I mean to tease her back, to make her as jealous as I am, but then I get pulled into the puzzle of it. Why is being with Annika so different?

“When I’m on a date, or talking with a girl at a party, usually there’s an expected back and forth where she shows me whether or not she’s interested and I read the signs, then behave accordingly. It’s like a dance and there are steps and missteps.” I frown, thinking. “At least that’s what I think people mean when they talk about someone having moves. It means he’s good at the game.”

“And you’re good at the game,” Annika interrupts in a dry voice.

“Well, yeah.” I shrug. “You already know that about me. I’m good at telling people what they want to hear, and that’s what this is. It’s bullshit.”

Annika looks puzzled. “But why does it have to be bullshit? Why can’t it be a real conversation with real feelings?”

I shake my head, bemused. She’s so earnest sometimes. “Because it’s too calculated. Both people are going through motions they’ve practiced before. It’s rehearsed so it can’t be real, as you put it so adorably.” I smirk.

“When we talked That Night,” Annika starts slowly, still serious. “I didn’t know these rules. I mean, Estonia is not the moon. But the conventions are different. And I hadn’t dated anyway.”

“So you said. I just don’t get that. Does everyone in Estonia look like you—or are they all blind?”

She shoots me an impatient look. “I wasn’t allowed to date until I was eighteen. That was two months before I came to the States, four months before I met you.”

I’m floored. I had no idea she was that inexperienced. I run a hand through my hair, feeling guilty all over again.

She pokes my arm. “Hey! None of that! And you still haven’t told me about the sex!” I know she’s trying to distract me from my regrets but it still works.

“What’s there to say, really? It’s still a game, where your brain hovers over your body thinking about next steps: like, hmm, she seemed to like that so I’ll do it again or how can I get her to go down on me?”

Annika muffles a laugh and I look at her, marveling—again!—at how different she is from all those girls whose faces and names I can hardly remember now.

“So, basically, all I need to know about regular sex is to give plenty of blow jobs?”

I glower at her. I wish she’d stop baiting me!

“No!” I slap a hand on the dashboard in frustration and she startles. “You don’t get it, Annika! The point is that sex had always involved lots of thinking, lots of steps and strategies.”

Her eyes are back on the road, but there’s a furrow between her eyebrows.

“You know, going around the bases and all that—”

She opens her mouth then closes it again and I realize maybe she doesn’t know about that very American metaphor.

“With you I just don’t think at all. There’s no plan. There’s no strategy. There’s no voice in my head telling me what to do next.”

I stare at her, trying to make her see the difference. I shake my head in confusion. “God, I can barely remember my own name! And clearly I can’t remember where we are or who might see us or why we’re not supposed to be touching or kissing or….”

I take a deep breath and see Annika is trembling. I take her hand and squeeze it before letting go again. I don’t need to say anything else. I know she knows what I mean.