11. Elora
11
ELORA
41.4017° N, 124.0417° W
Y ou know how in books, the female character always wakes feeling confused when they realize they’ve woken with the hero of the story wrapped around them? Like they don’t know how, in the night, the two of them found each other in bed, and there is a moment of panic from what it might mean?
That’s not me.
I don’t wake up surprised that I’m curled up against Roman’s chest, wondering how I got in this position. I know exactly how I ended up right where I am.
Last night, after making dinner on the grill, me cooking and him watching in amazement like he never saw anyone grill food in his life, the two of us got ready for bed. And after we both brushed our teeth and got into our pajamas—me in a T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, and him in just shorts—there was no discussion about one of us sleeping on the couch or any awkwardness as we got into bed. And when the lights were out, I didn’t hesitate to curl into him, and he didn’t falter in wrapping his arm around me.
The only surprise is that during the night after he and I fell asleep, I didn’t move an inch, and neither did he. His arm is still wrapped around me, and my head is still pillowed on his chest, with my arm stretched across his abs.
“Are you awake?” The deep rumble of his sleep-filled voice causes a wave of awareness to slide across my scalp and down my spine.
I know I’m attracted to him; I would have to be blind not to be. But since the moment I thought he was going to kiss me in the bathroom, nothing from him indicates he’s interested in me in that way. And I’m okay with that. I like this. It is easy and uncomplicated.
“Yeah.” I pull my arm back and sit up, shoving my hair, which I forgot to tie up, out of my face.
“Pretty.” The softly spoken compliment and the single finger he wraps around one of my curls make me laugh.
“I’m sure my hair is a wild mess.”
“I like it. It’s you.” His eyes wander over my face. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah.” He sits up. “What do you want to do today?”
“We need to find somewhere else to stay,” I remind him quietly, and he shakes his head. “Roman, this place is crazy expensive.”
“How long are we staying before we head to San Francisco?”
I blink, wondering how he possibly remembered that San Francisco is next when I only told him once that I can recall.
“Elora?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. A few nights.”
“All right.” He gets out of bed and then turns to face me. “I’d rather us not spend the day trying to track down a campground with spots available, not when we aren’t going to be here long.”
“Roman—”
“I’m going to call the office and see if this place is available for the next few days. If it is, we’ll stay here. If not, we’ll look for somewhere else.”
“When I get the money from selling the property, I’ll pay you back.”
Leaning down, he rests his fists on the mattress next to my hips, placing his face close to mine. “I don’t give a fuck about the money, Elora. It doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“It means something to me,” I whisper, and his face softens right before he circles the nape of my neck with his big palm. When he pulls me forward, touching his lips to my forehead, my stomach dips.
“I’m gonna go shower. When I get out, I’ll call the office and make breakfast.”
“Do you know how to work a stove?” I ask as he lets me go and stands up straight.
“We’ll find out,” he mutters, walking to his bag while I laugh. After taking out some clothes, he heads across the cabin, and I lose sight of him as he disappears into the bathroom.
Climbing out of bed, I go to the kitchen and use the single-cup coffee maker to brew myself a mugful, then take it to the front door and open it. I don’t know what time it is; there isn’t a clock in sight, and I didn’t check my phone. But I’d guess it’s early since I can see the mist coming off the water, the sun isn’t very high in the sky, and the air still holds a slight chill. I grab his sweatshirt since it’s within reach and slip it on, closing the door behind me before I bypass the two rocking chairs and pad across the wooden deck to sit on the steps.
As I sip my coffee, I watch a family of deer come out of the trees across the water and hold my breath as they drink from the pond. When I hear the door open behind me, I look back at Roman and place my finger against my lips, silently telling him to be quiet, before motioning for him to look at where the deer are now watching us after obviously hearing the door open. Surprisingly, they don’t run off. Even when he comes to sit down next to me, they do nothing more than turn their ears in our direction. Maybe they’re used to encountering humans out here and don’t think we’re a threat. Whatever it is, the moment feels surreal.
