By Friday afternoon, Maya had already checked the weather three times. Rain was expected in Portland, Maine, on Saturday morning, but Sunday looked clear.

“We can still walk by the water,” she said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “We’ll just bring jackets.”

Evan closed his laptop at the small dining table they both used as a home office. “I thought the whole point was to escape bad weather.”

“The point was to get out of the apartment.”

They had lived together in Somerville for two years, long enough to know that a weekend trip required negotiation. Maya liked early starts and detailed lists. Evan preferred to decide things on the way.

They agreed to leave at eight, which Maya understood as eight and Evan understood as sometime before nine. That evening, she packed sweaters, toiletries, and two paperback books into a canvas duffel. Evan searched for the phone charger he had misplaced and offered to handle snacks.

On Saturday morning, Maya made coffee while Evan carried their bags down to the car. He came back upstairs because he had forgotten his wallet.

“I put it beside your keys,” Maya said.

“Right. I moved it so I wouldn’t forget it.”

They finally pulled away at 8:27. At a gas station near the highway, Evan bought trail mix and two breakfast sandwiches. Maya filled the tank and reset the trip meter, though neither of them needed it.

Traffic thinned after they crossed into New Hampshire. Maya drove first, choosing a public radio station. Evan looked up lunch options and read reviews aloud until she told him they all sounded the same.

An hour later, rain began tapping against the windshield.

“So,” Evan said, “museum first?”

Maya glanced at him and smiled. “I thought we were deciding on the way.”

He held up his phone. “I’m learning.”

They reached Portland before noon, parked near their hotel, and carried their bags through the drizzle. The room was not ready, so they left their luggage at the front desk and walked toward the old brick streets, sharing one umbrella and arguing mildly about where to eat.


By six on Friday evening, Maya had packed three sweaters for a two-night trip and was considering a fourth.

“It’s supposed to be sixty-eight degrees,” Ben said from the bedroom doorway.

“At noon,” she replied. “The cabin is in the mountains.”

Ben nodded as if this were persuasive, then returned to the kitchen to check the cooler. They had been living together in Ohio for two years, long enough to know that Maya always overpacked and Ben always forgot something important. This time, it was coffee.

They discovered the problem while loading the car.

“We can buy some there,” Ben said.

“The grocery store closes at eight.”

He looked at the dashboard clock: 6:17. Their rental cabin was nearly three hours away.

Maya sighed, then pulled up directions on her phone. “There’s a Target off the highway.”

“Fine. But no wandering.”

“I don’t wander.”

Ben gave her a look. She laughed and got into the passenger seat.

Traffic moved slowly through Columbus. Maya answered a text from the cabin owner and read the check-in instructions aloud: key in a lockbox, park beside the shed, don’t leave food outside because of raccoons.

“Raccoons,” Ben said. “That’s reassuring.”

At Target, he bought coffee, filters, and batteries for the flashlight. Maya added a bag of pretzels and a deck of cards. They debated getting firewood but decided to buy it closer to the cabin.

By the time they returned to the highway, the sky had darkened. Ben drove while Maya chose music and divided the pretzels between two paper cups.

They stopped once more at a gas station near the state park. The firewood stacked outside looked damp, but it was the only option. Ben carried two bundles to the trunk while Maya went inside for bottled water.

When they finally turned onto the gravel road, both leaned forward, watching for the mailbox described in the instructions.

“There,” Maya said, pointing.

Ben slowed and made the turn. The cabin’s porch light was on. For a moment, they sat quietly in the parked car, relieved.

Then Maya said, “Did you pack the phone chargers?”

Ben closed his eyes. “No.”

She smiled. “I packed two.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the kitchen at Ben, who was rinsing two travel mugs.

“If we leave by five, we’ll miss the worst of the traffic,” she said.

Ben checked the clock on the microwave. “It’s already four forty.”

Their plan was simple: drive from Columbus to a small cabin near Hocking Hills, stay two nights, hike on Saturday, and return Sunday afternoon. They had been living together for three years, but this was their first trip in months that wasn’t connected to a wedding or a family visit.

Maya carried their duffel bag to the front door. “Did you pack the phone chargers?”

“I thought you did.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “This is why we make lists.”

While Ben searched the bedroom, Maya checked the refrigerator. She put two apples, a bag of carrots, and some cheese into a cooler. Ben returned with the chargers and added a flashlight.

“Rain jackets?” he asked.

“In the car already.”

They debated whether to bring their own coffee. The cabin listing promised a coffee maker, but not coffee. Ben wanted to stop at a grocery store near the highway. Maya pointed out that they had an unopened bag in the pantry.

Five minutes later, they locked the apartment and carried everything downstairs. Ben loaded the trunk while Maya entered the cabin’s address into her phone. Before pulling away, they discussed dinner. Maya wanted to stop at a diner; Ben preferred to arrive before dark.

They compromised on sandwiches from a gas station.

Traffic slowed near the interstate, and Ben tapped the steering wheel impatiently. Maya adjusted the route and found a county road that saved twelve minutes. As the buildings gave way to fields, they relaxed.

“Did we lock the back window?” Ben asked.

Maya looked at him.

“Yes,” she said. “I checked twice.”

He nodded, and she opened the bag of carrots between them as they drove toward the hills.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Daniel, who was kneeling beside an open duffel bag.

“You packed three sweatshirts,” she said.

“The forecast says it’ll be cold in the mountains.”

“It says fifty-eight.”

“That’s cold enough for options.”

They had been living together in Columbus for two years, but packing for even a short trip still revealed how differently they approached things. Maya kept a checklist on her phone. Daniel wandered from room to room, adding whatever seemed useful.

They were driving to a small town in West Virginia for the weekend, mostly to hike and get away from their usual routine. The rental cabin had been Maya’s idea. Daniel had chosen the trail and found a diner nearby that reviewers claimed served excellent pancakes.

“Did you feed the cat?” Daniel asked.

“I filled his bowl. Mrs. Hanley is coming tomorrow morning.”

Maya checked the kitchen twice before they left, making sure the stove was off and the windows were locked. Meanwhile, Daniel carried the bags downstairs and moved an old coffee cup out of the car’s cup holder.

They stopped for gas on the edge of town. While Daniel filled the tank, Maya went inside for water and returned with two bags of chips.

“I thought we were saving money,” he said.

“They were two for five dollars.”

“That’s not saving money if we didn’t need chips.”

She handed him the barbecue flavor, and he opened it immediately.

Traffic was heavy until they passed the suburbs. Then the highway narrowed, and bare trees crowded the hills on either side. Maya drove first while Daniel managed the directions. When his phone lost service, they missed a turn and had to backtrack six miles.

Neither spoke for a minute.

“I should’ve downloaded the map,” he said finally.

“I should’ve listened when you said the sign looked familiar.”

They reached the cabin after dark. Daniel carried in the bags while Maya found the lockbox. Inside, the rooms smelled faintly of pine cleaner. They stood in the small kitchen, tired and hungry.

“Diner?” Daniel asked.

Maya glanced at the dark road outside. “Frozen pizza?”

He opened the freezer and smiled. “Weekend officially started.”


On Friday afternoon, Elena closed her laptop and found Marcus standing in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and two cans of sparkling water in the other.

“The weather app says rain after six tomorrow,” he said.

Elena accepted a can. “Then we hike in the morning.”

They had been talking about visiting a state park two hours away for months, but work, errands, and one expensive car repair had kept them home. Now they had reserved a small motel room for Saturday night and agreed to leave early enough to make the trip feel longer than it was.

Marcus opened a shared note on his phone. “Hiking shoes, jackets, chargers. What else?”

“Snacks,” Elena said. “And the good coffee thermos.”

They packed separately at first. Elena rolled two shirts and placed them beside a paperback she suspected she would not read. Marcus searched the hall closet for the binoculars his brother had given him, then returned carrying an old umbrella and a deck of cards.

“Binoculars are missing,” he announced.

“Cards are more useful if it rains.”

At the grocery store, they debated trail mix. Marcus wanted the kind with chocolate; Elena pointed out that it would melt in the car. They compromised on peanuts, dried cherries, and a chocolate bar to keep in the cooler. They also bought bagels for breakfast, apples, and a small bag of ice.

Saturday morning, Elena drove while Marcus managed directions and music. Ten miles outside town, he asked whether she had packed the motel confirmation.

“It’s in my email.”

“Do you have service there?”

She glanced at him, then laughed. “Take a screenshot.”

He did, along with one of the park map.

They stopped at a gas station near the highway. Marcus filled the tank while Elena cleaned the windshield and bought two coffees. When they switched places, he adjusted the seat and complained that her mirrors were too low.

“They’re perfect for me,” she said.

By nine, they reached the trailhead. The parking lot was half full, the air cool and damp. Elena tightened her laces while Marcus divided the snacks between their backpacks. Then they checked the map once more and started up the trail together.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and called toward the kitchen, “If we leave by six, we can beat some of the traffic.”

Ethan looked up from the cooler he was packing. “That’s what you said last time, and we left at seven-thirty.”

“That was because you decided the tires needed air.”

“They did need air.”

They had lived together for three years in a second-floor apartment outside Baltimore, and their weekend trips often began with the same mild disagreement about departure time. This one was only two nights in a rented cabin near Shenandoah National Park, but Maya had made a checklist anyway.

She carried their duffel bags to the front door while Ethan added two cans of sparkling water to the cooler. He wanted to bring the cast-iron skillet. Maya pointed out that the cabin listing showed a fully equipped kitchen.

“Fully equipped can mean one bent pan,” he said.

“It’s one weekend.”

He left the skillet behind but packed his own coffee grinder.

At five-forty, Maya checked the weather and discovered rain was expected Saturday morning. She suggested they change their hiking plan and visit a nearby antique market first. Ethan frowned at his phone, then agreed. He downloaded an offline map in case they lost service.

Before leaving, they walked through the apartment together. Maya unplugged the toaster and watered the basil plant. Ethan took out the trash and checked the windows. In the parking lot, they realized they had forgotten the cabin’s entry code, so Maya waited beside the car while Ethan ran upstairs for the printed reservation.

They finally pulled onto the highway at six-fifteen. Traffic was heavy but moving. Maya drove the first hour while Ethan handled directions and chose a playlist they could both tolerate.

At a gas station near Front Royal, they switched seats and bought sandwiches for dinner. Sitting in the parked car, Maya divided a bag of chips between them.

“We’re almost on schedule,” she said.

Ethan started the engine. “By our standards, we’re early.”


