Carter and Maggie are stuck in a huge traffic jam. Carter pops in a CD, and then freaks when he hears The Pixies, as if he wasn't in the car the last time Abby was. Which makes no sense, as we've established that Abby has a car, and that Carter got to work this morning without her. "That's not your music, that's Abby's," Maggie announces. Evidently, she's implying that Carter and Abby are somehow different, and therefore, not perhaps entirely the same. Insanity. "She always liked that noise," Maggie continues. "I'm getting used to it," Carter says, popping out the CD and replacing it with a wailing, angsty ovary. I hope that isn't symbolic of the change he wants Abby to make -- from loud to whiny and chock full of estrogen -- because I don't feel a pressing need to hear from her ovaries at this time. A cop appears at the Jeep window, so Carter unzips it because he's the unpretentious rich kid with plastic windows, and learns there's a mighty accident ahead that's blocking everything. Great. Zip. Maggie apologizes again for crying. "I hate being so pathetic," she says. "Just the idea of going home alone, waiting..." Carter coughs up the obligatory optimism. "I worry. About both of them," Maggie sighs. "Abby's good," Carter says. "We're both good. You don't have to worry about that." He grins smugly. He has forgotten the tequila already, I guess. Maggie beams that Abby told her she and Carter might get married. "Is that what she said?" he brightens. "No, she told me you proposed," Maggie giggles. "I know she's work -- it runs in the family -- but she's so worth it." Carter smiles. Then he blushes. Then he goes into this fairly unromantic spiel about how he spends twenty-three hours of the day rehashing all the reasons she blows more goats than a bored farmer, and in the final hour he realizes he has at least spent all day thinking about her, and that apparently eclipses all the bad stuff and the bestiality. "There's something about her," he declares. "Something about her that makes me want to..." here, he laughs, "love her." Yeah, you want to love her, but do you? Can you kiss her like she's soft and sexy as a tree trunk, and still love her?
Susan has not eloped with Patrick, but rather taken him to an amusement park. They're on a ferris wheel. Whee. I would so dump her ass if she was like, "Sorry you're dying -- let's go somewhere sticky with urine and sugar that you've probably already been to anyway." But Patrick chooses this moment to tell her a meaningful tale about a story Julia, his sister, read: "It's about a little Japanese girl with cancer, and she tried to make a thousand paper cranes because she thought if she did, it would make her wish come true," he explains. Her wish? To recover. "How many paper cuts do you have?" Susan smiles. "A lot," he admits. "But my wish is kind of different." And they lock eyes. Gingerly, he leans in and kisses her on the lips. She lets him, blushing like she's his age, and shakes her head, laughing. "Kiss pretty good for a dead kid, huh?" he says proudly. "Not bad at all," she chuckles, thinking, "The kid's dying -- I probably shouldn't even bother introducing him to tongue."