“I bet you don’t see a lot of deer in New York.”
“No, we don’t.” He takes my coffee from me and takes a sip. “The first time I even remember seeing a deer was when I was ten.”
“Ten?”
“Yeah, I begged my parents to send me to a sleepaway camp for the summer,” he replies quietly. “I had no clue what the fuck I was signing up for. I just knew that friends of mine were going, and I didn’t want to miss out.” He chuckles. “None of us knew we would be sleeping in cabins without electricity and in the middle of nowhere. All of us grew up in the city. None of us had experienced any kind of real nature or wildlife.” He looks over at me. “Our first morning, there was a baby deer in our cabin. It had come in through the screen door while we were all sleeping, and it scared the shit out of us.”
“A baby deer?”
“A baby deer,” he confirms. “But you’d think by the way we all reacted that it was a grizzly bear.” I laugh, and he smiles. “The camp counselors made fun of us for days after that.”
“I bet they did.” I grin.
“That was one of the best summers of my life.”
“You never went back?”
“No, I wasn’t able to.” He passes me my coffee. “Did you ever go to sleepaway camp?”
“No, my summers when I was old enough were spent helping my mom on the farm.”
“You guys had animals?”
“Horses, a few cows, a couple of goats, and some chickens. When Mom got sick, she sold them or gave them to her siblings because she couldn’t take care of them anymore.”
“Where was your dad?”
My insides seize while my hands around my coffee mug tighten.
“He hasn’t been in the picture for years, not since I was young.” I push up to stand, then turn and start up the stairs.
“Elora.”
“I’m going to go shower,” I tell him over my shoulder, heading into the cabin without waiting for him.
I hear him close the door while I take my empty mug into the kitchen and place it in the sink. When I turn around, I find him watching me, but he doesn’t say a word or ask me any questions even though I can see he wants to ask a million of them as he follows me with his eyes.
“When I get out, I’ll help with breakfast,” I mumble, walking to my bag to dig out my shower stuff and something to wear.
Getting his quiet “sure” in return, I walk into the bathroom, then shut and lock the door before I start the shower.
Taking a seat on the edge of the tub, I stare at the door, wondering if I should have just told him about my dad. About how he’s in prison for murdering two women and the abduction and attempted murder of another.
I should.
I should give him the choice of staying or going, knowing I have the same DNA as the worst kind of monster, a liar, and a master manipulator.
But the thought that he’ll look at me like so many others have scares me. For years after my dad was arrested, people were convinced my mother knew what he’d done and was somehow involved. She wasn’t, of course, but they all wondered how you could not know there was a monster living under your roof and sleeping next to you every night.
And since I was almost a teenager, they wondered the same thing about me or were worried I would turn out to be just like him, that whatever evil lived in him was dormant inside me. I was never invited to sleepovers or birthday parties, and I could count the number of friends I had on one hand. Tyler was one of the few people who ignored the rumors and didn’t fault me for who my father was. My relationship with him got me through those difficult teenage years when it felt like the whole world was against me. Something I will always appreciate.
Letting out a breath, I stand and quickly get undressed, telling myself that when I get out of the shower, I’ll tell Roman about my dad and leave it up to him if he wants to stay or go. It should be his choice. I don’t feel right keeping that kind of information from him, not when he’s been so kind to me.
I don’t rush. I kill time washing my hair, shaving my legs, and everything else, then I get out, wrap my hair in a towel, and get dressed. When I finally open the door, the smell of food greets me, but all it does is make my stomach churn.
“Well,” Roman starts, glancing at me quickly from where he’s standing at the stove, “I couldn’t figure out how to make an omelet, so I made scrambled eggs mixed with all the shit that was in the bag, which kind of looks like the same thing.”
