Chapter 10: Wisconsin Border, No Vacancy
The wipers were losing.
Jordan gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles white, as the freezing rain hammered the windshield like a thousand tiny fists. The defroster was cranked to maximum, but the glass kept fogging at the edges, creeping inward like frost on a dying man's fingers. Every eighteen-wheeler that passed threw up a wall of gray slush that blinded him for three full seconds.
"Maybe we should've stayed in Minnesota," Maria said.
"Bit late for that."
"I know. I'm just saying."
She had her feet up on the dashboard, her hoodie pulled over her knees. The cheesehead was wedged between her hip and the door, its foam grin mocking him in the peripheral glow of the dashboard lights.
Three hours ago, the drive had felt like an adventure. Two hours ago, it felt like a mistake. Now, somewhere past the Wisconsin border with no town in sight and the gas gauge dipping dangerously close to empty, it felt like a slow-motion disaster.
Jordan's eyes burned. Not from tears—from staring at the white lines and the taillights and the endless, hypnotic blur of sleet. Every muscle in his neck was a knot. Every blink felt like sandpaper.
"I need to stop," he said.
"I know."
"I mean it. I'm seeing double."
"I know, Jordan."
He glanced at her. She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at something ahead—a faint glow in the darkness, a smudge of neon bleeding through the rain.
"There," she said.
"What?"
"Right there. See it?"
He squinted. The glow resolved into letters. VACANCY. The sign was old, its tubes flickering like a dying campfire, but the word was unmistakable.
Jordan exhaled. "Thank God."
He took the exit too fast, the tires hydroplaning for a sickening moment before gripping the pavement. The motel materialized out of the gloom like a bad memory—a single-story L-shaped building with doors painted a faded turquoise and a parking lot that hadn't seen fresh asphalt since the Reagan administration.
The neon sign out front said ROOM 12: $39. Below that, in smaller letters: COLOR TV. FREE ICE.
"Luxury," Maria said.
"I'll take it."
He parked in front of the office. The engine ticked as it cooled, a sound that felt final, like the car had been holding on for this moment and now it could finally rest. Jordan killed the lights. The rain kept coming, drumming on the roof, sealing them in.
"Stay here," he said. "I'll get the key."
"I'm coming."
"You're barefoot."
Maria looked down at her feet. She'd never put her shoes back on after the backseat. Her toes were curled against the floor mat, pale and cold.
"Fine," she said. "But hurry. I have to piss."
Jordan pushed open the door and stepped into the storm. The rain hit him like a slap—cold and sharp and instant. He jogged to the office, shoulders hunched, water already seeping through his jacket. The door chimed when he pushed it open.
The clerk behind the desk was seventy years old if he was a day. He had a face like crumpled paper and eyes that had stopped caring sometime around 1994. He didn't look up from his crossword puzzle.
"Room?"
"Yeah. Just one night."
"Forty bucks."
"Sign says thirty-nine."
"Tax."
Jordan pulled out his wallet. He had two twenties and a five. He slid the bills across the counter. The clerk took them without looking, slid a key across in return. Actual metal. Not a card. A key.
"Checkout's at eleven," the clerk said. "Don't smoke in the room. Don't steal the towels. Ice machine's by the office."
"Got it."
"And keep it down." The clerk finally looked up. His eyes were the color of dishwater. "We got a couple in eleven. They're light sleepers."
Jordan pocketed the key. "We'll be quiet."
"Sure you will."
---
Room 12 smelled like stale beer and pine-scented air freshener, with an undertone of something older—dust, maybe, or despair. The wood-paneled walls were the color of weak coffee. The carpet was a shade of green that had never existed in nature. And the bed—the bed was king-sized, covered in a quilt that looked like it had been stolen from someone's grandmother, and it took up almost the entire room.
Jordan locked the door behind them. The deadbolt clicked into place, a solid, reassuring sound.
Maria dropped her bag on the floor and stood in the middle of the room, dripping. Her hoodie was soaked through, dark and heavy. Her hair was a wet mess, curls plastered to her cheeks and neck.
"I feel like a drowned rat," she said.
"You look like one."
"Fuck you."
"You will."
She smiled. That tired, knowing smile. Then she peeled off her hoodie.
The t-shirt underneath was wet too, clinging to her skin, transparent in places. Jordan watched her from the door, his back against the wood, the rain pounding outside like a wall between them and the rest of the world.
She kicked off her jeans. They landed in a heap by the nightstand. The Bible in the drawer rattled.
