They never took the honeymoon.
They never came back.
The plan had been in place for two weeks: a tiny cabin in the Catskills, booked with wedding-gift money, with no Wi-Fi, no schedule, just woods and a lake, and each other. They packed one suitcase, the Leica, Nova's sketchbook, and Flash in her carrier. The morning after the rooftop wedding they loaded Miss Connie's borrowed hatchback, kissed the city goodbye, and drove north with the windows down and rings catching sunlight like signals.
They never reached the cabin.
Forty miles out, Elara spotted a hand-painted sign: ROADSIDE MOTEL – VACANCY – COLOR TV – $49. She laughed so hard Nova almost drove off the road. They pulled in on impulse. The Desert Rose Motel was a 1950s relic with flamingo-pink doors and a pool shaped like a kidney bean. The clerk, a woman with a beehive and a cigarette permanently attached to her lip, took one look at their rings and upgraded them to the honeymoon suite for free.
The suite was hideous and perfect: a heart-shaped bed vibrating for quarters, mirrors on the ceiling, a champagne bucket filled with ice and two plastic flutes. They didn't leave for four days.
Day one: they never unpacked. Nova carried Elara over the threshold, dress and suit still rumpled from the wedding. She dropped her on the heart bed, peeled the torn black lace down her shoulders, and ate her slowly while the mattress hummed beneath them. Elara came twice before Nova even took off her tie. Then Elara flipped her wife, green velvet jacket open, shirt ripped, mouth between Nova's legs until she sobbed into the flamingo-pink pillows.
They showered in the tiny pink-tiled bathroom, water barely hot. Elara pressed Nova to the wall, strap already on from the suitcase, and entered her from behind while steam fogged the mirrors. Nova watched them in the glass, rings flashing, and came with her palms flat against the reflection of her own face.
Night one: they ordered pizza to the room, ate it naked on the bed, sauce on chins and breasts, licking each other clean. Flash explored the vibrating mattress, yowled, and claimed the windowsill. They made love again under the mirrored ceiling, watching themselves: Elara riding Nova's thigh, Nova's fingers inside her, rings catching the neon VACANCY sign bleeding through the curtains. Came staring at their own reflections, whispering wife until the word lost meaning and became breath.
They finally left on day five, but only because the clerk knocked with more ice and a knowing grin.
They drove aimlessly. Pennsylvania back roads. Ohio cornfields. A night in a corn-maze Airbnb where they got lost on purpose, fucked against a scarecrow at 2 a.m., corn silk in hair and mouths.
Indiana: A diner waitress called them "you two" with hearts in her eyes and gave them free pie. They ate it in the parking lot, Elara on Nova's lap in the driver's seat, grinding slow while trucks rumbled past.
Illinois: Chicago for one night in a fancy hotel paid with leftover wedding cash. They dressed up, went to a rooftop bar, and got tipsy on overpriced cocktails. In the elevator down, Elara hit the stop button, dropped to her knees, and sucked Nova off under the green velvet suit until she came against the mirrored wall.
Iowa: a thunderstorm trapped them in a roadside chapel turned Airbnb. Stained glass painted them red and blue. They made love on the altar, Nova spread on polished wood, Elara's tongue and fingers reverent, rain pounding the roof like applause.
Nebraska: endless sky. They pulled over on a dirt road, spread a blanket in a wheat field, fucked under stars so thick it felt like drowning. Nova on her back, Elara riding her face, wheat whispering around them. Came with the Milky Way watching.
Colorado: mountains rose suddenly and sharply. They found a hot spring off a forest service road, clothing abandoned on rocks, sank into mineral water that smelled like earth and sex. Nova floated on her back, Elara between her legs under the surface, fingers and tongue until Nova came with mountains echoing her cry.
Utah: red rock deserts. They camped in a national park, a tent too small, sleeping bags zipped together. Woke at dawn to make love with the tent walls glowing orange, Nova entering Elara from behind, slow and deep, desert wind rocking them.
Nevada: Vegas for one reckless night. They got married again, drunk in a drive-through chapel by an Elvis impersonator who cried when they showed him the rooftop photos. Back in the hotel, Nova in the Elvis cape, Elara in the veil they bought for twenty bucks, fucked on the balcony overlooking the Strip, lights flashing across skin.
California: the ocean finally. They rented a tiny cottage on the cliffs north of San Francisco. Waves crashed below. They never wore clothes. Days blurred: tide pools, Elara photographing Nova naked against driftwood, Nova sketching Elara asleep with salt in her hair.
They made love in the ocean, waves knocking them over, laughing and gasping. On the deck at sunset, Elara on her knees, Nova standing, fingers tangled in hair. At midnight under redwoods, Nova tied to a tree with the fairy lights they still carried everywhere, Elara edging her for hours with mouth and hands until Nova begged in three languages.
They stayed a month. Then another. Jobs emailed resignations. Families got postcards: *Still on honeymoon. Don't wait up.*
Money ran low. Elara sold prints at farmers' markets. Nova designed community gardens for small towns, paid in cash and home-cooked meals.
They bought a used van with the last of the wedding money. Painted it dark green with a red door. Lived in it. Drove the Pacific Coast Highway slowly, stopping wherever night found them.
Oregon: rainforest sex under ferns, moss soft beneath them.
Washington: ferry to the islands, made love in the van while the boat rocked.
Canada: border guard saw the rings, waved them through with a grin.
Alaska: northern lights. They parked on a tundra pull-off, made love in the back of the van with the doors open, aurora borealis painting them green and purple. Nova inside Elara with the strap, slow and deep, northern sky exploding above. Came whispering forever under the end of the world.
They turned south when winter threatened. Drove through fall colours, leaves like fire.
One year became two.
The van became home. Flash grew fat on salmon scraps and freedom.
They never went back to the cabin that started it all.
They never needed to.
The honeymoon never ended because the marriage never settled.
Every mile was a vow renewed.
Every sunrise is a kiss good morning.
Every night, bodies tangled in the back of a green van with a red door, rings catching whatever light the world gave them.
They were still on their honeymoon.
And the road just kept saying yes.