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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.
