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Chapter 1

I stared at the screen of my phone, scrolling through Grace's Instagram feed for the fifth time that hour. Three weeks of silence. No calls, no texts, no updates—nothing but digital ghosts. My thumb hovered over her last post—a blurry photo of some philosophical quote about freedom and self-discovery, captioned with a simple "Time to find myself." Typical Grace, always searching for deeper meaning while I was content with the surface of things. Still, this disappearing act wasn't like her at all. Something felt wrong, deeply wrong, and the unsettling feeling had crawled under my skin, making itself at home like an unwanted guest.

The hallway outside Grace's apartment smelled of Mrs. Alvarez's cooking—some kind of spicy stew that made my stomach growl despite my anxiety. I'd been standing there for ten minutes, knocking intermittently, hoping that somehow Grace would materialize and open the door with her usual dreamy smile. Instead, the door across the hall creaked open, revealing Mrs. Alvarez's tiny figure, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"She's not there, mija," Mrs. Alvarez said, wiping her hands on her floral apron. "Haven't seen her in weeks."

"Did she say anything to you? Leave a note? Anything?" I asked, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. I'd already called Grace's workplace, her other friends, even her distant parents. No one had heard from her.

Mrs. Alvarez hesitated, her wrinkled face softening. "Come inside. There's something you should know."

I followed her into her apartment, a shrine to family memories and Catholic saints. Photos of children and grandchildren crowded every surface, competing for space with religious figurines and dried flowers. The smell of cumin and chili grew stronger, making my mouth water involuntarily.

"Sit, sit," she insisted, gesturing to a worn velvet sofa. "Grace came to say goodbye about three weeks ago. She said she was going to Los Angeles to meet someone. A man she'd met online."

My heart dropped into my stomach. "A man? What man?"

"Some spiritual teacher. Zed something. Morales, I think. She seemed... excited." Mrs. Alvarez's tone made it clear she didn't share that excitement. "She said he was helping her find her true self, whatever that means."

I pressed my fingertips against my temples. Grace had always been drawn to philosophical ideas and spiritual explorations, but she'd never mentioned any Zed. The idea of her running off with some internet guru made my skin crawl.

"Did she say when she'd be back?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"No, mija. She paid her rent for the month, but..." Mrs. Alvarez shrugged, the gesture heavy with concern.

The doorbell rang, startling us both. Mrs. Alvarez shuffled to answer it, and I heard a low male voice that made my shoulders tense. I knew who it was before he even stepped into view.

Kyler Thompson stood awkwardly in the doorway, a picture of grungy discomfort in his typical disheveled black t-shirt and worn jeans. His dark hair looked like he'd run his hands through it a hundred times, and there were shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. I'd only met him a few times before, always at Grace's insistence, and each encounter had been more painful than the last. How Grace had dated this socially stunted computer nerd was beyond me.

His eyes flickered to me, and I could see the moment recognition hit him—followed immediately by displeasure. The feeling was entirely mutual.

"Elsie," he said, my name sounding like an accusation on his lips.

"Kyler," I returned, matching his coolness. "Let me guess—you're here looking for Grace too?"

He nodded once, his face guarded. "She hasn't answered my calls or texts in weeks."

"She's gone to Los Angeles," I said, watching his expression closely. "With some spiritual coach named Zed Morales. Ring any bells?"

The flash of hurt in his eyes was quickly replaced by confusion. "Zed Morales? No. She never mentioned him to me."

Mrs. Alvarez looked between us, her expression softening with understanding. "You two both care about Grace, yes? Then perhaps you should work together to find her."

I nearly choked on the suggestion. Work with Kyler? The human equivalent of watching paint dry? However, before I could protest, Kyler spoke.

"Grace broke up with me." His voice was flat, but I could hear the pain underneath. "Three weeks ago. A text message saying she needed space to find herself. No explanation, nothing else."

Something twisted in my chest—not quite sympathy, but a recognition of the gut-punch that came with being left behind. I'd experienced it enough with modeling rejections, with failed relationships, with friendships that drifted away.

"Well, she ghosted me too, and I'm her best friend," I said, a little sharper than I intended. "At least you got a breakup text."

Kyler's jaw tightened. "This isn't a competition, Elsie."

"Could have fooled me," I shot back. "Every time I've seen you with Grace, you've made it clear you think I'm a bad influence."

"And every time I've seen you, you've made it clear you think I'm boring and beneath your attention," he countered, a rare flash of emotion coloring his words.

"Children!" Mrs. Alvarez clapped her hands, the sound as sharp as a whip. We both turned to her, startled. "Grace is out there, possibly in trouble. Your petty disagreements mean nothing compared to her safety. Now, sit down, both of you, and let's figure this out."

Properly chastised, we sat on opposite ends of Mrs. Alvarez's sofa. The cushion between us might as well have been the Grand Canyon.

"Now," Mrs. Alvarez continued, "Grace mentioned this Zed person runs some kind of retreat center in Los Angeles. She seemed very taken with his ideas."

"She's always been interested in that kind of thing," Kyler muttered, staring at his hands. "Philosophy, meaning of life, spiritual growth."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, we all know Grace is deep and thoughtful. The point is, she's run off with some guy she met online, which is exactly the kind of naive thing she would do."

"She's not naive," Kyler said defensively. "She's trusting. There's a difference."

"Not when it comes to results," I replied. The tension between us crackled like electricity.

Mrs. Alvarez cleared her throat. "The question is, what are you two going to do about it?"

Kyler looked up. "I'll go to Los Angeles. Find her, make sure she's okay."