By Friday afternoon, Maya had checked the weather in Asheville six times. Each forecast was slightly different: rain in the morning, sun by noon, colder than expected after dark.

“Bring the blue jacket,” she told Daniel as he stood in their bedroom, holding two nearly identical sweatshirts.

“The blue jacket isn’t waterproof.”

“Neither is that.”

Daniel looked at the gray sweatshirt, as if it might defend itself. “This is warmer.”

They had lived together for three years in a second-floor apartment outside Atlanta, long enough to know that packing could become an argument if either of them was hungry. Maya went to the kitchen and divided the last of the pasta into two containers. Daniel finally packed both layers.

Their plan was simple: leave after work, drive two hours, and spend Saturday hiking before meeting Maya’s college friend for dinner. They had booked a modest motel near downtown because the cabins they liked required a three-night stay.

At six, Daniel carried their bags to the car while Maya checked the windows and unplugged the coffee maker. Halfway down the stairs, she stopped.

“Did you feed Olive?”

Daniel froze, then turned around. Their cat watched from the window as he climbed back up.

Traffic was heavier than they expected. At a gas station outside Gainesville, Maya filled the tank while Daniel bought coffee, trail mix, and a bag of barbecue chips they hadn’t discussed.

“We have snacks,” she said when he returned.

“We have almonds. Almonds are an obligation.”

She opened the chips before they reached the highway.

By nine, rain was tapping steadily against the windshield. Daniel suggested skipping the hike if the trails were muddy. Maya was disappointed, but she nodded and searched for indoor options on her phone.

“There’s an art museum,” she said. “And a brewery tour.”

“Both?”

“Maybe. If we’re not tired.”

They checked into the motel, carried their bags upstairs, and discovered the room had only one working bedside lamp. Daniel offered Maya’s side of the bed the light. She plugged in both their phones, set an alarm for eight, and listened to the rain.

“Still glad we came?” he asked.

Maya reached for his hand. “Ask me after coffee.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and found Ben standing in the kitchen with two reusable grocery bags.

“I thought we were packing,” she said.

“We are. These are for snacks.”

They had been living together in Columbus for three years, but they still approached trips differently. Maya made lists. Ben waited until the last possible moment and then moved quickly. Their plan was simple: drive to a cabin in Hocking Hills, stay two nights, hike Saturday, and come home Sunday before dinner.

Maya checked the weather on her phone. “Rain tomorrow morning.”

“Then we hike in the afternoon.”

“And do what in the morning?”

Ben opened a cabinet. “Drink coffee. Read. Enjoy the cabin we’re paying for.”

She added rain jackets to her list while he inspected a box of granola bars. Together they decided against stopping at a restaurant on the way and packed sandwiches instead. Ben filled a cooler with sparkling water, cheese, and apples. Maya found the small first-aid kit under the bathroom sink.

By five-thirty, they had loaded the car. Maya locked the apartment, then went back to make sure the bedroom window was closed. Ben waited by the elevator, holding both sets of keys.

“You checked the stove?” she asked.

“Twice.”

Traffic was slow leaving the city. Maya drove while Ben handled directions and changed the music whenever a song annoyed them both. After forty minutes, he realized he had forgotten the bag with their hiking boots.

“Are you serious?” Maya asked.

He looked into the back seat again. “Unfortunately.”

They considered turning around, but the map showed a sporting-goods store near Lancaster. Maya sighed, then laughed.

“We’ll buy cheap shoes,” she said. “You’re wearing them again after this.”

At the store, they found two discounted pairs and changed in the parking lot. By the time they reached the cabin, it was dark and drizzling. Ben carried in the cooler while Maya unlocked the door.

Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of pine cleaner. Maya switched on the lamps, and Ben put water on for tea.

“This is nice,” he said.

She looked out at the wet trees. “It is. Even with the new shoes.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at the half-packed duffel bag on the couch.

“Did you put in the rain jackets?” she asked.

Evan paused beside the refrigerator, where he was trying to fit two bottles of sparkling water into a small cooler. “I thought you did.”

Maya sighed, but she was smiling. They had lived together for three years, long enough to recognize this familiar stage of any trip: each person assuming the other had packed the practical things.

They were driving from Philadelphia to a cabin in the Poconos for two nights. The forecast called for rain on Saturday, but they had already paid the deposit, and neither wanted to spend another weekend doing laundry and watching television.

Maya found the jackets in the hall closet while Evan checked the kitchen twice to make sure the stove was off. They debated bringing groceries. Maya wanted to stop near the cabin; Evan pointed out that the small mountain market would probably be expensive.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m not carrying six bags down three flights.”

They compromised on one paper bag containing pasta, coffee, eggs, and a loaf of bread. Evan carried it to the car along with the cooler. Maya locked the apartment, then returned to check the lock.

Traffic was heavy leaving the city. Maya drove first while Evan handled navigation and chose music. Twenty minutes later, he lowered the volume.

“Did we bring the phone charger?”

“It’s in my backpack.”

“Toothpaste?”

“Bathroom pocket.”

Evan nodded, satisfied, and opened a bag of pretzels.

They stopped for gas outside Allentown and switched drivers. Maya bought two coffees from the convenience store, though it was nearly seven. By the time they reached the winding mountain road, the sky had darkened and rain tapped softly against the windshield.

Evan leaned forward, searching for the cabin number.

“There,” Maya said, pointing to a narrow gravel driveway.

He turned in carefully. The cabin was smaller than the photos, but its porch light glowed warmly. Maya picked up the grocery bag, and Evan grabbed their luggage. Together, they hurried through the rain toward the door.


Maya stood in the kitchen on Friday afternoon, comparing two weather apps while Daniel searched the hall closet for their small cooler.

“One says rain,” she called. “The other says partly cloudy.”

Daniel emerged holding the cooler and a single hiking boot. “Then we’ll pack jackets and pretend we’re optimistic.”

They had been living together in Columbus for three years, but this was their first trip in months. Their plan was simple: drive to Hocking Hills, stay two nights in a rented cabin, and hike if the weather allowed. Maya had booked the cabin; Daniel had mapped the route and volunteered to handle groceries.

At the supermarket, they debated how much food two people needed for one weekend. Maya put eggs, bread, and coffee in the cart. Daniel added tortilla chips and three kinds of dip.

“We’re leaving Sunday,” she reminded him.

“I know. This is emergency dip.”

She rolled her eyes but kept one container. At home, they packed quickly. Maya folded clothes into a duffel while Daniel filled the cooler with ice packs. He forgot toothpaste, and she forgot phone chargers, so they made a final checklist on a sticky note and taped it to the front door.

By six, traffic had thickened. Maya drove first while Daniel managed the music and read directions from his phone. They stopped outside Lancaster for gas and switched seats. At the station, Maya bought two coffees, then returned to the car with a bag of pretzels.

“I thought we had snacks,” Daniel said.

“Those are cabin snacks. These are road snacks.”

The light was fading when they reached the narrow county road leading to the cabin. Daniel slowed for every curve, and Maya watched for the mailbox described in the host’s message.

“There,” she said, pointing.

They pulled into a gravel driveway beside a small wooden cabin. Before unloading, they sat quietly for a moment, listening to rain begin tapping against the windshield.

“So much for hiking tonight,” Daniel said.

Maya smiled. “Good thing we brought emergency dip.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Ben, who was kneeling beside an open duffel bag.

“You know we’re only going for two nights,” she said.

Ben held up a second pair of hiking shoes. “It might rain.”

“That doesn’t explain why you packed four shirts.”

He considered this, then removed one. They had been dating for three years and sharing the one-bedroom apartment in Columbus for eleven months, long enough for Maya to know that Ben always overpacked and for Ben to know that Maya would forget her phone charger.

They were driving to Red River Gorge in Kentucky, a trip they had postponed twice—once because of work and once because their car needed new brakes. Maya checked the cabin reservation while Ben carried bags downstairs. The rental instructions said the nearest grocery store closed at eight.

“We should buy food here,” she said when he returned.

Ben glanced at the time. “If we leave now, we can stop on the way.”

“That’s what you said before we ended up eating gas-station crackers for dinner.”

Twenty minutes later, they were pushing a cart through Kroger. Maya chose pasta, eggs, and coffee. Ben added pancake mix and an expensive bottle of maple syrup.

“There’s probably syrup at the cabin,” she said.

“There’s probably not good syrup.”

She rolled her eyes but left it in the cart.

By six, they had loaded the car. Ben drove while Maya handled directions and music. Traffic slowed south of the city, and rain began tapping against the windshield.

“Still want to hike tomorrow?” Ben asked.

“If it’s not pouring.”

“And if it is?”

Maya looked at the grocery bags in the back seat. “Pancakes, cards, and doing absolutely nothing.”

Ben smiled. “Good thing I bought the syrup.”

They crossed into Kentucky after dark. When they stopped for gas, Maya searched her purse, then groaned.

“My charger’s on the kitchen counter.”

Without a word, Ben opened the duffel bag and handed her a spare.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the living room at Ben, who was kneeling beside an open duffel bag.

“You packed three sweatshirts,” she said.

“The weather app says it’ll be cold at night.”

“It’s two nights in Asheville, not an expedition.”

Ben removed one sweatshirt, considered it, then put it back. Maya laughed and carried her toiletry bag into the bedroom. They had been living together in their apartment outside Atlanta for almost two years, but packing still revealed their different habits. Maya made lists. Ben wandered from room to room, remembering things only when he saw them.

Their plan was simple: drive up Saturday morning, hike before checking into the motel, and spend Sunday exploring downtown. Over takeout noodles, they compared routes. Ben wanted to avoid the interstate and take the scenic highway. Maya pointed out that the scenic route added forty minutes.

“We could take it on the way home,” she suggested. “When we’re not trying to make a trail reservation.”

Ben nodded and added the motel address to his phone. Then Maya remembered they needed gas. Ben remembered the cooler had been left on the balcony after their last picnic.

By ten, they had packed sandwiches, apples, two bottles of water, and, after a brief debate, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels. Maya set the alarm for 6:30. Ben changed it to 6:45. She changed it back.

In the morning, rain tapped against the windows. Maya checked the forecast while Ben made coffee.

“The hike might be muddy,” she said.

“We brought boots.”

“You brought boots. Mine are still at my sister’s.”

They stood in the kitchen, reconsidering. Finally, they agreed to stop at an outdoor store near the trail and, if the rain worsened, visit a museum instead.

At 7:20, they carried their bags downstairs. Ben loaded the trunk while Maya locked the apartment and checked the door twice. They settled into the car with coffee in travel mugs.

“Scenic route?” Ben asked.

