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“You know, this is a first for me,” he chuckles.
“What is?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Hearing somebody say that moving to Dallas was on their bucket list,” he clarifies. “I mean, it’s a cool city, but it’s no New York or London.”
“Let me guess,” I exhale. “You’re from here?”
“Born and raised,” he nods.
“See,” I hum. “You grew up here, so of course the thought of anyone else dreaming about living in Dallas seems absurd. It’s your home, what you’ve always known. But to others, it’s exciting and unknown. It’s a new experience. It’s like people who live at the beach. They don’t think it’s anything special, but to others, their home is considered a vacation destination.”
He purses his lips together and nods in agreement.
“When you put it that way I guess it makes more sense,” he admits. “So, where are you from Ms. Taylor?”
Ms. Taylor.
Is he flirting with me? It definitely feels like he’s being flirty, calling me Roxy and Ms. Taylor. I’m not sure where this more lighthearted, fun version of Elliot is coming from, but I’ll take it.
“I was born in New Mexico, but Dad was in the military so we moved around a lot. I can’t really claim one specific place as my home.”
“Gotcha,” he remarks. “So, where does he live now?”
I flinch at his words.
“Huh?” I understood every word, but I’m trying to stall because I despise this question.
I hate explaining that I’m the girl who lost both of her parents by the age of twenty-five. I hate the pity and theI’m sorry. I know people are just trying to be nice but for me, it’s sad and uncomfortable. I just dread it all. Grief is like a roller coaster that has no end destination.
“Your dad,” he clarifies. “Where does he live now?”
I don’t knowanymore.
I wish I knew.
I wish I could find him again.
I swallow down the lump in my throat and stare out the window. I don’t want to see the look in Elliot’s eyes when I tell him that not only my dad, but my mom is gone too. Even though he didn't ask about my mom, I might as well address it now. People instinctively ask about her after they find out that my dad is dead.
“My mom passed away from cancer when I was three,” I choke out. “I don’t really have any vivid memories of her, but my dad always told me that she fought like hell until her last breath. He said her biggest fear was losing me.”
The car goes deadly silent at the same time I feel Elliot’s gaze burning a hole through the side of my face. It feels protective almost. Comforting.
“My dad retired from the military at fifty-five, and the day he turned fifty-six, he was diagnosed with aggressive dementia.”
“One year,” I whisper, more to myself than to Elliot. “After working his entire life, he got one year of retirement before he got sick. Five years after he was diagnosed, he stopped being able to eat, speak, use the bathroom alone, or do any basic activity. Just like my mom, he fought until his last breath because he didn't want to leave me alone in this world. He was the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
We sit in silence as I close my eyes, forcing back the tears threatening to fall. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve told this story, but it never gets easier.
“Roxy,” Elliot croaks, reaching across the console to place his large palm over my forearm. His long fingers wrap around my wrist as his thumb swipes soothing brushes along my skin.
My skin tingles with awareness, every hair on my body standing up at the feeling of his rough skin against mine.
It feels good to be touched. It feels good for someone to care, even if it’s Elliot Thompson.
“So yeah,” I tremble, my voice coming out weak. “That’s the story of how I became a twenty-five-year-old orphan.”
His hand tightens around my wrist in a comforting embrace.
