This was people with everything still finding a way to make their daughter feel like she’d failed them.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
In college, I’d thought I had Roxie figured out.
Rich girl. Perfect hair, expensive clothes, parents with names people recognized. The kind of person who floated through life cushioned by money and connections, who would never understand what it was like to worry about overdraft fees or rent or whether your car would make it through another winter.
I’d been wrong.
Yes, she came from wealth. That part was undeniable. But watching her today, hearing the way her parents talked about her choices, the way they measured her life against their expectations, it was obvious she’d spent years trying to carve out something separate. Something that belonged toher. Starting over, not because she needed to, but because she didn’t want to turn into them.
I’d mistaken privilege for ease.
And they weren’t the same thing.
We stopped at a red light, and I glanced over. Roxie was still staring out the window, lips pressed together, eyes glassy but determinedly dry.
“Hey,” I said quietly, hoping to bring her out of her thoughts.
She turned to look at me, forcing a small smile. “Hey.”
The light changed before I could think of something else to say, and I pulled forward again.
Thankfully, she spoke so I didn’t look dumb as I tried to think of the right words for the moment.
“Thank you,” she said. “For today.”
I kept my gaze on the road. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do,” she insisted. “You didn’t have to do … any of that. Standing up for me. Calling my parents out like that.” Her voice softened. “Being the attentive husband.”
Something in my chest tightened at the words.
Attentive husband.
It wasn’t pride that hit me. It was grief.
Because I’d been that guy before. Careful, present, always watching for the moment someone might need me, and it still hadn’t been enough. Hearing her say it now, like it was something solid and good, cracked open a place I usually kept sealed shut.
“I meant it,” I said. “All of it.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s why it meant so much.”
Silence settled again, but it felt different now. Less sharp. More fragile.
After another minute, she shifted in her seat, turning fully toward me. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“How are you so good at that?” she asked. “The boyfriend thing. Or, I guess, the husband thing. Knowing when to step in, when to touch my hand, when to just be there.”
I swallowed.
That wasn’t a question I’d expected.
It felt like she’d reached past the joke, past the arrangement, and grabbed something real.
I hesitated, considering my answer, but there was no easy, surface-level response that would satisfy her. Not now. Not after everything we’d just walked out of.