"We should shower," she said.
"Probably."
"Get warm."
"Yeah."
Neither of them moved.
The room was cold—the kind of cold that seeped through the walls, through the windows, through the thin, single-pane glass that rattled every time the wind gusted. But Jordan didn't feel it. His blood was running hot, his heart pumping hard, and every nerve in his body was tuned to the woman standing six feet away.
Maria reached back and unclasped her bra. Let it fall. Her breasts were pale in the dim light, her nipples hard from the cold—or from something else. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear.
"Jordan," she said.
"What?"
"Stop staring and get over here."
He crossed the room in three steps. She met him halfway, her hands finding his belt, her mouth finding his throat. She bit down—not hard, but enough—and he groaned, his hands sliding under her ass, lifting her, carrying her.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. He stumbled, nearly dropped her, caught himself on the edge of the bed. They fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and wet clothes and laughter.
"Graceful," she said.
"Shut up."
He kissed her. Deep. Hungry. Two years of kissing her and it still felt new every time. Her tongue slid against his, her fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment—just a moment—the exhaustion and the cold and the five hours of driving disappeared.
She pulled back first.
"Get undressed," she said.
"You first."
"I'm already practically naked." She gestured at her underwear. "You're still wearing a jacket."
Fair point.
Jordan sat up and stripped off his jacket. His shirt. His shoes and socks. He was working on his jeans when Maria's hands covered his, stopping him.
"Let me," she said.
She knelt behind him on the bed, her knees pressing into the mattress, her breath warm on his neck. Her fingers found his belt loops. She tugged.
"Lift up."
He lifted his hips. She yanked his jeans down to his knees. His boxers followed. His cock sprang free, already hard, already aching, and she made a low sound in her throat—appreciation, hunger, something in between.
"Missed this," she said.
"We did this two hours ago."
"In the car." She wrapped her hand around his shaft. Stroked once. Slow. "That was different."
"How?"
"That was goodbye." She stroked again. "This is hello."
He turned his head. She was looking at him with that challenge in her eyes—the same look she got when the Packers were down and Rodgers had the ball and everyone else had given up. The look that said I know something you don't.
"I don't have any condoms," he said.
"I don't care."
"Maria—"
"I'm on the pill. You know that." She squeezed him. "And I want to feel you. All of you. No barriers. No bullshit."
He turned around and kissed her. Hard. She kissed him back, her hand still working his cock, and he groaned into her mouth.
"Get on the bed," he said.
"Make me."
He grabbed her hips and flipped her over. She landed on her stomach with a gasp, her hair fanning out across the quilt. Her underwear was still on—a thin strip of black cotton—and he hooked his fingers under the elastic and pulled them down her thighs.
"Fucking finally," she breathed.
He didn't answer. He just positioned himself behind her, one hand on her hip, the other guiding his cock to her entrance. She was wet—soaked, really—and he slid inside her in one smooth thrust.
She arched her back. Her hands fisted in the quilt. And then she looked over her shoulder at him, that challenge still burning in her eyes.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The headboard slammed against the wall. Once. Twice. A steady rhythm, building, the sound of wood on plaster echoing through the thin motel walls like a drumbeat. Jordan grabbed her hips and pulled her back to meet every thrust, his balls slapping against her clit, his breath coming in short, ragged grunts.
"You like that?" he said.
"Yes—"
"You like getting fucked in a cheap motel?"
"Yes—"
"With a couple next door who can hear everything?"
"Oh god—"
He fucked her like he was trying to break the bed. Like he was trying to break the wall. Like he was trying to break every goddamn thing in this room and leave nothing behind but the two of them and the sound of their bodies colliding.
The headboard kept slamming. The mattress creaked. The rain hammered the window, and the neon sign outside flickered, casting red and green shadows across Maria's back.
Her knees buckled first. She collapsed onto her stomach, her face pressing into the pillow, her moans muffled by the fabric. Jordan followed her down, his body covering hers, his hips still pumping, his rhythm faltering but not stopping.
He grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled—not hard, just enough—and she moaned his name into the pillow. Muffled. Desperate. Perfect.
"Say it again," he said.
"Jordan—"
"Louder."
"Jordan—"
He felt her walls tighten around him. Felt her body tense. Felt the moment she let go.
She came with a cry that was half-swallowed by the pillow—her muscles clamping down, her back arching, her fingers clawing at the quilt. He fucked her through it, kept going, kept pushing, until his own release slammed into him like a truck.