“Interstate,” Maya said, smiling. “You’re already twenty minutes behind schedule.”

He started the engine, and they pulled away as the rain began to lighten.


On Friday afternoon, Lena closed her laptop at five and found Marcus standing in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and a half-made sandwich in the other.

“If we leave by six, we’ll miss the worst traffic,” he said.

Lena glanced toward the bedroom, where an open duffel bag sat empty on the floor. “That depends on your definition of ‘leave.’”

They had decided on a weekend in the Shenandoah Valley after three weeks of comparing hotel prices, weather forecasts, and driving times. It was only two hours from their apartment outside Washington, D.C., but both of them had been working late, and even a short trip felt ambitious.

Lena packed sweaters while Marcus checked the car. When he came back, he reported that they had half a tank of gas and one low tire.

“Gas station first,” she said. “And I’m bringing the blue blanket.”

“The hotel has blankets.”

“The blue one is for the overlook.”

Marcus nodded as if this were a formal amendment to their plans. He packed two water bottles, trail mix, and the sandwich he had forgotten to finish.

At six twenty, they carried their bags downstairs. Lena locked the apartment, then immediately asked whether she had unplugged the curling iron.

“You didn’t use it today,” Marcus reminded her.

She considered this, reopened the door anyway, and checked. Marcus waited in the hallway without complaining, though he looked pointedly at his watch.

They stopped for air and gas, then argued mildly about dinner. Marcus wanted to eat on the road; Lena wanted to reach the hotel before the front desk closed. They compromised on drive-through tacos.

By the time they left the suburbs, the sky had turned pale orange. Lena put on a playlist they had made together and rested her hand on the center console. Marcus took it briefly at a red light.

“Did you bring the reservation number?” he asked.

“It’s in my email.”

“Do you have service out there?”

Lena looked at him, then downloaded the confirmation. “Now I do.”

They drove west as the traffic thinned, the blue blanket folded neatly in the back seat.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Ben, who was kneeling beside an open duffel bag.

“Did you pack the phone chargers?” she asked.

“I packed mine,” he said.

Maya raised an eyebrow. Ben sighed, stood up, and unplugged her charger from beside the couch.

They had decided to spend the weekend in a small town two hours north, mostly because the weather forecast promised clear skies and because neither of them wanted to spend another Saturday doing laundry and buying groceries. They had reserved a room at an inexpensive motel near a state park.

Maya checked the kitchen before they left. She threw away two overripe bananas, watered the basil plant, and made sure the stove was off. Meanwhile, Ben carried their bags down to the car and tried to fit them around a box of tools he had forgotten to remove from the trunk.

“You said we were packing light,” he told her when she arrived with a canvas tote.

“This is food,” Maya said. “Unless you want to pay nine dollars for trail mix.”

They stopped for gas near the highway. While Ben filled the tank, Maya went inside and returned with coffee for herself and a bottle of water for him. She had also bought a paper map.

“We have GPS,” he said.

“We had GPS last time too, and we ended up behind a locked gate.”

Ben laughed and handed her the car keys. She preferred driving in traffic, and he preferred taking over once they reached quieter roads.

At the edge of the city, brake lights appeared ahead. Maya turned down the radio as if that might help.

“We could take Route 6,” Ben suggested, checking the map on his phone.

“That adds twenty minutes.”

“But we’d be moving.”

She considered it, then took the next exit. Soon they were passing warehouses, then fields and roadside produce stands. Ben opened the tote and found two sandwiches wrapped in foil.

“You planned dinner too?”

“I planned not to argue about dinner while hungry.”

He divided one sandwich between them, and they continued north with the windows cracked, the weekend finally beginning.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Daniel, who was standing beside the couch with two backpacks open at his feet.

“Did you check the weather in Asheville?” she asked.

“Twice,” he said. “Cold tonight, sunny tomorrow, possible rain Sunday.”

Maya took a light jacket from the hall closet, considered it, then exchanged it for a heavier one. They had been living together in Charlotte for almost two years, long enough to know that Daniel packed too many shirts and Maya always forgot socks.

They had decided on the trip three days earlier, after realizing they both had a free weekend. The plan was simple: drive to Asheville, stay two nights at a modest hotel, hike Saturday morning, and find somewhere downtown for dinner. Still, they had spent Thursday evening comparing hotel prices and debating whether free breakfast mattered.

“It matters if coffee is included,” Maya had said.

Now Daniel held up a pair of hiking boots. “Are you wearing yours in the car?”

“No. They’re muddy. Put them in the trunk.”

He nodded and added them to a grocery bag. Maya checked the kitchen, threw away two bananas that would not last until Sunday, and filled a travel mug with water. Daniel unplugged the living-room lamp and lowered the thermostat.

Before leaving, they discussed their cat, Pepper, even though their neighbor had already agreed to feed her.

“She has enough water,” Daniel said.

“I know. I’m just checking.”

Pepper watched from the windowsill as they locked the door.

Traffic was heavy on Interstate 85. Daniel drove first while Maya handled navigation and searched for a place to eat. They rejected a crowded barbecue restaurant and stopped at a diner outside Hickory instead.

Over burgers, Daniel suggested moving the hike to Sunday if Saturday morning was too cold. Maya opened the forecast on her phone.

“Let’s decide when we wake up,” she said.

Back in the car, she took the wheel. Daniel adjusted the music, and they continued west as the sky darkened over the mountains.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at the half-packed duffel bag on the couch.

“Did you put the phone chargers in?” she asked.

Evan, standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator open, paused. “I put mine in.”

Maya gave him a look.

“I’ll get yours,” he said, smiling.

They had decided to spend the weekend in a small town two hours north, close enough that they wouldn’t need to take time off work. Neither of them had been there before. Maya wanted to visit a farmers’ market and a used bookstore she had found online. Evan mainly wanted to hike, although the weather forecast showed a chance of rain.

He took two bottles of water from the refrigerator and added them to a canvas grocery bag. Maya zipped the duffel, then reopened it to check whether she had packed socks.

“Should we bring the rain jackets?” she asked.

“We’ll regret it if we don’t.”

They carried everything down to the parking lot. Evan loaded the bags while Maya entered the hotel address into her phone. Before they left, they debated whether to eat dinner near home or stop along the highway.

“If we leave now, we’ll miss traffic,” Evan said.

“And get hungry in forty minutes,” Maya replied.

They compromised by stopping at a sandwich shop on the edge of town. Maya ordered turkey; Evan changed his mind twice before choosing grilled vegetables. Back in the car, she drove while he managed the music and unwrapped their sandwiches.

As the apartment buildings gave way to fields, rain began tapping lightly against the windshield.

“Good call on the jackets,” Maya said.

Evan nodded, then reached into the back seat. His expression changed.

“What?”

“I left them by the front door.”

Maya sighed, but she was laughing. At the next gas station, they bought two cheap plastic ponchos and switched drivers. By sunset, they were back on the road, eating chips and discussing whether the hike could wait until Sunday.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and found Daniel standing in the kitchen with two reusable grocery bags.

“I thought we were packing,” she said.

“We are. But if we leave without snacks, you’ll make us stop at the first gas station.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

They had decided on a weekend in Shenandoah after three weeks of comparing hotel prices, weather forecasts, and driving times. It was only two hours from their apartment outside Washington, D.C., but they had not taken a trip together since the previous summer.

Maya checked the list on her phone while Daniel opened the refrigerator. They packed apples, cheese, sparkling water, and the leftover pasta they planned to eat before leaving. Daniel wanted to bring the large cooler. Maya argued that the small one would fit better behind the passenger seat.

“We’re gone for two nights,” she said. “Not crossing the country.”

He agreed and returned the large cooler to the closet.

Upstairs, they divided the remaining tasks. Maya packed clothes and hiking socks while Daniel filled the car with gas and checked the tire pressure. When he came back, she was sitting on the floor beside an open duffel bag, holding two jackets.

“Rain jacket,” he said.

“But the blue one looks better.”

“The blue one absorbs water.”

She sighed and packed both.

By six, they were carrying bags down to the parking lot. Daniel arranged everything in the trunk, then realized Maya’s hiking boots were still by the apartment door. She went back for them while he programmed the hotel address into his phone.

Traffic was heavy near the highway entrance. Maya unwrapped a granola bar and broke it in half, handing him a piece. Daniel turned down the radio as they discussed whether to stop for dinner or eat the pasta at the hotel.

“Let’s see how hungry we are in an hour,” Maya said.

Daniel nodded. The city buildings thinned behind them, and the road opened toward the mountains.


By Friday afternoon, Maya had already checked the weather three times. Rain was expected in Portland, Maine, on Saturday morning, but the forecast promised clear skies by lunch.

“We can still walk by the water,” she said, folding a blue sweater into her overnight bag.

Evan stood in the bedroom doorway holding two pairs of shoes. “Boots or sneakers?”

“For you?”

“No, for the hotel manager.”

She looked up. “Sneakers. We’re going for one night.”

They had lived together in a small apartment outside Boston for nearly two years, long enough to know their travel habits. Maya packed too much. Evan forgot chargers. Before they left, she pointed to his phone cable on the kitchen counter, and he silently added it to his backpack.

Their plan was simple: drive north after work, eat somewhere near the hotel, and spend Saturday exploring before returning home Sunday morning. Evan wanted to visit a used bookstore. Maya wanted seafood and a view of the harbor. They agreed to do both, provided they could find parking.

At six, they carried their bags downstairs. Maya locked the apartment while Evan went back to check the stove, even though neither of them had cooked that day.

Traffic was heavy leaving the city. Maya drove first, tapping the steering wheel while Evan searched for dinner options on his phone.

“This place has lobster rolls,” he said.

“Too expensive.”

“This one has pizza.”

“We can get pizza at home.”

He scrolled again. “Thai?”

She considered it. “Save it.”

By the time they crossed into New Hampshire, the sky had darkened and both of them were hungry. They stopped at a highway rest area for coffee and shared a bag of pretzels in the car.

It began raining near the Maine border. Evan turned on the wipers and took over driving while Maya adjusted the hotel reservation on her phone.

“Late arrival confirmed,” she said.

“Good. Bookstore tomorrow?”

“After breakfast.”

“And the harbor?”

“If it stops raining.”

He nodded. It wasn’t an ambitious trip, but as the highway signs counted down the miles to Portland, their workweek finally began to feel over.


On Friday afternoon, Lena closed her laptop and called toward the bedroom, “If we leave by six, we might miss the worst of the traffic.”

