Page 43 of Trust Fund Baby

Her sleeves were pushed up past her elbows, revealing skin still sun-kissed from the day. Her hair was free and unkempt, and she was looking at old records that James’s family kept out here.

“Looking for something specific?” I asked, my voice barely above a murmur as I leaned against the doorframe.

With a half-smile, she glanced back, and I was instantly drawn into a private, shared moment that only Roxie and I knew.

“Of course,” she said, holding up a dusty Fleetwood Mac album like a prize.

I stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind me with a soft click. “Rumours?” I asked, eyeing the cover.

“Obviously.” She stood up and turned back to the record player, lowering the needle. A soft crackle filled the space, then Stevie Nicks’ voice curled through the room like smoke.

I watched her for a second longer than I meant to. The slope of her shoulders. How she moved slowly from side to side as if the music were filling her with new life. The way her eyes closed, and she swayed softly back and forth. There was something cinematic about it.

She flopped back onto the couch, legs curling under her. “You here to critique my music taste or are you avoiding the house like I am?”

“Little of both.” I dropped into the worn armchair across from her and took a sip of my beer. “I figured I’d save myself the trauma of hearing anything I’d rather not.”

Roxie laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Fair. I was thinking the same thing myself.”

The music filled the quiet for a moment, but I didn’t rush it. I just watched her and the soft rise and fall of her breathing. The way her fingers traced the edge of the album sleeve in a careful caress.

“I meant what I said earlier,” I said finally.

She looked up, brow raised. “Which part?”

“That I’ve never felt this way about anyone since you.”

Her smile faded, but not in a bad way. It just got quieter. More real.

“I figured you’d been with someone,” she said, her voice soft. “All those tabloid headlines. All those girls.”

I shook my head, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. “Yeah, some of those articles weren’t true, but some of them were. I’ve had a few relationships. Haven’t you?” I asked. “But none of them were serious. It’s easy to look like you’re living a full life when you’re trying not to feel anything.”

She watched me with those eyes that always seemed to see too much.

“And now?” she asked.

“Right now,” I said, “I feel everything.”

Stevie’s singing was the only sound that broke the silence. But Roxie didn’t look away, didn’t shut me out, and that felt like something.

I stood and crossed to the couch, stopping just short of touching her. “Rox, I’m not saying I know how to do this or what we should do. I don’t have a blueprint for what the two of us together looks like now. But I want to try and see if it could work. If you’ll let me.”

Her eyes searched mine. “I don’t want to go backward.”

“I don’t either,” I said. “I want to see what forward looks like—with you.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, without a word, she reached for my hand and tugged me down beside her.

We sat there, side by side, listening to the scratch of the record, the waves crashing beyond the walls, our shoulders brushing.

Her fingertips traced the lines in my palms, then she flipped them over to trace the tattoos. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”

We turned toward each other, instinct or gravity pulling us closer, and then we kissed. No, Roxie kissed me. I’d waited so long for this moment, and it was finally here.