He buried himself deep and came inside her. Hot. Pulsing. Endless. He felt it spill into her, felt her body suck him dry, and he collapsed on top of her, breathing hard, his face pressed into her hair.
Neither of them moved.
The headboard stopped slamming. The room went quiet. Just their breathing. Just the rain. Just the hum of the ice machine somewhere in the distance.
And then—
Knock knock knock.
Maria snorted. Jordan lifted his head.
Knock knock knock.
"Shut up!" A voice from the other side of the wall. Male. Angry. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"
Maria burst out laughing.
Jordan couldn't help it. He laughed too—deep, helpless, his whole body shaking with it. They laughed until they couldn't breathe, until Maria was gasping for air, until tears ran down her cheeks.
"Sorry!" Jordan yelled, and that just made Maria laugh harder.
"Fuck you!" the neighbor yelled.
"Already did!" Maria shouted back.
Jordan slapped a hand over her mouth.
They waited. Silence from next door. Then the distant sound of someone grumbling, a mattress creaking, and then nothing.
Maria pulled Jordan's hand away. "That was rude."
"That was you."
"That was us." She rolled over, pushing him off her, and looked up at the cracked ceiling. "We're terrible people."
"The worst."
"I love it."
He looked at her. Flushed cheeks. Wild hair. A smile that could light up Lambeau in January. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"I love you," he said.
She turned her head. Looked at him. The smile softened into something quieter, something real.
"I love you too."
---
They showered together. The water pressure was a joke, the temperature flickered between scalding and cold, and the towels were thin enough to see through. But Maria stood under the stream with her head tipped back and her eyes closed, and Jordan watched the water run down her body, and he felt something settle in his chest.
Not lust. Not relief. Something deeper. Something that had been building for two years and was finally, impossibly, here.
"Hey," he said.
She opened her eyes. "Hey."
"You okay?"
"Yeah." She reached for him, pulled him close, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest. "I'm okay."
"Cold?"
"Freezing."
"Let's go to bed."
They dried off with the shitty towels. They crawled under the quilt. The sheets were cold and the pillows were flat, but Maria curled up against him, her head on his shoulder, her leg thrown over his, and he felt warmer than he had in days.
"Jordan," she said.
"Hmm?"
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"For knowing when to stop."
He frowned. "Stop driving? I almost killed us twice."
"Not that." She kissed his chest. "For knowing when I needed to stop. For pulling over. For getting the room. For—" She gestured vaguely. "For all of it."
He didn't know what to say. So he just held her tighter.
"Goodnight, Maria."
"Goodnight, Jordan."
The rain kept falling. The neon sign kept flickering. Somewhere in the distance, a truck engine rumbled and faded. And in Room 12, two people who'd run out of gas and still managed to get exactly where they needed to be fell asleep in each other's arms.
---
In the morning, the rain had stopped.
Jordan woke first. The room was gray with early light, the kind of flat, colorless light that made everything look like an old photograph. Maria was still asleep, her face half-buried in the pillow, her breathing slow and steady.
He watched her for a minute. Two. Five.
Then he got up. Pulled on his jeans. Stepped outside.
The parking lot was covered in a thin layer of ice. The car was still there, fogged over, exhausted. The neon sign had stopped flickering. The VACANCY letters were dark.
But the sky was clearing.
Jordan stood there for a long moment, breathing in the cold air, watching the clouds break apart. He thought about the apartment. The boxes. The drive. The room. The stranger who hated them and the Bible in the nightstand and the way Maria had looked at him with that challenge in her eyes.
And he smiled.
The door opened behind him. Maria appeared, wrapped in the quilt, her hair a disaster, her eyes still half-closed.
"Coffee?" she said.
"Yeah."
"Real coffee. Not gas station."
"I saw a diner about five miles back."
"Then let's go."
She held out her hand. He took it.
They walked toward the car.
Green Bay was still four hours away.
Green Bay was still four hours away.
The diner sat off the highway like an afterthought, a squat building with a gravel lot and a sign that had lost most of its letters. What remained spelled out EAT. Jordan pulled in beside a pickup truck with rust eating through its wheel wells. Maria had wrapped herself in his jacket over the quilt, her hair still wild, her face still creased from the pillow.
"Classy," she said.
"Best we're gonna get."
Inside, the air smelled like bacon grease and burnt coffee. A waitress with gray hair and a name tag that said DEB looked up from behind the counter and nodded at them like they were regulars. They took a booth by the window. The vinyl was cracked, patched with duct tape. The tabletop stuck to Jordan's forearms.
