Chapter 9: Goodbye, Minnesota Apartment
The apartment was a corpse.
Not a dead body—something deader than that. Something hollowed out and left behind. The walls wore pale rectangles where posters had hung for two years, ghost-shapes of Lambeau Field and Aaron Rodgers mid-throw. The shelves were bare, stripped of jerseys and footballs and the little ceramic cheese wedge Maria had bought him at a flea market last fall. The futon was gone, hauled to the curb by two guys from down the hall who'd looked at Jordan like he was insane for giving it away.
Maybe he was.
The TV sat on the floor, unplugged, its screen dark. No game today. No red zone. No Maria screaming at the refs.
Just boxes.
Dozens of them. Taped and labeled and stacked by the door like soldiers waiting for orders. KITCHEN. CLOTHES. BOOKS. FRAGILE. And one box, smaller than the rest, marked simply: US.
Jordan didn't remember packing that one. Maria must have done it when he wasn't looking.
He stood in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets, listening to the silence. The radiator wasn't humming. The neighbors weren't fighting. The building felt abandoned, like everyone else had already moved on and left them behind.
Maria appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. She was wearing his old Packers hoodie—the one with the hole in the elbow—and a pair of ripped jeans. Her hair was pulled up in a messy knot. She looked exhausted. Beautiful. Sad.
"That's everything," she said.
"Yeah."
"The car's packed except for the last box."
"Yeah."
She walked toward him. Her footsteps echoed off the bare floor. When she reached him, she stopped and looked around the room—really looked—like she was trying to memorize it.
"Weird, isn't it?" she said.
"What?"
"Standing here. With nothing left."
He nodded. His throat felt tight.
"I keep thinking about the first time you brought me here," she said. "That first Sunday. You had that stupid cheesehead on the coffee table and you were so nervous you dropped the remote twice."
"I wasn't nervous."
"You were."
"I was excited. There's a difference."
She smiled. But it didn't reach her eyes.
"You made me watch the pregame show for an hour," she said. "I thought you were insane."
"I am insane."
"I know." She stepped closer. "But you're my insane."
He pulled her into his arms. She fit against him like she always did—head tucked under his chin, hands fisted in his shirt. They stood there for a long moment, neither of them speaking, the emptiness pressing in from all sides.
"I'm going to miss this place," she said.
"Me too."
"It was a shithole."
"The worst."
"The radiator never worked."
"And the neighbors were assholes."
"And that fucking door never locked right."
Jordan laughed. It came out wet and broken. "Remember when you got locked out that one time? In January? You had to wait in the hallway for two hours."
"You were in class."
"I was at practice."
"Same thing."
He kissed the top of her head. She smelled like shampoo and cardboard dust. Like moving day. Like goodbye.
"We should go," he said.
"In a minute."
She pulled back and looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. Her jaw was set. That look—he knew that look. It was the same one she got when the Packers were down by four with two minutes left and Rodgers had the ball.
"What?" he said.
"We can't just leave."
"Maria—"
"We can't." She grabbed his hand. "Not without saying goodbye properly."
He knew what she meant.
He always knew what she meant.
She pulled him toward the wall. The same wall where they'd first fucked—where she'd pushed him against the plaster and dropped to her knees after that first playoff win. The paint was scuffed there. He'd never noticed before.
She stopped and turned to face him.
"Right here," she said. "This is where it started."
"I remember."
"I had your dick in my mouth before the clock even hit zero."
"You were excited."
"I was horny." She pushed him back against the wall. His shoulder blades hit the plaster with a dull thud. "And I've been horny for you ever since."
She dropped to her knees.
Jordan's breath caught. The floor was cold and bare and she didn't care. She looked up at him through her lashes, her hands already working at his belt.
"Maria—"
"Shut up." She yanked his jeans down. His boxers followed. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, already aching. "I want to do this. One last time. In this apartment."
She didn't wait for permission.
She took him in her mouth.
Jordan's head fell back against the wall. His eyes closed. Her tongue slid up the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate, and he felt every inch of it. She knew exactly what she was doing. Two years of practice. Two years of learning his body like a playbook.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She hummed around him. The vibration rippled through his cock and settled somewhere in his spine. He reached down and tangled his fingers in her hair, not pulling, just holding on.
She worked him deep. Her lips stretched around his girth, her throat relaxing to take him further. He felt the wet heat of her mouth, the scrape of her teeth—just enough to make him twitch—and the way her hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently.
"Dirty," he said. "You're so fucking dirty."
She pulled off him with a wet pop. Looked up. Grinned.
"You love it."
"I love you."
"Same thing."
She went back to work. Faster now. Her head bobbing, her hand stroking what her mouth couldn't reach. Saliva dripped down her chin. She didn't wipe it away. She just kept going, her eyes locked on his, watching him fall apart.
He was close. Too close. Every muscle in his body was tightening, coiling, ready to snap.
"Maria—" His voice cracked. "I'm gonna—"
She pulled off again.
