He’d seen her withdrawing, her usual spark dimmed. She’d become silent, spending hours scrolling through social media or staring at blank canvases. The apartment, once filled with her laughter and the hum of her creativity, felt hollow. James knew the isolation was eating at her. One evening, as they sat at the kitchen table over a lukewarm pizza, he’d made the suggestion almost as a joke.
“Emma, why don’t you come with me to Miami?” he’d said, pushing a slice toward her. “Get out of this place for a bit. It’ll be good for you.”
She’d looked at him, surprised. The idea of staying behind, alone in the apartment, was unbearable. Miami, with its sun-drenched beaches and vibrant energy, sounded like a lifeline. “Just for three days?” she’d asked, her voice hesitant but curious.
“Three days,” he’d confirmed, grinning. “We’ll drive down, I’ll catch the game with the guys, and you can chill at the hotel. Maybe take a walk downtown, soak up some inspiration. It’ll be like old times.”
To his surprise, she’d agreed almost instantly. The thought of revisiting a place she hadn’t seen since college—when she’d spent a summer interning at a Miami art gallery—felt like a chance to reconnect with herself. She imagined strolling through Wynwood, where murals covered every wall, or sipping coffee at a seaside café. While James was at the game, she could rest, recharge, maybe even sketch again.
But as the trip approached, everything seemed to conspire against them. James got tied up at work with an urgent project—a new office tower that had hit a snag with permits. Then his boss scheduled a last-minute meeting, forcing them to push their departure back by a day. Emma, already on edge, had to pack alone, a task that felt monumental with her pregnancy making every movement cumbersome. Bending to reach the suitcase, lifting bags, even folding clothes—each action left her breathless and aching.
“If we leave at 4 a.m., we’ll hit Miami by noon,” James said the night before, glancing at Emma as he tossed his duffel bag by the door. She was sitting on the couch, her arms crossed, her expression a mix of exhaustion and irritation.
“You’d better not be late for your game,” she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. She didn’t mean to snap, but the stress of the past few days had frayed her patience. James nodded, choosing not to argue. He knew she was struggling, and he felt guilty for leaving so much to her.
When the alarm blared at 3:30 a.m., they dragged themselves out of bed, bleary-eyed but determined. The Atlanta streets were quiet as they loaded their new SUV—a sleek black Jeep James had bought just months ago, a symbol of his hard-won success. The air was cool, the sky still dark, but Emma felt a flicker of excitement. As they merged onto I-95 South, the city fading behind them, she cracked the window, letting the breeze carry the scent of pine and asphalt.
For the first few hours, the trip felt like a return to their younger selves. Emma turned up the radio, singing along to old pop hits, her voice light and teasing. James laughed, recounting stories of their college road trips—how they’d survived on gas station snacks and slept in questionable motels with flickering neon signs. Back then, they’d been fearless, chasing adventure with nothing but a beat-up sedan and a shared sense of possibility.
“Remember that time we got lost in Savannah?” Emma said, grinning. “You swore you knew the way, but we ended up at that creepy abandoned warehouse.”
“Hey, I got us out of there, didn’t I?” James shot back, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “And we found that amazing diner afterward. Best peach cobbler of my life.”
Emma chuckled, resting her head against the seat. For the first time in weeks, she felt lighter, as if the road was carrying her away from her worries. The landscape rolled by—Georgia’s flat fields giving way to Florida’s palm-dotted highways. The sun rose, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, and Emma let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, this trip would change things.
James glanced at her, his heart swelling. He’d worked hard to build this life for them. The SUV, the comfortable apartment, the savings for their future—it was all for her, for their child. His own childhood had been a stark contrast. Growing up in a rough Atlanta neighborhood in the ‘90s, poverty had been a constant shadow. His family lived in a cramped apartment, scraping by on his father’s sporadic income. There were nights when dinner was a single shared loaf of bread, days when James wore shoes with holes patched with duct tape.
His father, Robert, had a past that haunted him. Raised in foster care, he’d known his parents but never spoke of them. As a teenager, he’d fallen in with a bad crowd, landing in jail for petty theft. Education was a luxury he couldn’t afford, and his life only stabilized after meeting James’s mother, Sarah. But even then, money was tight. James remembered the humiliation of wearing hand-me-downs, the pitying looks from neighbors who dropped off bags of old clothes.