Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gas stations are so romantic.
Elodie
“Gas station! Gas station! Gas station!”
Rested and restored, I cheer for our road trip beginnings as we exit Bandera after a tearful goodbye during which I was made to promise that my R&R would continue—as much as possible—when I left.
Keeping that promise, I start by handling the most important tool in my resting and restoring arsenal: snacks.
“You’re going to get heart disease,” Roman grumps. “And gut disease. And every other disease, probably.”
“Gas station!” I cheer. “Heart disease! Gut disease! All disease!”
He sighs. “I can’t believe you gave our road snacks to Sol.”
Heh. “Gas! Sta! Tion!”
He groans as he clicks on his turn signal on, and I buzz.
“This is a terrible idea. I’m going to get disease by proximity.”
“You’re going to get disease by consumption ,” I correct. “Because you, my friend, are going to experience the magic of a gas station road trip snack haul if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Friend, huh?” He parks, throwing me a look I can’t decipher.
“Are we not?” I ask. Surely after multiple nights of his freckles, just there , we are friends. A not-friend would never have put all of those… freckles on display like that. “I thought that was part of your whole thing .”
“By ‘whole thing,’ you wouldn’t happen to be talking about my dedication to becoming a better, kinder, more understanding, more patient, less self-righteous member of society, would you?”
“I would,” I confirm. “That comes with friendship, yeah?” At the very least, it comes with him shirtless during our every moment alone all weekend.
“You want to be my friend?”
Well… “ Want is kind of a strong word, don’t you think?”
He rolls his eyes, tugs one of my wayward curls, and gets out of the car. “We’re friends.”
I skip after him into the gas station, giddy for snacks, if not friendship.
“Excellent. Then you’ll be consuming lots and lots of terrible-for-you things with me.
If I see you so much as look at a nut while we’re in here, I’m stealing your keys and stranding you.
We’re here for gummy worms, soda, and Cheez-Its.
No peanuts. Definitely no pistachios. I will allow sunflower seeds, but only if you get the flavored ones.
And, for the love of all, do not go near the fruit basket. ”
He grunts, doing very little to convince me he’ll stay away from the slim healthy pickings provided.
I open my mouth to educate him further on what a snack should and should not be, but then I see it.
The ultimate of ultimate gas station amenities—a kitchen.
I squeal, beelining for the counter. The man behind it stares at me, dead-eyed, as all gas station kitchen workers should be.
“I’ll have a slice of pepperoni, three chicken strips, nachos, and a soft pretzel.
” I spin, catching Roman as he peers into the fruit basket at an endcap across the store.
I sigh, then yell,“Salty! What do you want?”
He joins me. “For you to stop yelling in public, maybe?”
“It’s a gas station . They don’t care. Right?” I ask my dead-eyed friend. He shrugs. “See? It’s all good. Now tell the man what you want.”
“I don’t suppose you guys have anything green back there?”
Ugh. “Roman, stop being a snob.”
“We have some oregano you can shake onto your pizza,” the counter guy says slowly, pointing to a reused shelf-stable parmesan cheese bottle full of oregano. A piece of paper with “ORGAYNO” written across it is taped over the red grocery store label.
Roman recoils.
“He’ll have a slice of pepperoni too,” I tell the guy. “And a burger. And an order of fries, thanks.”
He nods, presses a few buttons on his register, then gestures to it. I elbow Roman when he doesn’t move.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says. “I’ll be paying for this lapse in judgment in plenty of ways, but monetary isn’t one of them. You want us to guzzle carcinogens? Then you can sponsor it.”
Fair enough, I suppose. I stick my tongue out at him anyway, then I pay using the household emergency fund account, which Roman puts money into monthly.
When he gave me the card, he said, “This is for household emergencies only. The ceiling collapses. The driveway cracks and needs repair. A tornado rolls through and steals our roof. Emergencies .”
This is, surely, just such a household emergency. We are the household, and starvation is imminent. It’s been hours since we ate last. Why, we only have weeks left at this rate!
