14. Elora
14
ELORA
40.8021° N, 124.1637° W
“ I ’m back,” Roman calls out, and I glance at the open bathroom door like I have the ability to see into the main room.
“One second,” I mumble around the foam in my mouth before I spit, then rinse, and I dry my face on the hand towel before hanging it back up.
My stomach clenches when I step out of the bathroom and find him standing across the room, still wearing the baseball cap he put on after he kissed me good morning and told me that he was going to get us food. A kiss that twisted my stomach into knots but somehow felt familiar, as if I’d experienced it a million times before. Even though last night was the first time he really kissed me.
His eyes move over me, making my skin prickle with hyperawareness. A new sensation when it comes to him. “The shop called while I was out. The van’s ready.”
“Really?” I stop halfway across the room and glance at the old-timey clock on the dresser. “It’s not even nine.”
“They were able to track down a new motor yesterday and installed it first thing this morning.” He shrugs, walking toward me.
“So, we should be in San Francisco this afternoon?”
“Depending on traffic, yeah.”
“Awesome.” I look up at him when he’s standing in front of me and feel his hand come to rest on my hip. “Did you call your friend to let him know?”
“Not yet, but I will.” His hand slides around, moving to my lower back, then up, becoming fingers tangled in my hair that force my head back, using his grip to lift me onto my toes.
My scalp tingles, and my hands land on his chest, a sound I can’t control climbing up the back of my throat when his fist tightens. “Rom?—”
His mouth covers mine, cutting me off, and I melt into the kiss. He tastes like coffee, mint, and him. My hands move up his chest, coming to rest on his shoulders while his free hand slides under the edge of my T-shirt, wrapping around my side and moving up until his thumb comes to rest on the underside of my breast. I move my hands up the back of his neck into his hair, which I found out last night is just as soft and as thick as I thought it would be.
Using his size and the hold he has on me, he starts walking me backward toward the bed, and the moment my legs bump into the mattress, they buckle. I never lose his mouth as his weight comes down on me, and I fall to my back. Nudging my legs apart with his knee, he curls over me, tugging my head back with his hand still clenched in my hair.
The scrape of his beard on my skin makes me laugh as his lips trail down my throat, and he stops. His head comes up, his eyes wandering over my face.
“What?” I ask, still smiling.
“I just fucking love that sound.” He leans up and softly touches his mouth to mine, then pulls back. “Ready to eat?”
“Yeah.” With one more press of his lips to mine, he stands, bringing me with him. He leads me over to the bistro set, where coffee and containers of food are set out. I take a seat, and he sits across from me.
“Pancakes, omelet, or oatmeal?” he asks, passing me a paper cup filled with coffee.
“Pancakes.”
He pushes the container with a P written on top in my direction. I open the lid, then take one of the sets of plastic utensils inside a napkin and unwrap it.
“Did they tell you how much the van is going to cost when we pick it up?”
“I already paid over the phone,” he replies, and I look up at him with a bite of pancake an inch from my lips.
“You paid already?”
“It was a little over a hundred dollars, Elora,” he says softly, opening the lid on the container with an OM on top.
“A hundred dollars?” I ask in disbelief. There’s no way the part plus labor was only a hundred bucks.
“I told you it wouldn’t be much.”
“It was only a hundred dollars for them to remove my entire dash, find and purchase the part, and replace the motor on the wipers, then put it all back together?”
“The van’s old. Things don’t cost as much,” he mutters, and I press my lips together.
Now I know for sure he’s lying. My van is old and foreign, which means things actually cost more because the parts are difficult to track down.
“Roman, I know you're lying,” I whisper, setting down my fork, and he watches with his jaw clenched. “How much was it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Elora—”
“I’m not a charity case. I don’t need you to pay for me.”
“Did I say you’re a charity case?” he asks, and I can tell from his tone that he’s getting angry, but I’m getting angry, too.
“You didn’t have to say it. You trying to pay for everything speaks volumes.”
“It’s just fucking money,” he clips, dropping his fork into his open container.
“To you,” I whisper. “To you, it’s just money. To me, it’s a meal, a roof over my head, water, electricity, and other things that might not be totally essential but also are.”
“It’s also fucking useless,” he bites out, and I start to shake my head to open my mouth and tell him how wrong he is, but he gets there before me. “Believe me, Elora. I get that everyone needs money, but at the end of the day, having more doesn’t mean shit unless you’ve got something good in your life, something that makes this fucking world bearable.” He leans forward in his chair, getting in my space. “I’ve never had to want for a single thing in my life, but I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been truly fucking happy. Can you say the same?”
Oh God. My chest hurts as I shake my head. Even with all the things that happened with my dad and then with my mom, I’ve spent most of my life happy.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Rom—”
“So, I’m going to pay for your van because the money I spent getting it fixed doesn’t mean shit. What means something to me is knowing you’ll be safe and that I get another day of hearing you laugh and watching you smile.”
“Okay,” I whisper immediately.
“Okay,” he murmurs, sitting back and out of my space. “Now eat, and I’ll get us a ride to the shop so we can hit the road.”
I don’t want to eat. My stomach is a mess. His statement about how many times he’s been happy in his life plays over in my head on an endless loop. I hate that—hate the idea of him being unhappy when he’s made me happy over and over again. And not because he’s put a roof over our heads every night or food in my belly every day, but because his ship found mine when I didn’t realize I was slowly sinking.
I won’t say I wouldn’t have survived without him with me on this trip, but he's made a situation that should be unbearable bearable while dealing with his own heartache and loss. Without him, I doubt I would go to sleep and wake up each day feeling excited to be alive and a little lighter, even after doing something that made my soul ache.
“Why are you crying?”
Touching my cheeks, I realize they’re wet, and I shake my head.
