AROUND THE next corner, patiently waiting millions of years, is the Grand Canyon. Sam pulls into a turnoff and switches off the engine. We walk around to the front of the car and stand side by side, staring out over the landscape.

“This isn’t the place they told us to see the sunset,” I say.

He sighs. “I know. We’ll keep going.”

We get back in the car and follow the instructions to the best place to watch the sunset, which is right beside the gift shop. I ask Sam what time it is.

He glances at his watch. “Six-twenty.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Inside, the salesgirl is ringing in two Grand Canyon coffee mugs when Sam appears beside me.

“They’re for our moms,” I explain.

“Just because we’re on vacation doesn’t mean we have to buy everyone presents.”

I roll my eyes. “Relax. It’s only a few bucks.”

“But we have to be really careful with our money. You know that. And couldn’t you have at least waited ’til after the sunset?”

The girl wraps up the mugs, sticks them in a bag and hands it to me. I want to throw the damn things into the canyon.

Back outside, we aren’t alone. We choose a vacant rock a couple of feet from some moron loudly reciting poetry to his much younger—and clearly embarrassed—female companion. Sam and I exchange looks.

“It’s Sven!” I whisper. Sven is the name of my imaginary and supposedly ideal lover. Mythical Sven loves to hike, ski and read by the fire. He spends his day scaling mountains, listening to me talk and, apparently, reciting poetry as the sun sets over the Grand Canyon. Thank God I didn’t get the husband I asked for when I was a teenager.

“Then that must be Sasha,” Sam replies, nodding to the woman. Sam’s imaginary and supposedly ideal lover goes by the name of Sasha. Mythical Sasha is a porn star with big hooters and no voice. All she wants to do is have sex all day, sometimes with other women. I’m about the furthest thing from a Sasha, except for the sex—but with just the two of us, thanks.

The poet finally shuts up so all two hundred of us can enjoy the sunset in peace.

AFTER A dinner of fajitas and beer back in Tusayan, we stumble back to our hotel room and Sam immediately races into the bathroom.

“Um,” he says, when he finally comes out again, “would you mind if I slept in my own bed tonight?”

“No.”

“It’s just that I’m really full and my stomach hurts…”

For as long as I’ve known Sam, he’s always had problems with his digestive system. “Sam, it’s OK. I understand.”

Still, it is strange waking up in the morning and seeing him in the other bed.

“I was hoping you’d sleep in,” he says.

“No way! We gotta see the sunrise.”

By 5:30 a.m., we’re back in the convertible and make it to the Canyon just in time to see the first light appear on the horizon. Once the sun is fully in the sky, I suggest we take a walk. Sam nods but I can tell he isn’t into it. He’ll want to be hitting the road since we have an eight-hour drive ahead of us, whereas I want to cram as much as possible into the time we have left. Seeing the Grand Canyon isn’t enough; it would be better from a helicopter. The sunset isn’t good enough; I have to see the sunrise too. If I had my way, I’d drag Sam halfway down into the canyon, just to experience that as well.

We’re five minutes along the path when we come to a large open rock face. I walk quickly toward the drop-off.

“Adri!” Sam yells. “Don’t go so close to the edge.”

I stop and turn to him. “I’m nowhere near it.”

“Yes, you are. Don’t be stupid!”

“Fine.” I sit down, still a good three feet from the edge. “Can you take my picture here then?”

He takes my photo, then turns and starts back toward the car. Our walk is over.

The drive back to LA. is long and hot and neither of us says much. I try to keep the number of top up versus top down requests to a minimum. It’s me who finally breaks the silence. It usually is. “Do you believe in evolution?” I ask.

He continues staring straight ahead. “No.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I snap. “Evolution isn’t something you ‘believe’ or ‘don’t believe’—it’s a scientific fact.”

“Then why did you ask the question?” He reaches over and turns on the radio.

We don’t speak again until the first sign for San Bernardino appears. “That’s where that pilot I told you about lives,” Sam says. “The one who flies a police helicopter. He said to call him when I was down here, and he’d take me up for a ride.”

“No way! Are you gonna call him?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is our vacation and I don’t want to do anything work-related.”

I shift to get a better look at Sam. Passing on the chance to meet up with a cop from another country is strange enough behavior for him. Not seizing the opportunity to go up in a police helicopter is unexplainable. Sam eats, sleeps and breathes police work.

“But why?”

“Because I know you want to get to Knott’s Berry Farm for dinner.”

Granted, I’d heard that the dinner specials at Knott’s Berry Farm were not to be missed—and had insisted we wait until then to eat dinner. But by the time we sit down in the restaurant booth, Sam’s ready to throttle me. “My wife has dragged me here all the way from the Grand Canyon,” he tells our waiter.

“Ah,” replies the waiter. “I promise you it will be worth the wait.”

He didn’t have to sit in a convertible, driving through the sweltering desert heat with a bitchy wife wearing a leopard print scarf, baseball cap and Jackie O sunglasses.

I watch Sam devour the basketful of warm biscuits, three pieces of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with thick gravy and kernel corn. Also down the hatch goes a gallon of boysenberry punch and a huge piece of boysenberry pie.

Back at our hotel, Sam runs to the bathroom, so I put our leftovers into the mini-fridge, climb into the king-size bed and fall fast asleep.