Deb brought coffee without being asked. Maria wrapped her hands around the mug and inhaled like it was oxygen. Jordan watched her over the rim of his own cup, the steam curling between them.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Thanks."
"I mean it. Good shit. The kind of shit that comes from a really good night."
He laughed. "You're something else."
"I know."
They ordered pancakes and eggs and a side of sausage that Maria claimed was for protein but mostly fed to Jordan under the table. They didn't talk about the drive ahead or the house or the closing paperwork waiting for them. They talked about nothing. The waitress's tattoo. The truck outside. The way the jukebox in the corner was playing a song neither of them recognized.
It felt like a pause. A breath. The kind of moment you don't know is important until it's gone.
When Deb dropped the check, Maria grabbed it before Jordan could.
"I got it," she said.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She pulled a crumpled twenty from her pocket. "You drove. I'll pay. That's the deal."
He didn't argue. He watched her count out bills and leave a tip that was probably too big for a diner that hadn't updated its prices since 2003.
Outside, the sky had gone from gray to a pale, watery blue. The ice on the car had melted into thin puddles. Jordan scraped the windshield with his sleeve while Maria waited in the passenger seat, her feet on the dash, the cheesehead back in her lap.
Four hours.
---
The drive blurred together.
Fields of frozen corn. Barns with roofs caving in. Towns with one stoplight and a gas station that doubled as a grocery store. Maria kept the radio on low, some alt-rock station from a college in Stevens Point, and Jordan let the music fill the space between them.
His mind wandered.
He thought about the apartment. The way the living room had looked with all the boxes gone. The scuff mark on the wall where they'd fucked that first time. The kitchen counter where she'd bent over and told him to stop talking and fuck her.
He thought about the motel. The way she'd laughed when the neighbor pounded on the wall. The way she'd looked at him in the shower. The way she'd said I love you like it was the easiest thing in the world.
He thought about Green Bay.
The house. Their house. The one they'd picked out on a laptop screen three months ago, sitting in a coffee shop near campus, too broke to afford anything but too stubborn to admit it. The realtor had sent them a video walkthrough. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A backyard with a dying maple tree. A kitchen with cabinets that didn't close all the way.
It wasn't much.
But it was theirs.
"Hey," Maria said.
"What?"
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you stare at the road and go somewhere else." She reached over and squeezed his thigh. "Come back."
He blinked. The road sharpened. The dashboard came into focus. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just tell me where you went."
He shrugged. "The house. The apartment. Everything."
She nodded. Didn't push. That was one of the things he loved about her—she knew when to talk and when to let the silence do the work.
"We're gonna be okay," she said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looked at her. Really looked. The dark curls that never stayed in place. The brown eyes that could cut through bullshit faster than anyone he'd ever met. The stubborn set of her jaw that meant she'd already decided everything would work out, and God help anyone who disagreed.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
---
They hit the Green Bay city limits at 2:47 in the afternoon.
Jordan knew the exact time because he'd been checking the clock every few minutes since they crossed the border into Wisconsin. The sign was simple—GREEN BAY: HOME OF THE PACKERS. Someone had spray-painted GO PACK GO on the bottom in orange letters. Maria pressed her face to the window and grinned like a kid seeing Disney World for the first time.
"We're here," she said.
"We're here."
"We live here now."
"We live here now."
She turned to him, and there were tears in her eyes. Not sad tears. Not happy tears. Something in between. Something that came from two years of waiting and hoping and arguing about play calls and falling asleep on a futon that smelled like stale beer.
"Jordan," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Pull over."
"What? Why?"
"Just pull over."
He pulled over. The shoulder was gravel and dead grass, and the car kicked up dust as it rolled to a stop. Maria unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face him.
"I need you to know something," she said.
"Okay."
"These past two years—the Sundays, the games, the arguments, all of it—it wasn't just about football." She took his hand. Her fingers were cold. "It was about you. It was always about you."
He didn't know what to say. His throat was tight. His eyes were burning.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," she said. "And I know we're young and I know we're broke and I know this whole thing is insane. But I don't care. I don't care about any of it."
"Maria—"
"I'm not done." She squeezed his hand. "I love you. Not because you're a Packers fan. Not because you make me laugh. Not because you're good in bed—which you are, by the way, in case you were wondering."
He laughed. It came out wet.
