"I dunno, just to see how it feels, knowing how far we’ve come."
"I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this," I say.
"Really? Oh baby, you know I love you. When can we go?"
I look at her excited face. Is there anything I would say no to when it comes to her?
"After Tokyo, before London."
"London?"
"Petra emailed yesterday. A gallery in Shoreditch wants to show your work. Opening in six weeks."
Roxy's eyes light up. "The road continues."
"It’s the longest fucking road ever."
She slaps me in the chest.
“Asshole. You love the travelling.”
“No, I love being with you. That’s it.”
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you too."
So, we are going full circle. Back to where it all began.
We fly into Salt Lake City three days later and rent a car.
The drive south is familiar and strange at the same time. The landscape of red rock and desert hasn’t changed; endless sky, the kind of emptiness that makes you feel small and infinite at the same time.
But we've changed. A year ago, we were running. Hiding and barely holding on.
Now we're James and Roxy Brennan.
"You remember exactly where it was?" Roxy asks as we drive.
"Yeah. Mile marker 47 on Route 12. Just past the turnoff to Boulder."
"You remember the mile marker?"
"I remember everything about that day."
She reaches over and puts her hand on my thigh. "Me too."
We drive in comfortable silence, the desert stretching out on both sides. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red and purple. When we reach mile marker 47, I pull over onto the shoulder.
The roadside looks exactly the same. Red dirt, scrub brush, the endless expanse of Utah wilderness. The spot where Roxy was drawing the dead fox. We get out of the car and stand there, looking at the landscape.
"It feels different," Roxy says quietly.
"How so?"
"Like we're different people."
"We are."