Marcus emerged carrying two sweatshirts and a phone charger. They had lived together in a small apartment outside Baltimore for three years, long enough to know that “leave by six” usually meant six-thirty.

“Blue Ridge or the beach?” he asked. “Last chance to change your mind.”

Lena checked the weather on her phone. Rain on the coast, cool and clear in the mountains. “Blue Ridge. But I’m not hiking eight miles again.”

“That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

They had booked a modest cabin near Luray for two nights, using a discount code Lena found through work. Marcus packed the car while she filled a tote bag with granola bars, apples, and the half-empty bag of pretzels from the pantry. They debated bringing the cast-iron skillet, then decided the cabin probably had a pan.

Before leaving, Marcus walked back upstairs to check whether he had locked the balcony door. Lena waited in the car, adjusting the route to avoid a crash on the interstate. When he returned, she handed him her phone.

“Can you pick a place for dinner? Nothing fancy.”

He chose a diner forty minutes away because its reviews mentioned homemade pie. Lena drove the first stretch, tapping the steering wheel while Marcus managed the music and read directions aloud.

At the diner, they split a turkey club and ordered separate slices of pie—apple for Lena, chocolate cream for Marcus. They talked about Saturday: a short trail before lunch, then the antique stores in town. Marcus wanted to visit a nearby cave, but the ticket price made them hesitate.

“We’ll decide tomorrow,” Lena said.

By the time they reached the cabin, it was dark. Marcus found the key in a lockbox while Lena used her phone as a flashlight. Inside, the place smelled faintly of pine cleaner. They unpacked, turned up the heat, and stood together at the window, looking at the black outline of the hills.

“Worth the traffic?” Marcus asked.

“So far,” Lena said, smiling.


On Friday evening, Maya stood in the kitchen comparing two weather apps while Daniel carried grocery bags in from the car.

“One says rain all day Saturday,” she said. “The other says only in the afternoon.”

Daniel set the bags on the counter. “Then we hike in the morning and find something indoors after lunch.”

They had been talking about visiting the Blue Ridge Mountains for months, but work, bills, and family obligations kept getting in the way. Now they had reserved a small cabin two hours from their apartment in Richmond. It was only for two nights, but Maya had made a detailed packing list anyway.

Daniel unpacked the groceries while she read it aloud.

“Coffee, rain jackets, phone chargers, hiking shoes—”

“Bug spray,” he added.

“In October?”

“There are always bugs.”

They compromised by bringing a small bottle from the hall closet. For dinner, they made sandwiches so they would not leave dirty dishes behind. Daniel filled the car with gas while Maya checked the cabin confirmation and downloaded directions in case they lost service.

By eight the next morning, they were on Interstate 64. Maya drove first, tapping the steering wheel to an old playlist they had made when they started dating. Daniel handled navigation and passed her coffee from a travel mug.

Forty minutes outside the city, he noticed the fuel gauge.

“I thought you filled the tank.”

“I did,” he said, leaning closer. “That gauge has been acting weird.”

They stopped at a gas station to be safe. Maya bought two bananas and a bag of pretzels while Daniel checked the tire pressure. When they returned to the road, light rain began spotting the windshield.

“So much for the morning hike,” Maya said.

Daniel looked at the map. “There’s a small museum near the cabin.”

She nodded. “Museum first, hike if it clears?”

“Deal.”

They reached the cabin just before noon. Together they carried in their bags, opened the curtains, and tested the heater. Outside, the rain softened to a mist, and the mountains appeared behind the trees.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Ben, who was standing over an open suitcase.

“You know we’re only going for two nights,” she said.

Ben held up two sweatshirts. “The gray one is warmer, but the blue one looks better.”

“It’s a cabin in West Virginia. The trees won’t care.”

He packed both.

They had been dating for four years and living together in Arlington, Virginia, for eighteen months. Weekend trips were usually Maya’s idea, but Ben handled the details. He had reserved the cabin, checked the weather, and downloaded a hiking map in case they lost cell service. Maya had chosen the trails and made a list of places to stop for coffee.

Before leaving, they moved through the apartment checking small things. Ben took out the trash while Maya filled the cat’s automatic feeder. Their neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, had agreed to check on him Saturday evening.

“Did you unplug the space heater?” Ben asked.

Maya pointed to the cord lying on the floor. “Did you lock the balcony door?”

He checked it again anyway.

By six, they were in the car. Traffic on Interstate 66 crawled, and rain began tapping against the windshield. Maya drove first while Ben searched for somewhere to eat. They rejected a crowded barbecue restaurant and a diner with poor reviews, finally choosing sandwiches from a gas station.

“This is not the charming start I imagined,” Maya said, unwrapping her turkey sandwich.

Ben opened a bag of chips. “It’s authentic.”

After dark, they switched drivers at a rest area. Maya adjusted the passenger seat and read the cabin owner’s instructions aloud. The key was in a lockbox, firewood was stacked behind the shed, and they should not leave food outside because of bears.

When they reached the narrow gravel road, Ben slowed down. Maya leaned forward, watching for the mailbox number.

“There,” she said, pointing.

The cabin was smaller than the photos suggested, but warm light shone from the porch. Ben carried in the suitcase while Maya unlocked the door. Inside, they found a clean kitchen, a worn sofa, and a note welcoming them.

Maya smiled. “Still glad you packed both sweatshirts?”

Ben handed her the gray one. “I packed this one for you.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and called toward the kitchen, “If we leave by six, we can miss most of the traffic.”

Ethan looked up from packing sandwiches into a cooler. “That’s what you said last time, and we left at seven-thirty.”

They had planned a weekend trip to a small lake town three hours away. Nothing elaborate—two nights in a rented cabin, a hiking trail on Saturday, and breakfast at a diner Maya had found online. After four years together and two years sharing an apartment in Columbus, they knew that even simple trips required negotiation.

Maya carried their duffel bag into the living room. “Did you pack your rain jacket?”

“The forecast says sunny.”

“It also said that on our camping trip.”

Ethan sighed, then went to the hall closet. “Fine. But I’m not bringing hiking boots. They take up half the trunk.”

While he searched for the jacket, Maya checked the cabin reservation and directions. She preferred having a plan; Ethan preferred deciding things once they arrived. They compromised by reserving dinner for Saturday but leaving lunch open.

At six-fifteen, they carried everything downstairs. Ethan loaded the cooler while Maya locked the apartment and tested the door twice.

“Do you have the keys?” she asked.

He held them up. “Car and cabin.”

“And your wallet?”

He patted his pocket, paused, and frowned. “Upstairs.”

Maya leaned against the car, trying not to smile. “Good thing we left early.”

Ten minutes later, they pulled onto the highway. Traffic was slow but moving. Ethan drove first, and Maya connected her phone to the speakers. They disagreed briefly over music, settled on an old playlist they both liked, and split one of the sandwiches before they had even left the city.

As the buildings thinned and the sky turned orange, Maya lowered her window. Ethan reached across the console and squeezed her hand.

“Still think we overpacked?” she asked.

“Ask me when it rains,” he said.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Ben, who was standing over an open duffel bag.

“You packed three sweatshirts,” she said.

“It might get cold.”

“We’re going to Richmond, not the Arctic.”

Ben removed one sweatshirt, considered the remaining two, and put the gray one back in the closet. They had decided on the trip earlier that week after realizing they had no plans for the long weekend. Richmond was only two hours away, and Maya had found a small hotel near the river with free parking.

“Did you make the reservation?” Ben asked.

Maya held up her phone. “Hotel, yes. Dinner, no. I thought we could decide when we get there.”

Ben frowned slightly. He preferred knowing where they would eat, especially on a Saturday night, but he also knew Maya disliked planning every hour. He searched for restaurants while she packed toiletries.

“What about this place?” he asked. “Southern food, a few blocks from the hotel.”

“Do they have vegetarian options?”

He scrolled through the menu. “Mac and cheese. Collard greens. Maybe a mushroom sandwich.”

“Book it,” she said.

The next morning, they carried their bags down to the parking lot. Maya drove first because Ben had stayed up late finishing laundry. Before they reached the highway, she stopped at a gas station.

“We have half a tank,” Ben said.

“I don’t want to think about gas later.”

While Maya filled the car, Ben went inside and returned with coffee, sparkling water, and two bags of chips.

“We packed snacks,” she reminded him.

“These are road snacks.”

Traffic was light once they left the suburbs. Ben connected his phone to the car stereo and chose a playlist they both liked. After twenty minutes, Maya lowered the volume.

“Can you check the weather?”

“Rain after three,” he said.

They exchanged a look. Their plan had been to walk along the river before checking in.

“We’ll do that first,” Maya decided.

Ben opened the map and searched for parking near the trail. “There’s a garage two blocks away.”

“Perfect.”

They continued south, drinking coffee and discussing whether they had remembered to lock the apartment door.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and called toward the kitchen, “If we leave by six, we might miss the worst of the traffic.”

Ethan leaned around the doorway, holding two cans of sparkling water. “That depends. Are we actually leaving by six, or are we saying six and leaving at seven-thirty?”

Maya laughed and took one of the cans. They had lived together in Columbus for nearly three years, long enough to know that packing for a weekend could somehow fill an entire evening.

Their plan was simple: drive to Hocking Hills, stay two nights in a small rental cabin, hike on Saturday, and return Sunday afternoon. Maya had reserved the cabin, while Ethan had chosen two trails and downloaded the maps in case they lost cell service.

They packed in the bedroom, negotiating what counted as necessary. Maya added an extra sweater after checking the forecast. Ethan removed one of the three pairs of shoes she had placed by the duffel bag.

“What if it rains?” she asked.

“Then you wear the waterproof ones.”

“What if we go somewhere nice for dinner?”

Ethan glanced at his hiking boots. “It’s a town with one diner.”

She put the shoes back anyway.

Before leaving, they filled the cat’s food dispenser and gave their spare key to their neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez. Ethan carried the bags downstairs while Maya checked the stove twice and made sure the windows were locked.

At 6:18, they pulled away from the apartment. Maya drove first, and Ethan handled navigation. Ten minutes later, he asked whether she had packed the phone chargers.

She stared straight ahead. “I thought you did.”

They stopped at a pharmacy for chargers, trail snacks, and the sunscreen neither of them remembered owning. By the time they reached the highway, the sky was turning pink.

Ethan opened a bag of pretzels and held it toward her.

“Weekend officially started?” he asked.

Maya took one and turned up the radio. “Now it has.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at the half-packed duffel bag on the couch. “Did you put the phone chargers in there?”

Ethan glanced up from the weather forecast on his tablet. “I put mine in. I thought you had yours.”