"Not yet."
"You're killing me."
"Good." She stood up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "You can die after I'm done with you."
She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the kitchen.
The counter was still there. The same chipped laminate. The same faucet that dug into her back. The same goddamn counter where they'd fucked on moving day, when the apartment was still full of boxes and they were too stressed to think straight.
She bent over it.
"Same spot," she said. "Remember?"
"Yeah."
"You couldn't keep your hands off me."
"You were wearing that skirt."
"You were wearing that look."
He stepped behind her. His hands found her hips. She was already working her jeans down, shimmying out of them, kicking them across the floor. No underwear. She never wore underwear when she knew what was coming.
"You planned this," he said.
"I always plan this."
He grabbed her ass. Squeezed. She gasped. He slid his hand between her legs and found her slick, ready, dripping down her thighs.
"You're soaked," he said.
"I've been thinking about this all day."
"While we were packing?"
"While we were taping boxes. While we were hauling shit to the car. While you were being all nostalgic and shit." She pushed back against him. "Now stop talking and fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He lined himself up and pushed inside her. One stroke. All the way. Her back arched. Her hands scrambled for purchase on the counter. She let out a sound—half moan, half growl—that bounced off the bare walls and echoed through the empty apartment.
"Fuck," she hissed. "Fuck, yes—"
He pulled back and slammed into her again.
The counter rattled. The faucet dug into her hip. She didn't care. She pushed back to meet him, matching his rhythm, her ass slapping against his pelvis with every thrust.
Harder. Faster. The sound of their bodies filled the space—skin on skin, breath on breath, the wet noise of him moving inside her. The apartment amplified everything. It was obscene. It was perfect.
"You like that?" he said. "You like getting fucked in this kitchen?"
"Yes—"
"You're gonna miss this counter."
"I'm gonna miss your dick—"
He grabbed her hair and pulled. Not hard. Just enough. She whimpered—that desperate, needy sound he loved—and he fucked her deeper, angling his hips to hit that spot he knew would make her see stars.
"Right there—" she gasped. "Don't you fucking stop—"
"I'm not stopping."
"Promise me—"
"I promise."
She was close. He could feel it in the way her walls tightened around him, the way her breath came in short, ragged bursts. He reached around and found her clit with his fingers, rubbing tight circles while he kept pounding into her.
"Come for me," he said. "One last time. In this apartment."
She came with a scream.
Not a movie scream. A real one. Raw and ugly and beautiful. Her whole body convulsed. Her knees buckled. He caught her, held her up, kept fucking her through it until she was limp and gasping.
"You—" she breathed. "You haven't—"
"I'm close."
"Do it." She pushed back against him. "Come inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel it."
He couldn't hold back any longer.
Three more thrusts. Four. Then he buried himself deep and came with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere primal. Hot and pulsing and endless. He felt it flood her, felt her walls milk every last drop, and he stayed there, pressed against her, breathing hard, until his legs stopped shaking.
Neither of them moved.
The apartment was silent again. Just their breathing. Just the hum of the refrigerator they'd forgotten to unplug.
Maria spoke first.
"Goodbye, apartment," she whispered.
Jordan laughed. It came out breathless.
"Goodbye, futon," he said.
"Goodbye, kitchen counter."
"Goodbye, shower."
"Goodbye, neighbors who never complained."
"They definitely complained."
"Goodbye, neighbors who complained."
He pulled out of her slowly. She turned around and faced him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair was a disaster. Her jeans were somewhere on the floor.
She looked beautiful.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
"We're homeless now."
"We have a house."
"We don't close until next week."
"We have a car. And a hotel room. And each other."
She smiled. That real smile. The one that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"You're such a sap," she said.
"You love it."
"I do." She kissed him. Soft. Sweet. A promise. "Now grab the last box. I want to get to Wisconsin before dark."
---
The last box was heavier than it looked.
Jordan carried it down the stairs, past the mailboxes, past the door that never locked right. Maria held the door open. The cold hit them like a wall. Minnesota in January. The kind of cold that made your bones ache.
The car was packed to the roof. Clothes and books and kitchen shit and every Packers jersey he owned. The cheesehead sat on the dashboard like a mascot. Maria's vintage sweatshirts were stuffed into a duffel bag in the back seat.
He shoved the last box into the trunk and slammed it shut.
"That's it," he said.
"That's it."
They stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the apartment building. Three stories. Red brick. Nothing special. But for two years, it had been everything.
"Last chance to change your mind," Maria said.
"About what?"
"About me. About Green Bay. About all of it."
He looked at her. Really looked. The woman who'd shown up to his dorm room two years ago with a bag of chips and a chip on her shoulder. The woman who'd argued with him about play calls and eaten cold pizza at 3 a.m. and fucked him on every surface of that apartment. The woman who'd said yes.
"I'm not changing my mind," he said.
"Good."
She took his hand. Her fingers were cold.
"Let's go home," she said.
