Chapter 28: Roxie
The old car wash at the edge of town has become my sanctuary. It’s a skeletal remains of a building, all rusted metal and faded neon, but tonight, under a heavy full moon, it felt like the only honest place left in the world.
I pulled my sedan up next to the van, the headlights cutting through the gloom to find Ricky leaning against his bumper. He looked like a shadow among shadows—black vest, dark hair falling over his eyes, and that posture that always screamed defiant even when he was falling apart.
I didn't even wait to fix my hair in the mirror. I just hopped out, the cool air hitting my skin, and walked straight into his space.
"You okay?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were set like he was bracing for a physical blow.
"I'm fine," he said, but his eyes told a different story. They were dark, swirling with all the jagged energy of the confrontation with Sam. "Just... tired of people thinking they can just show up and reset the clock. Like the last six months were just a commercial break in their lives."
I reached out, my fingers sliding into his. His hand was cold, but his grip was instantaneous, his fingers locking with mine like a lifeline. "My parents did the same thing today. They sat me down and talked about 'logistics' like we were a business merger being dissolved. Not a family. Just a brand that wasn't performing anymore."
"He called me Rodrick...he acted like he knew me."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there."
"Sorry I wasn't there for you too."
"It's okay."
"It's okay; we're here now." I nodded my head.
Ricky let out a short, dry laugh and pulled me closer, resting his forehead against mine. "We’re a real pair, aren't we? The princess of the broken palace and the king of the struggle bus."
"I like the struggle bus," I murmured, closing my eyes and breathing in the scent of him—peppermint, old denim, and the faint, metallic tang of the garage.
"You do?"
"It’s a lot more interesting than the palace."
We stood there for a long time, the only sound being the wind whistling through the empty wash bays and the occasional distant hum of a car on the highway. Everything felt so fragile. My home was a construction zone of packed boxes, my reputation at East Shore was a question mark, and the future was a dark road I couldn't see the end of.
But then Ricky pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. The cynicism was gone. The banter was gone. Even the "rockstar" armor seemed to have melted away in the moonlight.
"Roxie," he said, his voice dropping to a register that made my heart skip a beat. "I know I’m a disruption. I know I’ve made your life a lot more complicated than it needed to be. And I know I’m not the guy you were supposed to end up with."
"Ricky, don't—"
"No, let me finish," he said, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that made my throat tighten. "When I moved here, I thought this town was just a place to wait out the clock. I thought everyone here was a cardboard cutout. But then I met you. And you were the meanest, most infuriating, most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And the more I saw you—the real you, the girl who worries about her sister and hides in the auditorium—the more I realized I didn't want to be anywhere else."
My breath hitched. I could feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes—real ones, not the "Ice Queen" variety.
"I spent my whole life trying to be what everyone else wanted," I whispered, my hands clutching the lapels of his vest. "I thought if I was perfect, I’d be safe. But I wasn't safe, Ricky. I was just lonely. And then you showed up and started breaking things. You broke my act, you broke my silence... and you fixed me."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy; it was expectant. It was the moment before the song starts, the breath before the stage lights go up.
"I love you, Roxie," he said.
The words didn't come out like a line from a movie. They were raw, a little bit desperate, and completely, undeniably honest. They were a confession and a promise all at once.
"I love you too, Ricky," I replied, the words feeling like the first honest thing I’d said in years.
I didn't wait for him to move. I stood on my tiptoes and pulled him down, and when we kissed, it wasn't about the angst or the divorce or the secret relationship. It was about us. It was deep, slow, and filled with the kind of certainty that usually only exists in songs.
He tasted like the truth. He felt like home.
When we finally pulled apart, I was smiling, a real, messy, unpolished smile. I reached into my bag and pulled out the silver eyeliner pencil—the one he’d borrowed that morning.
"Here," I said, pressing it into his hand. "Since you’re always running out."
Ricky laughed, a genuine, warm sound that echoed off the rusted metal walls. He tucked the pencil into his vest pocket and pulled me back into his arms, spinning me around once under the pale moonlight.
"The princess and the loser," he teased, his eyes bright.
"No," I said, leaning my head against his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. "Just Roxie and Ricky. And I think that’s perfect."
As we sat on the hood of the van, watching the stars struggle to shine through the suburban light pollution, I realized that the house of cards hadn't just fallen. It had been cleared away to make room for something solid. The "Rising Moon" wasn't just a band name anymore; it was the start of something that no divorce, no gossip, and no Sam could ever take away.