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“One good deed doesn't count for shit,” he scoffs. “Lots of bad people do good things from time to time. You don’t really know me, Roxanne. And trust me, it’s better to keep it that way.”
Who the hell is this guy? Darth Vader?
“Jesus Christ, Elliot,” I chuckle. “You’re acting like you’re a serial killer or something. Have you murdered someone?” I ask, completely joking.
His entire body stiffens at the question, going deadly still. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw tenses, and his nostrils flare.
Holy shit.
Wait…Has he actually killed someone before? Why else would he be acting this way?
“We’re here,” he says through clenched teeth, pulling to a stop in front of my apartment building.
His fingers that were resting casually against the steering wheel are now wrapped tightly around it. He keeps his gaze focused on the road, not daring to look at me.
“What the hell, Elliot?” I ask.
My heart is beating a mile a minute, but I also don’t believe that this man sitting next to me could literally kill someone.
“Have a good evening, Roxanne,” he says flatly.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask. “You were fine less than a minute ago. Now, you’re white as a ghost. You look like you’re going to be sick.”
His fingers clench around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.
“I amnotgoing to ask you again,” he says in a low, threatening tone. “Get out of my car, Roxanne. I will see you in the morning.”
I reach for his arm but he pulls away quicker than the lightning shooting through the sky.
“Elliot,” I exhale. “I’m not trying to pry, I’m just worried about you. You don’t look okay. Are you sure you’re okay to drive home? Do you want to talk about whatever is bothering you–”
“Get out of my fucking car!” he booms, raising his voice to match the thunder.
My shoulders jump in shock at his reaction.
I’m startled, but I’m not scared. Not one bit.
Because the look on his face isn't one of a cold, heartless, murderer. It’s the look of a broken man who’s gone through something traumatic.
If sorrow, regret, and pain could be captured in one picture, it would be the sight of Elliot Thompson sitting next to me in this moment.
Part of me wants to reach out and brush away the damp curl from his forehead, but the other half of me knows he won’t allow it. Not in the state he’s in right now. So I decide to get out and give him the space he needs.
I gather my things, open the door, and slip out into the rain.
“Goodnight, Elliot,” I rasp as my feet hit the pavement.
And for a second, just for a split second, Elliot glances at me out of the corner of his eye. His eyes are filled with water that isn't from the rain. His bottom lip trembles, like he’s doing everything he can to keep himself from breaking.
He lowers his head in defeat, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. A single droplet of water slips down his cheek, and I swear it's a tear.
The unthinkable happens as I stare at him, finding he looks so much more like a broken boy in this moment than a man. My heart breaks for him. My heart actually cracks in two for Elliot because whatever he’s been through has altered his entire life. Much like my own past.
I don’t know why I say what I say next, but the words fall effortlessly from my lips.
“You have a good heart, Elliot,” I whisper. “My dad always taught me to trust my intuition, and deep down, I know that you’re not a terrible person. Yes, you can be an asshole, but you’re not heartless. You can’t let your past define you, or you’ll be miserable for the rest of your life.”
He shakes his head in protest against the wheel.