“Can we talk about something?” He turns his attention fully toward me, the smile on his face faltering while his eyes scan over me. I don’t know what he sees, but his expression instantly goes blank. “When I’m done, you can decide if you want to stay or go.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything, Elora.”
“I think I do,” I murmur, walking over to the counter where he’s standing, my fingers tapping nervously at my side. “I want to tell you about my dad.”
“Elora—”
“Please,” I say quietly.
“All right.” He shuts off the stove.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans his hip against the counter, giving me his full attention. I swallow, looking into his unusual-colored eyes, and hesitate. While I was in the shower, I went over and over in my head exactly what I would say. Now, I’m not so sure how to get the words out and soften the blow at the same time.
Then again, I don’t think there is a way to make anything I’m about to say better. With a deep breath, I rip off the Band-Aid.
I tell him about my father, about how he murdered two women and was going to murder another, but she got away and was able to identify him. I tell him about how he’s in prison for two consecutive life sentences without the chance of parole and how I haven’t seen him since he went to jail. I tell him everything. About how my dad was caught right before my mom was diagnosed with cancer and how so many people were against us, which made things so much harder, especially when she needed support more than ever before. When I’m done and he just stares at me, I feel my nose start to sting, but I refuse to give in to the urge to cry.
“I can take you to the airport and?—”
“I’m not leaving,” he states, cutting me off and sounding angry. “Jesus, Elora. What the fuck?”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I know it’s?—”
“Got nothing to do with you or the person you are. You are not your father, Elora, and if anyone ever treated you differently because of who he is, that says more about them than it does about you.”
Tears I can’t control fill my eyes, and he watches as one slips from between my lashes and follows it with his gaze as it slides down my cheek. When it falls off my jaw, he closes the distance between us and wraps me in his arms, placing his mouth at my ear.
“We are not the people we come from, and I’d never judge you for what someone else has done.” The quiet words sneak past the walls I’ve built around myself and claw their way under my skin and into my chest. Pressing my face against his shirt, I cling to him as he rocks me from side to side. Cupping my jaw, he tips my head back to meet his gaze. “I really hate it when you cry.”
“Sorry.” I sniffle as he uses his thumb to wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“Feel better?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Sorry for crying all over you again. It’s starting to become a habit.”
“I don’t mind.” His face gentles, then his expression becomes grim when my stomach takes that moment to growl loudly. “I think I fucked up breakfast.”
Turning my face toward the stove, I look at the pan, and laughter bubbles up the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. When he said he added everything, he meant everything. There is bacon that looks undercooked, peppers and onions that are cut in such huge chunks they are probably still crisp, and huge slices of tomato mixed in with the eggs.
“Well…” I step out of his hold and walk to the stove, wiping my cheeks. Picking up the spatula, I move the stuff around in the pan to see if it’s salvageable.
It’s debatable.
If I turn the heat back on to cook the full strips of bacon, the eggs will likely be dried out and burnt, and if I say it’s okay to eat, we might end up with food poisoning.
Not wanting him to feel bad when he obviously tried, I look over at him. “Your attempt was gallant, but I think we should go out for breakfast.”
“Thank fuck.” His shoulders sag in relief, making me laugh.
Sitting on the steps in front of the cabin while Roman is on the phone inside, I smile as I watch two birds fly over the water and dive-bomb each other. We are supposed to leave tomorrow morning, and even with Roman and me going out every day to take in the sites and explore the area, I still haven’t found the spot for my mom’s ashes. I think it’s because something keeps pulling me right back here. She would have loved this spot. She would have been out here every morning, just like me, drinking coffee and watching the deer, who show up at the same time each day to drink from the pond and eat the tall grass at the water’s edge.
It's picturesque, even with the storm clouds rolling in over the pond, washing away the pretty pinks and blues reflected in the mirrored surface and turning it gray.
With my mind made up, I stand and head inside to get the bottle of her ashes that has traveled everywhere with me for the past few days. The moment I push through the door, Roman’s eyes track my every move, and when he sees me grab the bottle from the table where I placed it after we got back this evening and put it in my pocket, I hear him tell whoever he’s talking to that he has to get off the call.