“Elora,” he whispers, moving from his chair to squat in front of me, resting his hands on the tops of my thighs.
“I….” I cover my mouth with my fingers and sob. “Sorry.”
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“I…” Swallowing, I look at him as more tears fill my eyes, tears that are not for me, but for him, for whatever pushed him into driving across the country, for the loss of his brother, and for all the happiness he’s missed out on. “I just want you to be happy.” I hiccup, and his face gentles. “I hate the idea that you’re not, and I’ve been so selfish, dragging you with me while you have things you’re dealing with yourself.”
“Come here.” He falls to his bottom on the wood floor and pulls me down to straddle his lap. Cupping my face in his big palms, he smooths his thumbs over my cheeks. “I told you before there is nowhere else I want to be.”
“Your brother. You should b-be dealing with th-that. Not m-my… my stuff.”
“Each time you say goodbye to your mom, I force myself to do that with him, and it’s helping. It’s giving me the closure I didn’t get from his funeral.”
I bury my face in his neck and wrap my arms around his strong body.
“You’ve given me more than you realize, Elora.” He presses his lips against my ear and continues in a quiet whisper, “And one part of that is a feeling of happiness that isn’t mixed up with money or things. It’s pure and good, and everything fucking normal I didn’t know I was missing out on until you.” His arms give me a squeeze. “Tell me you get that.”
I do, but only because he’s given that back to me. I nod, and he lets out a deep breath. After a few minutes, I pull back enough to look him in the eye, then I press my lips to his before I get off his lap.
Once I’m in my seat and he’s in his, I force myself to eat so that we can continue with a trip I now know is healing not just me, but him as well.
“Elora,” Roman calls as his hand on my thigh squeezes. “Wake up, babe, or you’re going to miss it.” The glare of the sun without my sunglasses on makes it difficult to force my eyes open, but the moment I do, I’m met with a view that causes my breath to catch in the back of my throat. I never put much thought into why my mom wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge. I figured it would be like any other bridge I’ve seen in my life, just bigger.
I was wrong.
The towers, the arch of the cables, and the orange, not red color remind me of a graceful dragon sweeping across the water. It’s absolutely beautiful and so much larger than I ever imagined. As we drive onto it, I sit up in my seat and lift my eyes to the towers that seem to go up forever and the huge cables that are so wide I don’t think I could wrap my arms around them.
“Can we walk across the bridge while we’re here?” I ask Roman when we pass a group of people stopped and taking pictures in a smaller lane along the outer edge of the bridge.
“We’ll do whatever you want.”
I look over at him and smile—not that he sees it. His eyes are on the road where they should be, considering traffic is so heavy.
“Jace and his wife live over there.” He points across the bay at a row of houses that curl around the water’s edge.
“Have you been here before?”
“San Francisco?”
“Yeah.”
“A couple of times, but it’s been a few years.” He exits the highway when we reach the end of the bridge, and I stare out the window, trying to soak in every detail.
“What time are we meeting them for dinner?”
“Around seven. They’re coming to us since our hotel has one of the best restaurants around. I told them I would confirm the time once I got us checked in.”
This is the first time he’s told me we’re staying at a hotel. I thought we were meeting his friends, then possibly staying with them, and if I didn’t feel comfortable, we’d find a place to park and sleep in my van.
“Roman,” I whisper, and he looks over at me as he stops at a red light.
“You want me to be happy, right?”
My eyes slide closed as my heart squeezes. “Yes.”
“Then let me take care of you.”
“Okay,” I give in. After our conversation this morning, I won’t deny him anything that makes him happy. Even if that thing makes me a little uncomfortable since I don’t want him to ever think I’m taking advantage of him or his generosity.
It takes us some time to reach the destination set into the GPS, and as soon as we begin to drive down a paved road, I see multiple off-white houses curled around the edge of sweeping hills that act as a backdrop.
My stomach feels weird when we stop in front of the largest building. All the cars around us are brand new and luxurious, with their high-end emblems and shiny paint glittering under the sun. Roman’s car would have fit in among them, but my van sticks out like a sore thumb, and I know that when I get out, I’m going to have the same problem. I don’t fit in with the people walking around, the men in polo shirts and crisp shorts, the women all wearing sundresses and heels.
The moment we come to a stop, a kid who’s no older than seventeen is there to open Roman’s door, and I have to admit it’s impressive that he doesn’t seem taken aback by the state of our vehicle. “Are you staying or dropping off?”
“Staying, under King.” Roman passes him the keys for the van. “And we have a few bags.”
“Cool,” the kid says, smiling and walking off with the keys… and my only means of escape.
Roman looks at me, where I haven’t moved to unbuckle or get out. His brows drag together as he walks around the front of the van to my door before opening it.
“What’s going on?” he asks quietly, leaning across me to unhook my belt.
“Nothing.”
“Elora.”
“It’s nothing,” I repeat with a forced smile, and his eyes narrow on my cheek.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I just feel a little awkward, but I’m fine.”
“Why would you feel awkward?” he asks, staying in my space and not allowing me room to get out.
“Look at me.” I tug on the edge of my shirt. “I don’t really fit in here.”
“The way you look is permanently etched into my brain, Elora.” He leans back, pulling me with him. My feet land on the pavement, and he curls around me, his mouth lowering to meet mine. When he leans back, he doesn’t go far. “Not one fucking thing is wrong with you.”
Without another word, he takes my hand and walks with me toward the door that a man in a vest and white dress shirt opens for us.
When we step inside the hotel, I look around. From the marble floors to the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the place screams class and elegance. Everything I’m not. I look up at Roman when he squeezes my hand like he knows what I’m thinking. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s written on his face that I belong with him, and that’s all the reassurance I need to tuck my insecurities away, straighten my shoulders, and walk to the front desk at his side.