“That means no,” she said, smiling as she walked toward the bedroom.

They had been living together in Columbus for two years, but packing for even a short trip still revealed their different habits. Maya made lists. Ethan relied on remembering things at the last possible moment. For their weekend in Louisville, she had booked the hotel and chosen two restaurants. He had mapped a scenic route and found a used-record store near their hotel.

Rain was expected Saturday morning, so they decided to skip the riverside bike rental. Ethan suggested visiting the history museum instead. Maya checked the admission price, then added it to the notes on her phone.

“Do we need reservations?” he asked.

“Not for the museum. We do for dinner.”

While Maya packed sweaters, Ethan went downstairs to move their car from street parking to the garage. He returned carrying two reusable water bottles and a crumpled umbrella he had found in the trunk.

By six, they were ready to leave. Maya locked the windows and adjusted the thermostat. Ethan took out the trash, then stood in the hallway patting his pockets.

“Keys, wallet, phone,” he said.

“Hotel confirmation?”

“On your phone.”

“Chargers?”

He opened the duffel bag and showed her both cables.

Traffic was heavy south of the city. They stopped at a gas station for coffee and switched drivers after an hour. Maya drove while Ethan searched for a podcast they could agree on. They rejected true crime, politics, and a long interview about baseball before choosing a comedy show.

As the sky darkened, Ethan read the hotel’s parking instructions aloud. Maya followed the exit signs and said, “Tomorrow, museum first?”

“Museum, lunch, record store.”

“And if it stops raining?”

He looked out at the wet highway. “Then we change the plan.”

She nodded. For a two-day trip, that felt like enough of one.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and called down the hallway, “If we leave by six, we can miss some traffic.”

Evan appeared from the bedroom holding two shirts. “Blue or gray?”

“For a weekend in Asheville?”

“It’s supposed to rain.”

“That doesn’t explain why you need help choosing a shirt.”

He smiled and packed both.

They had lived together in Charlotte for three years, but even short trips required negotiation. Maya liked reservations, printed confirmations, and backup plans. Evan preferred to choose a restaurant when they got hungry and a hiking trail when they reached the mountains.

In the kitchen, Maya filled a small cooler with seltzer, apples, and the cheese they needed to use before Monday. Evan checked the weather and announced that Saturday morning looked clear.

“Then we hike before breakfast,” he said.

“After breakfast,” Maya corrected. “I’m not climbing anything without coffee.”

They agreed to stop at a café near the trailhead.

At five forty-five, Evan carried their bags to the car while Maya walked through the apartment checking windows and unplugging the space heater. She found him downstairs rearranging the trunk around an emergency kit, two folding chairs, and a bag of potting soil he had forgotten to remove.

“We’re gone two nights,” she said.

“The chairs might be useful.”

“The potting soil won’t be.”

He took it back upstairs.

By six fifteen, they were on Interstate 85. Maya drove first, and Evan handled the music and navigation. Twenty minutes later, traffic slowed to a crawl near Gastonia.

“We should’ve taken the back roads,” Evan said.

“You said the highway was faster.”

“I was younger then.”

Maya laughed and handed him her phone. “Find dinner somewhere past the traffic.”

He chose a barbecue place with outdoor tables, and she approved after checking the reviews. As the skyline disappeared behind them, rain tapped lightly against the windshield. Evan opened the cooler, passed her a seltzer, and adjusted the route.

Their trip had begun late, as usual, but they were finally moving west.


By Friday afternoon, Lena had checked the weather three times. Rain was expected in Philadelphia on Sunday, but Saturday looked clear enough for walking.

“We should leave by seven,” she said, standing in the kitchen with her phone in one hand and a grocery list in the other.

Marcus looked up from the table, where he was comparing hotel prices. “Seven in the morning?”

“If we leave at nine, we’ll spend half the day in traffic.”

He sighed, but booked a small hotel near Rittenhouse Square. They had been living together in Maryland for two years, long enough for Lena to know that Marcus disliked early departures and for Marcus to know that she would pack snacks even for a two-hour drive.

After dinner, they divided the chores. Marcus filled the car with gas and checked the tire pressure while Lena watered the plants and folded clothes into a shared duffel bag. When he returned, he added a second pair of shoes.

“We’re going for two nights,” she said.

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re enormous.”

He placed them in the trunk anyway.

At 6:45 the next morning, Marcus made coffee while Lena carried their bags downstairs. She had packed apples, crackers, and two breakfast sandwiches wrapped in foil. He brought travel mugs and a phone charger, which she had forgotten.

They were on the highway by 7:12. Lena drove first, choosing a public radio station, while Marcus adjusted the navigation and unwrapped the sandwiches. Forty minutes later, they disagreed about whether to stop at a rest area.

“We just left,” Lena said.

“I drank two cups of coffee.”

She took the next exit.

By late morning, they reached the hotel, but their room was not ready. Rather than wait in the lobby, Marcus suggested walking to the market for lunch. Lena wanted to leave the duffel with the front desk first.

Outside, the air was cool and bright. Marcus reached for her hand as they crossed the street.

“So,” he said, “museum or historic district?”

“Lunch,” Lena replied. “Then we decide.”

That seemed reasonable to both of them.


By Friday afternoon, Maya had checked the weather three times. Rain was expected in Portland, Maine, but only on Sunday.

“We can still walk by the water Saturday,” she said, folding two sweaters into the small suitcase on their bed.

Ethan stood in the doorway holding a phone charger. “Do you want the blue raincoat or the green one?”

“The green one actually keeps out rain.”

“The blue one looks better.”

Maya glanced at him. “Then bring both.”

They had lived together for almost two years in a one-bedroom apartment outside Boston, but packing still revealed their different habits. Maya made lists. Ethan wandered from room to room, remembering things only when he saw them. By six, she had packed clothes, toiletries, and a paperback. He had contributed the charger, a bag of trail mix, and three pairs of socks.

They planned to leave at seven Saturday morning. At seven-fifteen, Ethan was making coffee while Maya searched for the reservation confirmation.

“I emailed it to you,” he said.

“You emailed me the restaurant reservation.”

“Oh.” He opened his laptop. “The hotel is under my name.”

Maya stopped searching. “That would have been useful information.”

They laughed, though she was still slightly annoyed.

Before leaving, they debated breakfast. Ethan wanted to stop at a diner near the highway. Maya preferred to avoid traffic and eat the bananas on the counter. They compromised by bringing the bananas and agreeing to stop if they saw somewhere uncrowded.

Ethan carried the suitcase downstairs while Maya checked the windows and turned down the thermostat. In the parking lot, she took the driver’s seat because he had stayed up late finishing work.

Twenty minutes north, they passed a small diner with only four cars outside.

“Turn around?” Ethan asked.

Maya checked the clock. They had no schedule beyond a two o’clock hotel check-in.

“Turn around,” she said.

Inside, they ordered eggs, toast, and one blueberry pancake to share. Their weekend had officially begun, not with the ocean or the hotel, but with Ethan sliding the syrup toward Maya before she had to ask.


By Friday afternoon, Maya had already packed two sweaters, hiking shoes, and three books she knew she would not read. She left the duffel bag open on the bed while she checked the weather again.

“Forty percent chance of rain,” she called.

From the kitchen, Daniel said, “That means sixty percent chance of no rain.”

“That is not how packing works.”

They were driving from Columbus to a small cabin in Hocking Hills, only two hours away, but they had discussed the trip all week as if they were crossing the country. Maya wanted to leave before rush hour. Daniel wanted to wait until traffic thinned out. They compromised by planning to leave at six, which satisfied neither of them.

Daniel packed groceries into a cooler: eggs, coffee, sandwich meat, and the expensive cheese Maya had bought for the occasion. He held up a jar of mustard.

“Do we need this?”

“You always ask that, and then you always want mustard.”

He put it in the cooler.

At six fifteen, they carried their bags downstairs. Maya locked the apartment, then unlocked it to make sure she had turned off her hair straightener. Daniel waited in the hallway without commenting. He had once made them return from the highway to check the stove.

They stopped for gas on the edge of town. While Daniel filled the tank, Maya went inside and returned with two bottles of water and a bag of pretzels.

“I thought we packed snacks,” he said.

“These are driving snacks.”

He accepted this distinction and opened the bag before they reached the interstate.

Traffic moved slowly at first. Maya drove while Daniel managed the directions and changed the music whenever an advertisement came on. As the buildings gave way to dark fields, they talked about whether to hike in the rain and where they might eat Saturday night.

An hour later, Daniel noticed the cooler was still in the trunk.

“The cheese will be fine,” Maya said.

“I’m more worried about the eggs.”

They both laughed, and the weekend finally began to feel like a trip.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and called across the apartment. “If we leave by six, we can miss the worst of the traffic.”

Evan looked up from the weather forecast on his phone. “It’s supposed to rain tonight. Maybe we should wait until morning.”

They had been planning a weekend in the Blue Ridge Mountains for weeks, but neither had packed. Their cat, Pepper, sat inside the open suitcase as if hoping to come along.

Maya lifted him out. “Morning means we’ll spend half the day driving. Let’s go tonight and take it slow.”

Evan agreed, then went to fill Pepper’s automatic feeder while Maya folded two sweaters and added them to the suitcase. They debated whether to bring hiking boots. The trails would probably be muddy, Evan said. Maya pointed out that leaving them behind would guarantee they wanted them.

“Fine,” he said. “But they go in your side of the trunk.”

Before leaving, they checked the windows, took out the trash, and texted their neighbor, Alicia, who had promised to check on Pepper. Evan carried the bags downstairs while Maya booked a roadside motel for the night. The cabin they had rented was still three hours away, and she didn’t want them arriving after midnight.

They stopped for gas outside the city. Evan bought coffee and a bag of pretzels, while Maya cleaned the windshield with the squeegee. Rain began tapping against the roof as they merged onto the interstate.

An hour later, traffic slowed behind an accident. Maya studied the map and suggested a state highway that added ten miles but avoided the backup. Evan hesitated, then took the exit.

The road was dark and quiet, lined with wet trees. They argued briefly over the music—his podcast or her playlist—and compromised by listening to neither for a while.

At the motel, they carried their bags through the rain and discovered they had forgotten toothpaste.

“There’s always something,” Maya said.

Evan held up the pretzels. “At least we remembered dinner.”

She laughed, and they went back out to find a pharmacy.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop at five and found Daniel standing in the kitchen with two reusable grocery bags.

“I thought we were leaving right after work,” she said.

“We are. These are for snacks.”