“Where are we going?” he asks, tossing his phone to the bed as he stands.
“You don’t have to go with me. I know you’re working.” I grab my flannel off the back of the chair and slip it on.
“Where are we going?” he repeats, putting on his sneakers, and I stop to focus on him.
“To the other side of the pond.”
“All right.” He grabs his sweatshirt and puts it on, then walks to the door and holds it open for me.
When we get down the front steps, he takes my hand, and the two of us head around the edge of the pond. It isn’t very big, but it’s still large enough to take us some time to get to the area I picked from the cabin steps. Thunder rumbles in the distance as we walk, but Roman doesn’t pick up his pace or suggest we turn back. He walks beside me, only stopping when I pull the bottle from my pocket. It starts to sprinkle when we reach the large tree near the water’s edge, and I squat down, placing the bottle aside. As I start to dig, he comes over to join me, his hands and mine working in unison to create a hole in the soft dirt at the base of the tree. Once it’s a few inches deep, I take the bottle and dump the contents into the hole, then cover the fine dust with a layer of dirt.
“She would have liked it here,” I tell the ground, and he covers my mud-covered hands with his as I start to cry. Grabbing my wrist when thunder rumbles overhead, he pulls me up to stand, then, in one quick motion, I’m in his arms. I cling to him, my tears mixing with the rain that begins to pour down on us as he carries me back to the cabin.
When we reach the covered porch, he sits on one of the two rockers, and I curl up on his lap as the rain beats against the tin roof. I don’t know how long we sit there, but the mud on my hands turns to dust, and the rain stops long before my tears dry up.
Exhausted emotionally, I lift my head from his chest where I had been listening to his heartbeat in an even tempo against my ear.
“Ready to go inside?” he asks, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear.
“Yeah,” I whisper, my throat raw from crying.
When we get into the cabin, I kick off my muddy shoes and he does the same before he leads me toward the bathroom. When we get inside the confined space, he flips on the sink and steps up behind me, circling me with his arms and taking my hands in his.
“Thank you.” I swallow down the tears building in the back of my throat as he washes the mud from our hands.
“For what?”
“For making this all bearable, for being here.”
“There is nowhere else I’d rather be, Elora.” His gaze meets mine in the mirror. “Not one fucking place.” With my chin wobbling, I nod and drop my eyes to his hands and mine.
When there isn’t a speck of dirt left on our hands, he urges me from the bathroom and passes me my pajamas out of my bag. I don’t bother going back to the bathroom to change. It seems pointless when he’s seen me at my most vulnerable. Turning my back to him, I get out of my damp clothes and put on my shorts and tank top. Once I’m dressed, I turn to face him, expecting to find him ready for bed. Instead, he has a sweatshirt on and one in his hand that he holds out to me.
“What are we doing?”
“Taking in the quiet one last time before we reach the noise of the city tomorrow.”
“I thought you didn’t like the quiet.” I let him help me put on his sweatshirt that is so big it reaches me mid-thigh.
“I don’t, but I think I might miss it when it’s gone.” He leads me to the front door and out to the deck. Walking to the steps, he sits on the top one, and I take a seat next to him. With the storm now gone and the moon nothing but a sliver in the sky, the stars seem abnormally bright.
“I never noticed the stars before leaving New York.”
“You didn’t?”
“I never took the time to look up.”
“I don’t think I did either, now that you say it.” I lean into his side, and he wraps his arm around me.
“I think we all take them for granted because there is no risk of them fading away before we have the time to look up and appreciate them. Unlike so many other things, we know they’re there and aren’t going anywhere.”
“Yeah.” I drag in a breath and rest my head on his shoulder. “But I think I’m going to stop to appreciate them a little more often.”
“Me too,” he says quietly, tucking me more firmly against his side.