"I love you because you're you," she said. "Because you pace during close games. Because you dropped the remote twice the first time I came over. Because you converted your dorm room into a shrine and you didn't care what anyone thought."
She reached up and touched his face. Her thumb traced his jaw.
"I love you, Jordan. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving it."
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not gentle. He kissed her like she'd just told him the Packers won the Super Bowl and the Vikings were relocating to Canada. He kissed her like the world was ending and this was the only thing that mattered.
When he pulled back, she was smiling.
"You're crying," she said.
"So are you."
"I know."
"We're a mess."
"The worst."
He put the car in drive.
The house was ten minutes away.
---
The moving truck was already there when they pulled up.
It sat in the driveway like a monument to logistics, white and massive, its back door rolled up. Two guys in matching blue shirts were hauling boxes up the front steps. A third was standing on the porch, clipboard in hand, looking bored.
Jordan parked on the street. He and Maria sat in the car for a moment, staring at the house.
It was smaller than the pictures.
The paint was peeling on the south side. The lawn was more dirt than grass. The maple tree in the backyard looked like it had been dead for years.
But it was theirs.
"Ready?" Maria said.
"No."
"Me neither." She opened her door. "Let's go."
The guy with the clipboard met them at the bottom of the steps. His name tag said DAVE. He had a handshake like a dead fish and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You the Prices?"
"Not married," Jordan said.
"Whatever. We got your stuff. Started about an hour ago. Should be done in another two."
"Thanks."
Dave grunted and went back to his clipboard.
The next two hours were a blur.
The movers were efficient in a way that felt almost aggressive. They carried boxes and furniture up the steps, through the front door, into rooms that Jordan and Maria had only seen in grainy video tours. The couch went in the living room. The bed went in the bedroom. The kitchen table—the one Maria's grandmother had given them—went in the kitchen, next to a window that looked out at the dead maple tree.
Jordan directed traffic. Maria unpacked boxes. They didn't have time to think. They didn't have time to feel.
The last item off the truck was the small box marked US.
Maria carried it inside herself. She set it on the kitchen counter—the same counter that would soon hold coffee makers and cereal bowls and bills they couldn't afford. She didn't open it.
Not yet.
The movers left at 5:30.
Dave handed Jordan a receipt and a pen.
"Sign here."
Jordan signed.
"Good luck," Dave said. It sounded like a threat.
And then they were gone.
---
The house was quiet.
Jordan stood in the living room, surrounded by boxes. The couch was in the wrong spot. The TV was still in its box. The Packers pennant was somewhere, probably in a box labeled FRAGILE, probably crushed under something heavier.
He should unpack. He should find the sheets and make the bed. He should order pizza and figure out where the nearest grocery store was.
But he couldn't move.
Two years of waiting. Five hours of driving. Two hours of moving. And now—silence.
Maria appeared in the doorway. She looked exhausted. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, her hair a disaster. She had a box cutter in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other.
"I found the bathroom stuff," she said. "The toilet paper is in the third box by the window."
"Okay."
"The towels are still missing."
"Okay."
She looked at him. He looked at her.
"I'm so fucking tired," she said.
"Me too."
"I think I'm going to die."
"Please don't."
She laughed. It was weak, breathless, but it was real.
"I need to lie down," she said. "Just for a minute. Just to close my eyes."
"There's a bed in the bedroom."
"Is it made?"
"No."
"I don't care."
She walked past him, into the hallway, into the bedroom. Jordan followed. The bed was bare—just a mattress on a frame, no sheets, no pillows. Maria didn't care. She collapsed onto it face-first, her arms spread wide, her cheek pressed into the fabric.
"Fuck," she said. "That's good."
Jordan stood in the doorway. Watched her. The way her back rose and fell. The way her fingers curled into the mattress. The way she looked—even now, even exhausted, even surrounded by chaos—like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Jordan," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Get over here."
He didn't hesitate.
He crossed the room and lay down beside her. The mattress was cold. The room smelled like cardboard and fresh paint. Somewhere outside, a neighbor's dog was barking. Somewhere inside, the furnace kicked on with a rattle that shook the walls.
Maria turned her head. Looked at him. Her eyes were half-closed, but there was something in them—that spark, that challenge, that fire that never went out.
"Welcome home," she said.
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her lips.
"We made it," he said.
"Yeah." She smiled. Her eyes closed. "We made it."
The furnace rattled. The dog kept barking. The boxes could wait.
They had time.
They had each other.
They had Green Bay.