Her gaze softens. “That matters to you.”
“It mattered to him,” I explain.
Sadie studies my face like she’s trying to line up pieces. “You see yourself in him.”
I scoff because the truth is sharp. “Not the fame part. The loneliness part.”
She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Just nods. “I get that.”
“You’re really a fan-fan,” she states when we hit the foyer, voice pitched low.
“Don’t start.” I go into defense mode.
She smiles, not unkind. “I’m not starting. I’m just, surprised.”
We move room to room, and I try to keep my voice steady when I tell her the dumb facts I’ve hoarded since I was a kid; what album was recorded where, which guitar he used, why the upstairs stays closed, what that lightning bolt on the wall means.
Sadie listens like it matters. Like I matter. At one point we stop in the trophy room. Gold records shine under museum lights, costumes behind glass, framed photos that look like snapshots of another universe.
Sadie points her camera at a black-and-white shot of Elvis onstage, head thrown back, mic in hand like a weapon. “He looks like he owned the room,” she whispers.
“He did,” I confirm. “But he also… he didn’t.”
She turns to me. “What do you mean?”
I stare at the photo too long. “He gave everyone what they wanted.” My voice lowers. “And then went home alone.” I frown, finally snapping my gaze away from the frame.
Sadie goes still. And I hate that she understands without me saying another word. We head outside into the sun, the heat smacking us full in the face. We wander the grounds, quiet, just breathing in the place.
She takes a few shots of me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I don’t call her out. I like the way she sees me when she thinks she’s only documenting.
We end up by the Lisa Marie airplane, tourists milling around us. Sadie climbs a step for a better angle and turns to me with this bright, almost girlish grin.
“Okay, you were right. This was worth it.”
I look at her, really look. Wind-tangled hair. Sun on her skin. That open-hearted awe she can’t fake even if she tried. Something in my chest gives.
“Yeah,” I agree quietly. “I’m glad you came.”
Her grin falters into something softer. “Me too.”
And then we just, stand there. Not touching. Not talking. But close enough that I can smell the sunscreen on her skin and the faint floral of her shampoo. I shouldn’t want to close the distance but I do anyway.
“Sadie,” I start, and I don’t even know what I’m about to say.
She looks up. “Yeah?”
God. Those eyes. I take a step closer. Her breath catches. Not scared, but aware. “I’m not sure how we’re supposed to do this,” I confess, voice rough.
She blinks, cheeks lifting with a small smile. “You’re making that pretty obvious.”
I huff a laugh that’s mostly pain. “I haven’t let myself want anything in a long time.”
“And do you? Want this?” She tilts her head analyzing me.
“I think so.”
Her face changes. Slowly. Carefully. Like she’s stepping onto thin ice. “Dean-”
