"Why?" he asks.
"Because I want to see where this goes." The words come out before I can stop them, completely reckless and so unlike me. I think this is the most I have spoken to anyone in years.
"Dom, you're the first person who's looked at my work and understood it, and when I think about you not being there anymore, not following me, I feel…" I say, but can’t finish the sentence.
"What?" he says, his voice rough. "You feel what?"
"Empty."
The word hangs between us, like a confession and invitation all at once. His hand comes up, hovering near my face but not quite touching.
"Roxy…"
"Don't," I say, stepping back. "Not yet. Not here."
"Then where?"
"I don't know. But not here, not like this."
He dropped his hand, but his eyes never leave mine. "Okay."
We walk back to our vehicles in silence. Aware of his eyes on me and the inevitability building between us like a storm, I get in my van and start the engine, looking in the rearview mirror and seeing him sitting in his car, both hands on the wheel, waiting.
I pull out of the gas station and head back onto the highway. Five seconds later, his car appears in my mirror.
Following, always following me.
And I am glad.
Later that night - Rest Stop
The rest stop is empty when I park up just after sunset. There are a few picnic tables, a bathroom building, and a stretch of cracked pavement overlooking a valley painted in shades of orange and red.
I park my van and get out, stretching muscles that ache from way too many hours behind the wheel. The air is starting to cool, with the heat of the day finally breaking and somewhere in the distance, I can hear a coyote howl.
I hear the engine of his car before I see it. That low rumble cutting through the evening’s quiet. He pulls in beside my van and turns it off. He gets out and stretches his arms above his head as he walks toward me, revealing a small glimpse of his toned stomach, and I know that this is it. This is going to be the moment we stop pretending this is anything other than what it is.
"We need to talk," he says.
"Yeah, we do."
I lead him to one of the picnic tables, and we sit across from each other, the last light of day casting long shadows across his face.
"This is wild," I say.
"That’s one way to put it."
"You've been following me for two days now."
"I have."
"I should be terrified."
"Are you?"
I briefly turn to the side and look out at the view, taking in a deep breath before I answer. When I turn back I watch the intensity in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands rest on the table like he is forcing himself not to reach for me.
"No," I said honestly. "I'm not."
