Mmm...if it even makes sense. Sorry about the contrived tie/car things...they're too cute to resist. Thanks for the reviews!

Kirsten drove until her vision began to blur with sleepiness, at which point they pulled over at the first available motel. Sandy left her in the car while he went inside and paid, and then he came back and gently rubbed her shoulders.

"Come on, baby. Let's go inside."

"I'm tired…" she mumbled. His face visibly softened, not that she could see it through fluttering eyelids. He smiled at her, then undid her seatbelt and silently lifted her out of the expensive English sports car. Luckily, they'd gotten a ground-level room.

Kirsten panicked slightly when she woke in a room that was not hers, in a bed that was not hers…but the arms around her belonged to her husband, and that comforted her. Heavily-muscled arms that lay protectively around her body, holding her close…Kirsten closed her eyes again, loving the feel of his love. Sandy's lips spoke softly into her shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" She paused for a minute, as though she had to think of how to use words.

"I'm okay." It wasn't much, but right now, it was the best that she could do. He leaned over a bit farther and kissed her gently.

"We're not too far away from home, now, baby…our house, our bed, our world." His lips brushed over her face and neck and shoulders. "Just a few more hours, and we'll be home."

"The house, Sandy…"

"Our house?"

"No, the beach house…my parents' beach house…they changed it. They never change it."

"What do you mean, Kirsten?"

"I mean…it's been frozen in time since I was a little girl. I don't think they've even bought new sheets since I was about eight years old. Those pictures…of us…Sandy, Mommy and Daddy…no matter what you think…they've accepted us. They've accepted you." Sandy stared at his wife in utter confusion.

"Kirsten, your father hates me. Maybe your mother accepts me; who knows, maybe she even likes me, but your father hates me." Kirsten smiled.

"No, he doesn't. If he really hated you, he wouldn't've let Mommy put our wedding picture up. Daddy might seem like he lets Mom get away with everything, but…if he really hated you…there would be no pictures of you anywhere. He wouldn't acknowledge your existence."

No, it couldn't be true. Not Caleb Nichol, never, no…

"And…they finally took down…the prom picture."

"What prom picture?"

"Senior prom…after the dance was over, we all went to the beach houses…running around, in the sand, in our dresses…and someone took a picture of Jimmy and me. Daddy blew it up and hung it over the mantle, even after Jimmy and I broke up. It's gone. The picture on the mantle's of us." She looked up at Sandy, her eyes big and beginning to fill. He didn't understand why the pictures were so important to her, especially now, but he knew instinctively that she was crying happy tears and that was reason enough to be glad. His arms tightened around her ribcage, and she silently winced. They were so tight that it was almost becoming uncomfortable, but she wouldn't mention it. She wanted his arms to be around her, so tight that her lungs threatened to collapse—she wanted to know that he was there, that he loved her, that he had her and wouldn't let her go.

"Baby, are you really okay?"

"We were so much alike. It was funny…Danielle used to say…that we were only seven years apart. She said that girls like us usually came 'one in a generation,' only I never really knew if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Good, I guess I thought, because Marissa was her daughter and she always treated me like a second daughter, but now…is that going to be me, Sandy? With all my friends and family standing around in black, with you moving back to New York because you can't stand California without me, with countless shots of alcohol slipping down my throat and a note that casually says good-bye to everyone that I've ever loved?"

There she went again, thinking of her friend, thinking of "destiny," thinking of…he didn't even want to know of what.

"Kirsten, look at me. It's all going to be all right in the end. You and she might've had a lot in common, but you're different women, always will be."

"I love you so much."

"I love you, too, always."

"Let's go home." Home. Except she was home, because home was where he was, always, always… "Sandy? Can you drive?"

"I can try," he said, his voice slightly giving way to jest. "You know stick isn't really my thing."

"I don't understand why people make such a big deal of stick-shift," said Kirsten with the first real amusement Sandy had seen on her face in quite awhile. "It's not really that hard, except maybe when you're learning to drive and it's just one more thing you have to remember."

"Not all of us are as super as you are, sweetheart. Some of us have faults." His eyebrows made her laugh. He looked so serious, but she knew so well that he was joking.

"I'll help you. It can be our next project."

"Slowly, slowly, she teaches me how to be a man." Her honest, sweet smile was enough for him to mock himself forever, if it meant that she'd keep smiling.

"All right. Here we go, then," said Kirsten, handing him her car keys. He'd never driven her car before, not even her old one. It wasn't that she'd have told him, "No"; it was just that he'd never asked. Somehow, getting behind the wheel of his wife's beautiful, expensive, totally-taken-for-granted sports car was a line that Sandy Cohen wasn't quite ready to cross, but he took the keys from her and got into the driver's seat of the car. He didn't have to move the seat back much, in fact at all; his long-legged wife kept the pedals the perfect distance for him, too.

"Clutch with your left foot, Sandy," said Kirsten patiently. "The big one." He found it. He knew where it was; he wasn't completely clueless, but never mind. This was good for her.

"Now start it…there you go…first gear…" Hmm. It was harder than it looked watching her do it. Uncomfortable taking his right hand off the wheel and disconcerting to hear the engine whir and have to do something about it. Her patient voice coached him through stalling—repeatedly—her incredible Aston Martin.

"I told you it's not so bad," said Kirsten, in better spirits once they were on the highway and he'd gotten over his dangerous stalling habit. Sandy chanced a bemused glance at his wife, eyebrows raised, as he slowed to a stop at the red light.

"Uh-huh," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I almost ruined your car and killed us both so many times, I don't even know." She smiled, then tapped his hand.

"First gear," she reminded, and he rolled his eyes. She giggled. Fine. It was worth making an idiot of himself if it meant that Kirsten would laugh. But only for today, never again would he drive her car. Automatic was the way to go until he could get one of his buddies to teach him.

The light turned green, and Sandy's foot was on the gas. Kirsten giggled some more as he made the car jump with each motion of his hand.

"Terribly smug, are we?" he asked playfully as he jerked the car into fifth, making her squeal.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said, and her blue eyes did express a little regret combined with a lot of amusement. "You're learning. I'm being unfair."

"Ah, it's okay. I'm your husband. I'm meant to take your abuse."