"Fly?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Good luck with that. There are massive protests at O'Hare right now. All flights are grounded until further notice."

He frowned. "How do you know that?"

I waved my phone at him. "It's called the news, Kyler. Some of us follow it."

The muscle in his jaw twitched again. "Then I'll drive."

"To Los Angeles? That's over two thousand miles," I said.

"I'm aware of the distance," he replied coldly.

Mrs. Alvarez looked between us again, her eyes calculating. "Why not go together? It's safer that way, and you both want to find Grace."

The suggestion hung in the air like a bad smell. Kyler and I exchanged a glance of mutual horror.

"I don't think—" he began.

"That's ridiculous—" I started simultaneously.

"It makes perfect sense," Mrs. Alvarez interrupted firmly. "Two heads are better than one, and it's a long journey. Besides, Grace would want you to help each other."

I bit my lip, considering. As much as the thought of spending days in a car with Kyler made me want to scream, Mrs. Alvarez had a point. The trip would be safer with two people, and I was genuinely worried about Grace. Besides, my modeling gigs had dried up lately—a fact my agent had bluntly attributed to me "aging out" at the ripe old age of twenty-six. The thought still stung. A road trip might be exactly what I needed—a chance to clear my head, reconnect with some old contacts along the way, maybe even build my portfolio with some authentic Americana shots for Instagram.

"Fine," I said abruptly. "I'll go. But I'm not paying for gas."

Kyler looked surprised, then suspicious. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

I shrugged, unwilling to share my real thoughts with him. "Grace is my best friend. And like Mrs. Alvarez said, it's safer to travel together."

He studied me for a long moment, clearly not buying my explanation but unable to argue with the logic. "I suppose we could take Route 66," he said finally. "My car's old, but it's reliable."

"Route 66? How deliciously retro of you," I said, unable to help myself. His expression darkened, and I quickly added, "Actually, that's not a bad idea. There are some great photo opportunities along that route."

"This isn't a vacation, Elsie," he said stiffly.

"No, but if I'm giving up my time to help find your ex-girlfriend, I might as well get something out of it," I replied, matching his tone.

Mrs. Alvarez sighed heavily. "Dios mío, give me strength. You two will drive each other crazy before you reach the state line."

She wasn't wrong, but I was already mentally packing my bags. Route 66. Los Angeles. A chance to escape Chicago and my dwindling career prospects. And yes, a chance to find Grace and make sure she was okay. If that meant enduring Kyler's company for a few days, so be it.

"When do we leave?" I asked, meeting Kyler's gaze directly.

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "Early."

"I'll be ready," I promised, already dreading the confined space of his car and the endless hours of awkward silence or forced conversation ahead.

As I left Mrs. Alvarez's apartment, I pulled up the map on my phone, tracing the iconic Route 66 with my finger. Chicago to Los Angeles, with stops in Springfield, St. Louis, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, and beyond. A journey across America with a man I could barely tolerate. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything, as it turned out. Everything could go wrong.

Chapter 2

The vibration of the car engine hummed through my bones as we pulled into Springfield, the first major stop on our reluctant journey west. Two hours of suffocating silence punctuated only by Elsie's occasional sighs and the aggressive tapping of her perfectly manicured nails against her phone screen. I'd tried turning on the radio once—a futile peace offering—but she'd immediately complained about my taste in music, something about "depressing indie rock for sad boys." I didn't bother explaining that the band was actually progressive metal. What was the point? In Elsie's world, anything that didn't have a designer label or trending hashtag was beneath consideration. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the reason we were enduring this ordeal: Grace. I needed answers, needed to understand why she'd walked away so abruptly, needed to know if there was anything left to salvage.

"This is it?" Elsie's voice cut through my thoughts, sharp with disappointment. She was staring out the window at Samson's diner, her expression suggesting I'd driven her to a landfill rather than one of Springfield's oldest establishments.

"This," I said, putting the car in park, "is Samson's. Best pancakes in Illinois, according to my dad."

"Your dad has clearly never been to Chicago," she muttered, but she was already reaching for the door handle, her impatience as palpable as her disdain.

The diner looked exactly as I remembered from childhood trips—a weathered rectangle of a building with faded turquoise paint and a flickering neon sign that read "SAMSON'S DINER" in jagged, electric-blue letters. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a couple of dusty pickup trucks and a station wagon that had clearly seen better decades. Nostalgia washed over me as we approached the entrance, memories of my father's deep laugh mingling with the smell of bacon and coffee that greeted us as I pushed open the door.

Inside, the diner was a time capsule. Vinyl booths in cracked red leather lined the walls, a jukebox that probably hadn't been updated since the '80s stood silent in the corner, and the countertop was worn smooth from thousands of elbows and coffee cups. Behind that counter stood Samson Briggs, older and grayer than I remembered, but with the same piercing blue eyes that seemed to look straight through you.

"Well, I'll be damned," Samson's gravel voice called out as he spotted me. "Kyler Thompson. You're the spitting image of your old man."

"Hey, Samson," I said, approaching the counter with a genuine smile—the first one I'd managed since this trip began. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," he agreed, wiping his hands on a dishrag before extending one across the counter. His grip was firm, calloused from decades of work. "Your dad told me you were in Chicago now, doing something with computers."

"Repair and programming, yeah," I nodded, feeling Elsie's presence behind me, her impatience radiating like heat.

Samson's gaze shifted to her, his weathered face unreadable. "And who's this?"

"Elsie Harper," I said, stepping aside. "She's a... friend of Grace's."

"Just a friend?" Samson raised an eyebrow, looking between us.