Maya looked inside. Daniel had packed apples, crackers, almonds, and six cans of sparkling water. “We’re going to a hotel, not crossing the desert.”

“Hotel snacks are expensive.”

They had been living together in Columbus for almost three years, long enough for Maya to expect Daniel’s overpacking and for Daniel to know she would forget her phone charger. He held one up.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it.

Their plan was to drive to Hocking Hills, spend two nights at a small lodge, and hike on Saturday. It was only an hour away, but neither of them had been out of the city in months.

Maya carried their duffel bag to the car while Daniel checked the weather again. Rain was predicted for Sunday morning.

“Should we come back Saturday night?” he asked.

“We already paid for two nights.”

“We could still leave early.”

“Let’s decide Sunday.”

Traffic was slow near the interstate. Maya drove while Daniel searched for a place to eat. He suggested a barbecue restaurant; she preferred the diner across the road.

“The diner has pie,” she said.

“That’s a strong argument.”

They stopped at the diner and split a plate of fries. Daniel ordered meatloaf, and Maya got a grilled cheese sandwich. While they ate, they discussed the next morning’s hike. Maya wanted the longer trail, but Daniel pointed out that neither of them had exercised much lately.

“Medium trail,” she proposed.

“With coffee first.”

“Obviously.”

By the time they reached the lodge, it was dark. Daniel carried the bags inside, and Maya checked them in. Their room had a small balcony facing the woods. They stepped outside together, listening to insects and distant traffic.

“It’s quieter than home,” Daniel said.

Maya leaned against the railing. “Tomorrow, you’re driving.”

He nodded. “And you’re carrying the snacks.”

“That seems fair.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and called toward the kitchen, “If we leave by six, we can miss some traffic.”

Ben looked up from packing sandwiches. “That’s what you said last time, and then you spent forty minutes choosing shoes.”

“I’m bringing one pair,” she said, glancing at the sneakers by the door. “Maybe two.”

They had been living together in Columbus for three years, long enough to know how their weekend trips usually began: optimistic schedules, forgotten chargers, and a minor disagreement about directions. This time they were driving to a cabin near Hocking Hills, only an hour away, for two nights.

Ben put the sandwiches into a cooler while Maya checked the weather. Rain Saturday morning, clear by afternoon. They debated whether to cancel their guided kayak reservation. Ben wanted to wait and see; Maya preferred avoiding the cancellation fee.

“Let’s call,” she suggested.

The outfitter said they could decide by nine the next morning. Satisfied, Maya added rain jackets to her bag. Ben carried the cooler to the car, then came back for the coffee thermos he had left on the counter.

At 6:12, they locked the apartment. Maya drove first because Ben had handled most of the packing. At the first traffic light, he asked, “Did you bring the cabin confirmation?”

“It’s on my phone.”

“Does your phone have enough battery?”

She gave him a look, then pointed to the charging cable already plugged into the dashboard.

They stopped at a grocery store outside Lancaster for eggs, firewood, and a bottle of wine. Ben chose an expensive local red; Maya replaced it with a cheaper one and added chocolate.

By the time they reached the cabin, it was dark and drizzling. Ben struggled with the lockbox while Maya held her phone flashlight over his shoulder. Inside, the place smelled faintly of pine cleaner.

They unpacked together, turned up the heat, and ate their sandwiches at the small wooden table.

“So,” Ben said, listening to the rain on the roof, “kayaking?”

Maya smiled. “Ask me after coffee.”


On Friday afternoon, Lena closed her laptop at five and found Marcus standing in the kitchen, studying two weather apps on his phone.

“One says rain,” he said. “The other says partly cloudy.”

“So it’ll probably do both.”

They had been talking for weeks about taking a short trip, but work, laundry, and the cost of hotels kept getting in the way. This time they had reserved a small cabin near Shenandoah National Park, two hours from their apartment in northern Virginia.

Lena opened the refrigerator. “Did you buy sandwich stuff?”

Marcus pointed to a grocery bag on the counter. He had remembered bread and turkey but forgotten mustard. Lena added the half-empty bottle from the refrigerator to their cooler, along with apples, sparkling water, and two yogurts.

Upstairs, they packed differently. Marcus rolled his clothes tightly and fit everything into a backpack. Lena brought an extra sweater, hiking shoes, and a paperback she suspected she would not open. When Marcus suggested leaving immediately, she reminded him that the car needed gas.

They carried their bags downstairs together. In the parking lot, Lena noticed the right rear tire looked low. Marcus crouched beside it, pressed his thumb against the rubber, then drove slowly to the gas station at the corner. While he filled the tank, she used the air pump and checked the pressure twice.

By six-thirty, traffic had thickened. Lena drove first while Marcus handled directions and searched for a place to eat. They rejected a crowded chain restaurant and chose a small diner just off the highway.

Over grilled cheese and tomato soup, they discussed Saturday’s plan. Marcus wanted the longer trail; Lena preferred a shorter hike if it rained. They agreed to decide after breakfast.

When they returned to the car, the sky was turning pink behind the shopping centers. Marcus connected Lena’s phone to the stereo, and she chose an old playlist they both knew. They still had ninety minutes to go, but with the cooler packed, the tire steady, and the city thinning behind them, the trip finally felt underway.


On Friday afternoon, Lena closed her laptop and found Marcus standing in the kitchen with two reusable grocery bags.

“Why are you holding those?” she asked.

“You said we needed snacks.”

“For a two-hour drive?”

Marcus looked into one bag. “People get hungry.”

They had decided to spend the weekend in a small town in western Massachusetts, mostly because the hotel was affordable and allowed late check-in. They weren’t celebrating anything. Both had been working long weeks, and Lena wanted to see trees instead of apartment buildings.

While Marcus packed apples, crackers, and an unreasonable number of granola bars, Lena checked the weather. Rain Saturday morning, clear by afternoon. She took their hiking shoes out of the closet, then put them back when she saw how muddy they still were from spring.

“We can bring sneakers,” she said. “If the trail is bad, we’ll do something else.”

Marcus nodded. He preferred flexible plans. Lena preferred plans with backup plans, which was why she had already saved the addresses of a used bookstore and a local history museum.

They carried their duffel bags down three flights of stairs and loaded Marcus’s aging Honda. Before leaving, they stood beside the car debating whether they had locked the apartment.

“I watched you lock it,” Marcus said.

“Did you?”

“I think so.”

They went back upstairs together.

By the time they reached the highway, traffic had thickened. Lena drove first while Marcus handled directions and music. He suggested stopping for dinner; she wanted to get beyond the city before dark. They compromised on coffee at a service plaza and ate crackers in the parking lot.

An hour later, rain began tapping the windshield. Marcus lowered the music and read the hotel’s check-in instructions aloud. Lena adjusted the wipers and smiled.

“This counts as getting away, right?”

Marcus opened another granola bar. “We’re forty miles from home and already eating vacation snacks.”

She laughed and took the next exit toward the mountains.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at the half-packed duffel bag on the couch. “Did you put in the rain jackets?”

Ethan paused beside the kitchen counter, where he was dividing trail mix into plastic bags. “I thought you did.”

They stared at each other, then laughed. It was typical of their trips: Maya made lists, Ethan assumed the lists had somehow completed themselves.

They were leaving their apartment in Columbus for a weekend in Hocking Hills, less than two hours away. They had considered going farther, but neither wanted to spend most of Saturday in the car. Besides, the forecast promised cool weather and only a chance of rain.

Maya found the jackets in the hall closet while Ethan carried their small cooler downstairs. At the car, they debated whether to stop for gas immediately or wait until morning.

“Now,” Maya said. “I don’t want to start the day at a gas station.”

“Fair,” Ethan replied, sliding the cooler behind the passenger seat.

Traffic was heavier than expected. Maya drove while Ethan handled the music and navigation. When the highway slowed to a crawl, he suggested taking a county road, but she preferred to stay on the route they knew.

“We’re not in a hurry,” she reminded him.

They reached their rented cabin just before dark. It was smaller than the photos had made it look, but clean, with a porch facing a line of bare trees. Ethan brought in the bags while Maya checked the kitchen and discovered there was no coffee.

“That’s an emergency,” he said.

They drove ten minutes to a small grocery store, where they bought coffee, eggs, bread, and a frozen pizza. Back at the cabin, Ethan turned on the oven while Maya unfolded the trail map at the table.

“Short hike first?” she asked, pointing to a loop near Old Man’s Cave.

“Short hike, then lunch,” he agreed.

Outside, rain began tapping against the porch roof. Maya hung their jackets by the door, ready for morning.


By Friday evening, Lena had packed three sweaters for a two-night trip to Asheville. Mark stood beside the bed, holding up each one.

“You know it’s supposed to be sixty-five degrees, right?”

“It gets cold at night.”

“We’re staying in a hotel, not camping.”

Lena took back the gray sweater and folded it into her bag anyway. Mark shrugged and went to check whether they had unplugged the coffee maker. They had lived together in their Richmond apartment for nearly two years, long enough to know that Lena overpacked and Mark checked appliances twice.

Their plan was simple: leave early Saturday, drive four hours, hike before checking into the hotel, then find somewhere casual for dinner. But “early” became a negotiation. Mark wanted to be on the road by seven. Lena pointed out that the bakery downstairs did not open until seven-thirty.

“We can get breakfast on the highway,” he said.

“And eat in the car?”

“That’s what cup holders are for.”

They compromised on seven-forty-five.

The next morning, Mark loaded their bags while Lena filled two travel mugs and bought blueberry muffins. Ten minutes outside the city, she realized she had left her sunglasses on the kitchen table.

“We can turn around,” Mark offered, though his hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

“No, I’ll buy cheap ones,” she said. “Keep going.”

Traffic was light, and Lena chose the music. Mark drove until they stopped for gas near Charlottesville. While he filled the tank, she studied the weather forecast.

“Rain at noon,” she said when he got back in.

Mark looked toward the mountains. “So we do the shorter trail.”

“And check in early if we get soaked.”

By late morning, they reached the trailhead under a cloudy sky. Lena tied her jacket around her waist while Mark locked the car.

“Did you check it?” she asked.

He pulled the handle once, then again.

Lena smiled. “Good. I’d hate for someone to steal my emergency sweaters.”

They started up the trail together, carrying one shared bottle of water and the last blueberry muffin.


By Friday afternoon, Lena had checked the weather in Portland three times. Each forecast showed the same thing: rain Saturday morning, clouds in the afternoon, and a chilly but clear Sunday.

“I’m bringing the blue jacket,” she said, folding it into her duffel bag.