They got in the car. The engine turned over on the second try. The heat blasted. The cheesehead bobbed on the dashboard. And as they pulled away from the curb, Jordan rolled down the window and looked back one last time.
The apartment building got smaller and smaller.
Then it was gone.
Maria reached over and squeezed his thigh.
"You okay?" she said.
"Yeah." He rolled up the window. Turned up the heat. Grabbed her hand. "I'm okay."
Green Bay was five hours away.
They had a wedding to plan, a house to buy, a life to build.
But right now, in this moment, they had everything they needed.
The road stretched ahead.
They drove.
They drove.
The heater took ten minutes to start working. Maria kept her hands shoved between her thighs, shivering, watching the Minnesota suburbs slide past the windows. The sky was gray. The road was gray. Even the snow piled on the shoulders looked gray, like the whole state had given up on color.
Jordan kept one hand on the wheel and one on her knee.
"You're quiet," he said.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
She shrugged. "Everything. Nothing. The apartment. The house. Whether we're completely insane."
"You proposed the apartment goodbye sex."
"You went along with it."
"I'm not complaining."
She smiled. But her eyes stayed on the window.
The first hour passed in comfortable silence. They listened to a podcast about the Packers' draft strategy. Maria argued with the host. Jordan argued with her. It felt normal. Easy. Like every Sunday they'd ever spent together, except the TV was a windshield and the couch was a Honda Civic with 140,000 miles on it.
Then the snow started.
Not heavy. Just enough to make the wipers squeak. Jordan leaned forward, squinting through the flakes, and Maria reached over to turn down the podcast.
"Pull over at the next exit," she said.
"Why?"
"I have to pee."
"There's nothing for fifty miles."
"Then pull over on the side of the road."
"Maria—"
"Jordan." She turned to look at him. Her hand slid up his thigh. "Pull over."
He pulled over.
The shoulder was narrow, barely wide enough for the car. Snow whipped past the windows in horizontal streaks. The engine ticked as it cooled. Jordan put it in park and turned to her.
"There's no bathroom," he said.
"I know."
"So what—"
She unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed over the center console.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"What does it look like?"
She settled into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, her face inches from his. The steering wheel dug into her back. The gear shift pressed against her calf. She didn't care.
"We just said goodbye to the apartment," she said. "But we never said goodbye to the car."
Jordan's hands found her hips. "The car's not going anywhere. We're driving it to Green Bay."
"Exactly." She leaned down and kissed him. "So we're christening it."
"Christening."
"Uh-huh."
"You want to fuck in a Honda Civic on the side of I-94."
"I want to fuck in a Honda Civic on the side of I-94." She pulled back and looked at him. "Unless you have a problem with that."
He didn't have a problem with that.
She kissed him again—harder this time, teeth and tongue and the taste of the gas station coffee they'd bought an hour ago. His hands slid under her hoodie, under her shirt, finding warm skin and the curve of her spine.
She ground against him. Slow. Deliberate. He was already hard, straining against his jeans, and she could feel every inch of him through the layers of denim and cotton.
"Backseat," she breathed.
"What?"
"Too cramped up here. Backseat."
She climbed off him and tumbled into the back. Jordan followed, awkward and clumsy, banging his elbow on the door frame and cursing under his breath. The backseat was small. Cramped. Not designed for this. But Maria was already pulling off her hoodie, already reaching for his belt, and he stopped caring about logistics.
She got his jeans open. Got her hand inside. Stroked him once, twice, watched his face contort.
"Fuck," he said.
"That's the idea."
She shimmied out of her jeans. The car was cold but her skin was hot. She pulled him on top of her, her back against the seat, her legs hooked over his hips.
"You sure?" he said.
"I'm always sure."
He pushed inside her.
The angle was wrong. The seat was too small. His knee kept slipping off the edge. But none of it mattered. She was tight and wet and gasping his name, and he was buried to the hilt, and the windows were fogging up, and it was perfect.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The car rocked. The suspension squeaked. Jordan grabbed the headrest for leverage and fucked her like the world was ending, fast and brutal and desperate. Maria dug her nails into his shoulders, leaving marks, and he felt every single one.
"Don't stop," she breathed. "Don't you fucking stop."
"I'm not stopping."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
She came first. Her body arched off the seat. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. He felt her walls clench around him, milking him, pulling him deeper, and he followed a heartbeat later—spilling into her with a groan that fogged the windows even more.
They stayed there, tangled and breathless, while the snow piled up on the windshield.
"Goodbye, car," Maria whispered.
Jordan laughed. "We're not saying goodbye. We're driving it to Wisconsin."
"Then it's a welcome."
"A welcome?"
"To the next chapter." She kissed his neck. "To Green Bay. To the house. To everything."
He pulled back and looked at her. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes were bright.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
They crawled back into the front seat. Jordan adjusted the mirror. Maria buckled her seatbelt. The car was still warm, still smelled like sex, still had thirty miles to the next exit.
He put it in drive.
The road stretched ahead—gray and endless and full of possibility.
They drove.