“Lets go raid the aisles.” I grab Roman’s hand and lead him to the chips.
“You ordered half the stuff that guy sells,” Roman replies, twining our fingers together to pull me to a stop. “When are we even going to eat all of this junk?”
Uh. “In the car.” Duh.
“The drive is six hours, not twelve months.”
I eye him. “Six hours, yes, but you’re the size of a truck, and I’m not exactly small myself. We need sustenance.”
Incredulous blue eyes sweep over me. “What do you mean ‘not exactly small?' You’re tall, sure, but you’re slender. I could pick you up with one arm.”
I very much doubt that.
I raise an eyebrow, and then watch for the moment he takes it for what it is: a challenge.
Smug pride washes over his face as he lets go of my hand, squats, and deftly lifts me until I’m sitting on his shoulder, looking over the gas station like some sort of convenience store goddess.
“Whoa,” I whisper, hand grappling over his short hair in a vain attempt at finding purchase before moving lower, where I fist the collar of his shirt instead. “It’s very high up here.”
“Going down,” he warns before popping me forward on his shoulder and sliding me down his body, my back to his front. His hands steady me at my waist as I fall, twisting in my panic to keep hold of his collar.
“Roman!” I yell.
By the time I hit the floor, I’m plastered to him, arms around his neck, heart beating its way out of my chest. “Have you,” I wheeze, “lost your mind?”
His eyes drift, roaming over my curls, the contours of my face, and around, pausing on my nose, my eyes, my… lips.
I stop breathing.
Is he…
My eyes widen as his darken.
He is . He’s thinking about kissing me.
I am suddenly very, very aware of our position—of every place we meet.
His arm across my back and the way that his chest presses into me until I’m bent over that arm just enough for our faces to meet on equal ground.
His hand on my side, fingers spread wide across the span of my waist. Their heat penetrates my T-shirt, and I could swear that his fingerprints are branding my skin.
His other hand, digging into my hair and pulling until my head tilts, putting me where he wants me.
My eyes fall closed as his nose coasts along my cheekbone—slowly, almost hesitant. His beard scratches my skin as his lips brush featherlight against my cheek. “Elodie,” he murmurs. “Can I—”
“ Order up! ”
Roman’s hands clench against me, and I open my eyes just in time to see him tip his head back, irritation hardening his jaw. He glares in the direction of the kitchen.
“Is that guy serious?” he growls. “ Now he wants to have a voice?”
“Um,” I mutter. “Were you going to kiss me?”
He scowls. “Yeah, and that idiot ruined it.”
“Aha,” I nod. Not that him kissing me makes any sense, but… “I told Ruby that friends kiss each other.”
His attention returns to me, brows drawn. “You kiss your friends?”
“Sure,” I answer, confused. “Isn’t that just what we were about to do?”
He looks, if possible, even more displeased. “You kiss your friends. Regularly. Casually. Your male friends.”
My nose scrunches. “Of course not!” It isn’t regular or casual, for one thing. For another, it’s not all of my male friends.
When I don’t say more, he orders, “Explain.”
“I don’t think I want to,” I sniff. “Not when you’re being bossy and judgmental.”
“I’m not judging you,” he retorts. “I’m figuring out what your normal is so that I know exactly what I need to do so that when I kiss you, you know that it isn’t friendly, regular, or casual.”
I blink.
Oh.
That is…
Oh .
Butterflies swarm in my stomach.
“Yeah,” he clips. “So answer my questions.”
“I’ve never kissed the same man more than once, and the once is always just…” I bite my lip. “To check.”
“Check what?” he demands.
I blush. Butterflies landing and taking flight as I wonder at how quickly bossy can turn from irritating to really freaking hot . “If he’s my soulmate?”
He hums, considering. “And they haven’t been?”
“I’m still alone, so…”
He nods, a single, brisk tip of his head. “I’ll have to fix that, then.”