Marcus stood in the bedroom doorway holding two pairs of shoes. “Hiking boots or sneakers?”

“We’re walking around town, not climbing a mountain.”

“You said there was a trail near the hotel.”

“A paved trail.”

He dropped the boots back in the closet. They had lived together in Sacramento for two years, long enough for Lena to know he would still pack too much and for Marcus to know she would forget a phone charger.

Their flight left at 7:10 the next morning. After dinner, they compared rideshare prices with the cost of airport parking. Marcus argued that parking would be easier. Lena pointed out that three days in the garage cost almost as much as dinner at the seafood restaurant she wanted to try.

“Rideshare,” he agreed. “But you’re ordering it.”

At five Saturday morning, Lena’s alarm rang. Marcus made coffee while she searched for the charger she had, as predicted, left beside the couch. They split a bagel, checked the apartment windows, and debated whether to leave a lamp on.

In the car, Marcus realized he had forgotten his sunglasses. Lena reminded him it was supposed to rain.

At the airport, they moved through security faster than expected and found seats near their gate. Marcus bought another coffee, and Lena opened the shared itinerary on her phone.

“Saturday market first?” she asked.

“If we can leave our bags at the hotel.”

“And the garden Sunday morning?”

Marcus nodded. “As long as we don’t schedule every minute.”

She smiled and deleted one of the restaurant reservations. When boarding began, he took her duffel and she carried the coffees. Outside the terminal windows, dawn was just beginning to brighten the runway.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and called across the apartment, “If we leave by six, we can miss the worst of the traffic.”

Evan appeared from the bedroom carrying two jackets. “Warm one or light one?”

She checked the weather on her phone. Their destination, a small town in the Blue Ridge Mountains, was supposed to be cool at night but sunny on Saturday. “Bring both. We’ll regret it if we don’t.”

They had been living together in Richmond for three years, long enough to know that packing for a two-night trip could still turn into a minor negotiation. Maya preferred lists and backup plans. Evan believed most forgotten items could be purchased at a gas station.

While he loaded their duffel bags into the hatchback, Maya filled water bottles and searched the refrigerator for food that might spoil. She held up half a carton of strawberries.

“Road snack?”

“Only if you wash them,” Evan said.

“You’re driving first.”

“Then I’ll wash them.”

By six fifteen, they were finally in the car. Maya entered the address of their rented cabin while Evan adjusted the mirrors. They debated whether to take the interstate, which was faster, or the state highway, which had fewer trucks and better views.

“The highway adds twenty minutes,” Maya said.

“But we’re not in a hurry anymore.”

She considered the red traffic line on the map and selected the slower route.

They stopped outside Charlottesville for gas and sandwiches. Evan wanted to eat in the parking lot, but Maya pointed to dark clouds gathering over the hills. They compromised by eating in the car with the windows open.

Rain began during the last thirty miles. Evan slowed on the winding road, and Maya watched for the cabin’s gravel driveway. When they finally found it, both laughed at the tiny wooden sign they had passed twice.

Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of pine cleaner. Maya turned on the lamps while Evan carried in the bags. Then they stood together on the covered porch, listening to the rain.

“Worth the extra twenty minutes?” he asked.

She handed him his warm jacket. “Ask me after breakfast.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Ben, who was kneeling beside an open duffel bag.

“You packed three sweatshirts,” she said.

“The forecast keeps changing.”

“It’s two nights in Asheville, not an expedition.”

Ben removed one sweatshirt, then folded it over his arm as if he might negotiate for it later. They had been living together in Charlotte for almost two years, long enough for Maya to know he packed for every possible emergency and for Ben to know she would forget her phone charger.

“Did you reserve the hotel?” he asked.

Maya paused. “I thought you did.”

They stared at each other before both reaching for their phones. The affordable downtown hotels were full, but Ben found a small motel fifteen minutes outside the city. Maya checked the reviews while he studied the photos.

“People say it’s clean,” she said. “And there’s free coffee.”

“Sold.”

They booked the room, then discussed whether to leave that evening or early Saturday. Maya wanted to avoid morning traffic. Ben pointed out that they still needed gas and that neither of them had eaten dinner. Eventually, they decided to drive halfway, stop at a roadside hotel, and continue after breakfast.

Before leaving, Ben carried their bags downstairs while Maya filled water bottles and checked the windows. In the parking lot, she noticed the car’s rear tire looked low. Ben used the pressure gauge from the glove compartment, and they drove to a nearby gas station to add air.

By seven, they were on Interstate 85. Maya drove first, choosing an old playlist they had made when they started dating. Ben searched for somewhere to eat and read restaurant reviews aloud until she told him to pick one.

They stopped at a crowded barbecue place near Spartanburg. Over sandwiches, they agreed to skip the expensive brewery tour and spend Saturday hiking instead.

Back in the car, Ben took the wheel. Maya plugged in her phone with the charger he had quietly packed, then leaned back, watching the highway signs pass in the dark.


By six on Friday evening, Maya had packed three shirts, two pairs of jeans, and enough snacks for a week. She stood beside the open suitcase in their Columbus apartment, holding a rain jacket.

“Forecast says thirty percent,” she said.

Evan glanced up from his phone. “Which means seventy percent chance we carry it for no reason.”

Maya folded the jacket and put it in anyway. They had been living together for two years, long enough for her to know that Evan would be grateful for it if the weather turned.

Their plan was simple: drive to Pittsburgh, spend Saturday visiting a museum and walking around the Strip District, then return Sunday afternoon. They had booked a small hotel downtown, but almost everything else remained undecided.

Evan sat at the kitchen table comparing routes. “The highway is faster, but there’s construction near Wheeling.”

“Let’s leave by seven,” Maya said. “We can stop for dinner on the way.”

“At seven tonight?”

She pointed to the clock. “Tomorrow morning.”

Relieved, Evan added the hotel address to his phone. Then he went downstairs to check the car while Maya emptied old coffee cups from the cup holders and gathered chargers. When he returned, he was carrying the ice scraper they had somehow left in the trunk since February.

“Gas tank’s half full,” he said. “We should fill up tonight.”

They walked to the neighborhood station together. Evan pumped gas while Maya went inside for coffee and came back with two bottles of water and a bag of pretzels.

The next morning, they left only twenty minutes late. Maya drove first, and Evan managed the music, rejecting three playlists before choosing one they both knew. At the edge of the city, Maya realized she had forgotten her sunglasses.

“We can turn back,” Evan offered.

She considered the light traffic behind them, then shook her head. “I’ll buy cheap ones there.”

Evan opened the pretzels. “That’s the spirit of travel.”

Maya laughed and merged onto the interstate. Their apartment, errands, and unfinished laundry receded behind them as the highway opened east.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop at five and found Daniel standing in the kitchen, comparing two weather apps.

“One says rain all day Saturday,” he said. “The other says it’ll clear by noon.”

Maya opened the refrigerator and studied its nearly empty shelves. “Either way, we should leave tonight. If we wait until morning, we’ll hit traffic.”

They had been planning a weekend in Asheville for three weeks, though “planning” mostly meant reserving a small motel and saving restaurant recommendations on their phones. They lived together in a one-bedroom apartment outside Atlanta, and both wanted a break from errands, laundry, and the construction noise next door.

Daniel packed while Maya ordered sandwiches for the drive. He folded everything carefully into a duffel bag, including two sweaters she had left on the bed.

“I only need one,” she said.

“You’ll be cold.”

“I’m always cold because you set the thermostat to sixty-eight.”

They compromised by taking both sweaters and leaving behind Daniel’s extra shoes. Maya watered the basil plant, checked the windows, and texted their neighbor to ask if she could pick up any packages.

By six-thirty, they were carrying bags down to the parking lot. Daniel loaded the trunk while Maya searched the car for a charging cable. She found one under the passenger seat, tangled around an old grocery receipt.

Before they reached the highway, the fuel light came on.

“I thought you filled it up,” Maya said.

“I said I would fill it up.”

“That sounds similar, but apparently it isn’t.”

At the gas station, Daniel pumped fuel while Maya bought coffee and a bag of pretzels. When she returned, rain had begun tapping against the windshield.

They traded places after an hour. Maya drove through the darkening hills while Daniel read motel reviews aloud, skipping the alarming ones until she made him stop.

Just after ten, they pulled into the motel lot. The rain had softened to a mist. Daniel grabbed the bags, and Maya went inside to check in.

Their room was small and smelled faintly of detergent, but the bed looked comfortable. They ate their sandwiches by the window and agreed to decide about hiking in the morning.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the kitchen at Daniel, who was rinsing two travel mugs.

“If we leave by six, we’ll miss most of the traffic,” she said.

Daniel glanced at the clock. “That gives us forty minutes. Did you pack the phone chargers?”

“I packed mine.”

He smiled. “So, no.”

They had been living together in Columbus for three years, long enough to know that preparing for even a short trip required negotiation. Their plan was simple: drive to a cabin in Hocking Hills, hike Saturday morning, and come home Sunday after lunch. Still, the kitchen counter was crowded with snacks, rain jackets, and a paper map Daniel insisted on bringing.

Maya carried their duffel bag to the car while Daniel checked the weather again. The forecast had changed from clear to scattered showers.

“We should bring the boots,” he called.

“They’re muddy.”

“They’re hiking boots.”

She sighed, but fetched them from the hall closet and put them in a grocery bag. Meanwhile, Daniel loaded a small cooler with sparkling water, sandwiches, and the pasta salad Maya had made the night before.

At the gas station, they disagreed about whether to fill the tank. It was still half full, but Maya preferred not to search for gas in an unfamiliar town. Daniel gave in and pumped eight gallons while she went inside for coffee. She returned with two cups and a bag of pretzels.

“I thought we had snacks,” he said.

“These are road pretzels.”

By the time they reached the highway, the evening traffic had begun to thin. Maya drove first, adjusting the mirrors while Daniel connected his phone to the car stereo.

“No podcasts about unsolved murders,” she said.

“I was choosing music.”

“Also, nothing too sleepy.”

He selected a playlist they both liked, then opened the cabin reservation on his phone to confirm the check-in instructions. The key would be in a lockbox beside the porch.

As the city gave way to dark fields and wooded hills, rain dotted the windshield. Daniel lowered the music and read the next turn aloud. Maya switched on the wipers.

“Still glad we brought the boots?” he asked.

She nodded. “Don’t make a big thing of it.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Ben, who was kneeling beside an open duffel bag.

“You packed three sweatshirts,” she said.

“It might get cold.”

“We’re going to Richmond, not the Arctic.”

Ben removed one sweatshirt, considered the remaining two, and put the gray one back in the closet. They had decided on Richmond because it was less than two hours away and neither of them wanted to spend most of the weekend driving. Maya had reserved a small hotel near the river, while Ben had made a list of restaurants and museums on his phone.

“Did you call the hotel about parking?” he asked.

Maya paused. “I meant to.”

She called while Ben went to the kitchen to assemble snacks. The hotel clerk explained that their garage cost twenty dollars per night, but street parking was free after six. Maya thanked her and relayed the information.

“We’ll try the street first,” Ben said, placing apples, crackers, and two bottles of water in a tote bag.

They left their apartment shortly after five. In the parking lot, Maya realized she had forgotten her phone charger. Ben offered his, but they both knew his old phone used a different cable. She ran back upstairs while he checked the tire pressure and adjusted the passenger seat for her.

Traffic was heavier than expected. Maya drove the first hour, tapping the steering wheel as they crawled past an accident. Ben changed their dinner reservation from seven to eight and opened the crackers.

At a rest stop, they switched drivers. Maya bought coffee, and Ben studied the route, choosing a smaller highway that added ten minutes but avoided construction.

By the time they reached Richmond, it was dark. They found a street space two blocks from the hotel and carried their bags through a light drizzle.

“We should’ve kept the third sweatshirt,” Maya said.

Ben smiled and held the umbrella over both of them. “We can share one.”

After checking in, they left their luggage in the room and walked toward the restaurant, tired, hungry, and pleased that the weekend had finally begun.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop at five and called across the apartment. “If we leave by six, we can miss some of the traffic.”

Ethan appeared from the bedroom holding two jackets. They had lived together in Columbus for almost three years, long enough to know that “leave by six” usually meant six-thirty.

“Rain jacket or denim?” he asked.

Maya checked the weather on her phone. Their plan was to drive to Hocking Hills, stay two nights in a small cabin, and hike on Saturday. “Rain jacket. Forty percent chance tomorrow.”

Ethan folded the denim jacket over a chair. “Did you reserve a parking pass?”

She stopped scrolling. “I thought you did.”

For a moment, they stared at each other. Then Ethan picked up his phone and found the park website while Maya went to the kitchen to pack snacks. She filled a tote bag with apples, granola bars, and the bag of pretzels they had opened earlier in the week.

“We have a pass now,” Ethan said. “Nine-thirty entrance.”

“That’s earlier than I wanted.”

“You wanted the cabin with the fire pit.”

“Fair.”

They divided the remaining tasks. Ethan carried their overnight bags to the car and checked the tire pressure. Maya watered the herbs on the windowsill and texted her sister their cabin address. Before locking the apartment, she returned twice—once for her sunglasses and once to make sure the stove was off.

By six-twenty, they were on Interstate 70. Ethan drove first while Maya chose a playlist and entered the cabin address into the navigation app.

“Do we need gas?” she asked.

“Half a tank.”

“That means yes.”

He sighed, but took the next exit. At the station, Maya bought coffee for both of them and a packet of powdered doughnuts. They stood beside the car in the cool evening air, sharing one before getting back on the road.

As the city thinned into fields and wooded hills, Maya lowered the window slightly.

“This already feels like a trip,” she said.

Ethan smiled and turned up the music. “Even though we’re only ninety minutes from home?”

“Especially because of that.”


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and looked across the kitchen at Ben, who was rinsing two travel mugs.

“If we leave by six, we can miss most of the traffic,” she said.

Ben glanced at the clock. “That gives us forty minutes. Did you pack?”

“Mostly.”

He smiled. They both knew “mostly” meant her suitcase was open on the bed, surrounded by folded clothes.

They had planned a two-night trip to the mountains, only three hours from their apartment in Columbus. It was their first weekend away since moving in together six months earlier. The cabin was small, but it had a fireplace and a trail nearby. Maya had chosen it for the view; Ben had chosen the restaurant where they would eat Saturday night.

While Maya finished packing, Ben loaded the cooler with yogurt, sandwiches, and the expensive cheese they had nearly forgotten in the refrigerator. He called down the hallway to ask whether they needed hiking poles.

“No,” Maya answered, then appeared carrying her bag. “Actually, yes. It might rain.”

They checked the windows, lowered the thermostat, and debated whether to leave a lamp on. Ben said it wasted electricity. Maya said she preferred not to come home to a dark apartment. The lamp stayed on.

Once they were in the car, Maya entered the cabin’s address into her phone. The navigation app showed heavy traffic on the highway.

“We could take the state roads,” she suggested. “It adds twenty minutes.”

“But we’d be moving,” Ben said. “Let’s do that.”

They stopped at a gas station outside the city. Ben filled the tank while Maya went inside for coffee and returned with chips neither of them had planned to buy.

As the neighborhoods gave way to farms, the sky turned pink behind them. Maya opened the chips and held the bag toward Ben.

“Weekend officially started?” he asked.

She nodded. “As soon as you stop worrying about the mileage.”

Ben reset the trip counter anyway, and they continued east, laughing when the first drops of rain struck the windshield.


By Friday afternoon, Lena had checked the weather in Asheville four times. Each forecast showed the same thing: rain on Saturday, cooler temperatures on Sunday.

“We should still go,” Marcus said, folding a sweatshirt and placing it in the open suitcase on their bed. “We already paid for the hotel.”

“I’m not suggesting we cancel.” Lena stood in the doorway with two pairs of shoes. “I’m deciding whether these are practical or optimistic.”

Marcus pointed to the sneakers. “Practical. We’re going for two nights, not relocating.”

They had lived together in Charlotte for three years, long enough to recognize each other’s packing habits. Lena brought extra clothes. Marcus forgot things and bought replacements at gas stations. Before leaving, she checked for phone chargers while he filled travel mugs with coffee and carried their bags downstairs.

At the car, Marcus stopped. “Did you lock the back door?”

“You were the last one outside.”

They looked at each other. Lena sighed, handed him her coffee, and went back upstairs. When she returned, Marcus had entered the hotel address into the GPS and chosen a route that avoided the interstate.

“That adds twenty minutes,” she said.

“But it’s prettier.”

“It’ll be dark in an hour.”

He considered this, then switched routes. “Interstate it is.”

Traffic was heavy leaving the city. Lena answered a text from their neighbor, who had agreed to feed their cat, while Marcus adjusted the radio. They debated stopping for dinner but decided to wait until they reached the hotel.

Halfway there, Lena noticed the fuel light.

“How long has that been on?”

Marcus glanced at the dashboard. “Not long.”

“That isn’t a number.”

They took the next exit and found a small gas station beside a barbecue restaurant. While Marcus filled the tank, Lena studied the menu taped to the window.

“We could eat here,” she said.

Marcus smiled. “I thought we were waiting.”

“I changed my mind.”

They ordered sandwiches and ate at a picnic table under a metal awning as rain began tapping overhead. The trip had barely started, but both of them relaxed, watching cars hiss along the wet road.


On Friday afternoon, Maya closed her laptop and found Ben standing in the kitchen with two grocery bags at his feet.

“I thought we were leaving at five,” she said.

“We are. These are snacks.”

She looked inside one bag. “Six bottles of water?”

“And pretzels, apples, and those peanut butter crackers you like.”

Maya smiled. They had been living together for three years, long enough for Ben to remember her preferred road-trip snacks and for her to know he had probably forgotten something else.

“Did you pack a jacket?”

He paused. “I’ll get it.”

They were driving from Columbus to a small cabin near Hocking Hills for the weekend. It was only an hour away, but they had spent several evenings comparing rental listings, checking trail maps, and debating whether a hot tub was worth an extra sixty dollars. In the end, they chose a plain cabin with a screened porch and a firepit.

While Ben carried their duffel bags downstairs, Maya checked the apartment windows and filled the cat’s automatic feeder. Their neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, had agreed to stop in Saturday evening.

In the parking lot, they discussed who should drive. Maya disliked navigating, and Ben disliked city traffic, so Maya took the first shift. Ben connected his phone to the car stereo and opened the directions.

“Gas first,” Maya said, glancing at the gauge.

“I thought we had half a tank.”

“We have a quarter.”

At the station, Ben pumped gas while Maya bought coffee. She returned with one black coffee for him and a sweet iced coffee for herself.

By the time they reached the highway, rush-hour traffic had begun to thin. Ben lowered the music when the navigation app announced their exit.

“Do you want to hike before breakfast tomorrow,” he asked, “or sleep in?”

Maya considered it. “Short hike, late breakfast.”

“Deal.”

They turned onto a narrow road lined with bare trees. The cabin was still twenty minutes away, but the city had disappeared behind them, and the weekend finally felt as though it had started.


On Friday afternoon, Elena closed her laptop and looked across the apartment at Mark, who was kneeling beside an open duffel bag.

“You packed three sweatshirts,” she said.

“The forecast keeps changing.”

“We’re going to Baltimore for two nights, not crossing the Arctic.”

Mark removed one sweatshirt, folded it, and set it on the couch. They had lived together in Philadelphia for almost two years, long enough for Elena to know he would put it back when she wasn’t looking. She carried her toiletry bag into the bedroom and checked the weather on her phone: cool Saturday, rain Sunday.

“Keep the gray one,” she called. “And bring the umbrella.”

Their plan was simple: drive down that evening, stay at a small hotel near the harbor, visit the aquarium Saturday morning, and meet Elena’s college friend Priya for dinner. Still, they spent twenty minutes debating whether to leave immediately or wait until traffic eased.

“If we wait, we’ll get there after ten,” Mark said.

“If we leave now, we’ll spend an hour staring at brake lights.”

They compromised by ordering sandwiches, eating half at the kitchen counter, and saving the rest for later. Elena filled two travel mugs with coffee while Mark carried their bags to the car. Before locking the apartment, she went back to check the stove.

“You didn’t even use the stove,” Mark said from the hallway.

“I know.”

He waited without complaining.

By six, they were on I-95. Elena drove first, choosing a podcast they both liked. Mark handled navigation and read hotel reviews aloud until she asked him to stop.

Near Wilmington, rain began tapping the windshield. They pulled into a gas station, switched drivers, and bought a bag of pretzels they hadn’t planned on.

When they finally reached the hotel, the lobby was quiet and smelled faintly of chlorine. Mark checked them in while Elena found parking information on a sign near the elevator.

Their room overlooked a brick wall, not the harbor. Elena opened the curtains, considered the view, and laughed.

“Short trip,” she said.

“Good umbrella,” Mark replied, holding it up.