“Fix me being alone?” I squeak.
He nods. “And the soulmate problem. I think I can two-birds-one-stone it.”
I blink, certain the butterflies have taken over my cognitive functions, because Roman didn’t just say he wants to fix my soulmate problem, did he? “I’m confused.”
“What’s confusing you?”
“The whole kissing-soulmate-stop-me-being-alone thing,” I say. “What am I missing?”
“You’re not missing anything. I want to kiss you, be your soulmate, and stop you from being alone,” he answers, fingers pressing into my side.
“But…” I gulp. I will the butterflies to shut up—to give me back the ability to think clearly. “Since when?”
“About two days ago, but probably longer. I could try to pinpoint the exact moment I fell, but I don’t think I’ll find it.
It crept up on me, slowly sliding through the cracks until my every thought, my every breath, my every instinct revolved around you.
Keeping you safe. Keeping you close. Keeping you loved. ”
The butterflies fly faster, fluttering up through my ribcage and brushing against my heart. Blood rushes to my head as I fight to think. “Are you… I mean… are you sure?”
I would hope he is, if he’s telling me what I think he’s telling me. But at the same time… we’ve only just become friends. If he is sure, then this is the speedrun of the century.
“Positive,” he confirms. “I was sure before I even knew I was sure. I’ve been loving you for months, unaware.
” He rests his forehead on mine, closing his eyes.
“And that was when you were spending every waking hour hating me, fighting me, doing all that you could to make my life worse. Still, somehow, I’d wake up and I’d look forward to seeing you again.
The day you moved in was simultaneously the worst and best day of my life.
I hated losing Ruby, but having you there…
having you close, where I could check on you?
Where I could tell at a glance that no harm was coming to you? I sleep better now. I relax better.”
He makes an unpleasant noise low in his throat.
“I did, anyway. I hate that even with you close, I missed so many signs that you weren’t okay mentally, even when physically you were fine.
I want to do everything I can to make you safe in all aspects of your life—physical, emotional, whatever.
I want to be the person who has that honor forever.
I want to figure out how to balance protecting you and letting you make your own choices, so that you can be safe and happy.
I want to be the only man who keeps you safe.
The only man who makes you happy.” He sighs, running his hand through my hair.
“The only man who gets your soulmate kisses.”
My knees go weak. “That sounds pretty sure,” I mumble.
His nose bumps mine as his eyes crinkle at the edges. “Yeah, Sweet. I’m pretty sure.”
“I’m not… I don’t…”
He shushes me. “I don’t expect you to feel the same way back. Not right now. Not after the way I’ve treated you. My emotions are just that—mine. They aren’t meant to be a burden passed on to you. All I give to you now is my heart, and I ask that you look after it while I go about winning yours.”
Well. That I can do. Probably. Surely. The butterflies think I can, anyway, and I trust them.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay,” he whispers back.
“But… does this mean I have to be nice to you now?”
He snorts, kissing my nose before untangling us. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing,” he says. “Except maybe eating three full meals a day.”
Oof. “I can promise you that today I will eat the equivalent of three full meals. At least.”
He sighs, prodding me toward the chip aisle as the kitchen calls, again: “ Order! Up! ”
“Today we give ourselves disease. Tomorrow we eat things with nutrients.”
He leaves me to pick up our hot food with a kiss on the cheek, sparking a riot among the butterflies.
“Carrot cake has nutrients,” I call after him, blushing. “Vitamin C, I heard!”
His head shakes as he walks away, but the butterflies tell me he doesn’t mean it. He didn’t ask me to change myself for him or because of him. He doesn’t think I’m too silly or too much or too loud—or maybe he does, but he likes it.
Loves it.
Wants to protect it.
I grab three different kinds of chips, a bag of buffalo sunflower seeds, a Reese’s pumpkin, and some Cheez-Its before moving on to the soda fountain. In the end, we carry ten bags out of the gas station.
And one of them, secretly, has an apple in it.