“Then there’s no doubt about who you belong to.” He winks and says under his breath, “And who’s going to be the death of me.”
I give him a nerve-racking chuckle that grates against my bones. Dear Lord, what does this man have planned?
I mean, what’s the worst it could be? My immediate thought is a dead body, but I really don’t know how much that fazes me anymore, despite how much I hate the thought. And there’s no way Mickey would show me a dead animal.
Christ, what if he made a super impulsive purchase and bought a cramped little sports car? Or like that time he bought three bikes because he couldn’t decide on one.
“Please, no blindfold,” I whisper.
Looking up at the ceiling, he groans. “I really can’t say no to you, can I?”
“I think you can.”
He squints, then bobs his head from side to side. “You’re right, I can.” As soon as we make it through the front door, he slides in from behind me, covering my eyes with his warm hands. “You said no blindfolds. Nothing about hands,” he says pointedly.
I make a noise of frustration, but my nerves are buzzing beneath my skin, so I can’t find the words to say as Mickey guides me forward. Pavement changes to gravel beneath my feet, crunching with each step we take until we come to an abrupt stop.
“You ready, Princess?”
No.
“Yes.”
I hold my breath as he removes his hands. My lips part on a gasp before I can hold it back.
A quaint sage caravan hooks onto the back of the pickup truck. Buttery cream and lace curtains peek out from behind the silver-trimmed windows. It’s the type of caravan you’d see on retro magazines and vintage-inspired mood boards.
I can already picture it nestled next to a tree by the beach while we both lounge on fold-out chairs. Or hidden away in the forest with fairy lights draped from the trimming as we picnic on the damp earth.
“Surprise,” Mickey whispers in my ear.
“Mickey,” is all I manage to say.
This is what I always wanted without truly realizing it: to be able to travel around the country, feeling sand between my toes, tasting freedom on my tongue. There would be nothing holding us back.
“I know,” he says smugly. “You don’t need to hold the applause.”
Turning in his arms, I face his stunning gray eyes that always seem to find me, even when I don’t want them to.
“It’s ten in the morning. How did you find a caravan?”
His eyes narrow into stilts before his lips spread into a smile. “Is that really the first thing that popped into your head?” He chuckles to himself. “You have such a beautiful mind, baby.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He silences me with a kiss that makes me forget whatever useless question I asked. “It’s called the internet.” Strong fingers intertwine with mine, and he tugs me along. “Let me show you our new home.” Unlocking the door, he pulls it open to let me step inside.
He wears the same look he did when we rode to the horror house all those years ago. A smile stretched from ear to ear and the attitude of a kid who knows he did well and is waiting to drown in the ensuing compliments.
Quaint is the perfect word to describe the caravan’s exterior and the most inaccurate word to describe the inside.
The silver taps and handles reflect the morning light as if it hasn’t been touched since it was installed. A bed with a mountain of pillows sits at the back, beneath a window with deep green curtains. Perfectly white cabinets, smooth wooden walls, pristine marble countertops, and even the bathroom looks like it has never been used before.
“Did you fix it?” I ask Mickey, slowly exploring the refurbished interior. Someone must have gutted this thing and slapped a new set of everything. I can’t imagine when he would have had the time to do it on top of fixing up the horror house.
He shakes his head, slapping my butt as he walks past me to fall onto the bed. “Come here,” he calls, holding his hand out for me.
Slipping my fingers into his, I let him pull me to his chest, acting as a barrier between me and the bare mattress. We lie there in silence as he draws patterns onto my back, swirls and love notes. The heat of his intense stare scorches the side of my face.
I was wrong. This whole time I was misguided in my views of Mickey. Roman Riviera isn’t a liar who abandoned me. I wasn’t nothing to him or a girl he would eventually leave.
I shift to look up at him. “Thank you,” I say without really thinking it through.
“For what?” He grins, ready to be showered in praise.
“For the caravan.” But that’s not what I’m really thankful for.
“Go on,” he fishes.
“You gave me everything else I needed when I was too focused on becoming someone else. And then for leaving,” I say. Mickey tilts his head to the side questioningly. “You gave me the chance to grieve the child I never was and become the adult I want to be.”
I was aimless, in the wrong job, living in the wrong house, surrounded by people who would rather see me fall. I was so bitter and angry from being forced into a version of myself I didn’t recognize, but I became friends with myself. And when Mickey came back, he set me free.
“But that’s not all I’m thankful for,” I add. “Thank you, Mickey, for coming back to me.”
“Always.” Soft lips press against my forehead before tucking my hair behind my ear. “Don’t thank me, Bella. It’s the only option I’d ever choose.”
“You saved me.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure how I would have gotten out of there alive without him. Part of me was too scared to, and the other part was desperate to breathe, yet unwilling to gasp for air.
He smiles at me, and I smile right back. “I don’t see it that way.”
“You’re my knight in shining armor, Roman Riviera.”
He nods his head against mine. “I am. But you never needed saving. You just needed someone to remind you that you’re not alone. And in case I haven’t told you, I’m proud of you, baby girl.”
My cheeks heat bright red at his beaming smile. “I’m proud of you too, Roman.”
Since I was six, he has spent every waking moment looking out for me, finding ways to keep me safe. I couldn’t protect him when we were children, but I can now.
Without saying the words, I stare at him, hoping he sees my promise to him.
You’ll never go back in a box, Mickey.
The rhythmic hum of the wheels rolling over pavement stops, jarring me awake. My fingers dig into the new bedspread, still crisp and fresh.
Mickey set me loose at the department store to buy whatever I wanted for the caravan. The cupboards are now filled with food, cutlery, and clothes. Fairy lights are strung across the walls over drawings done by both of us. I’m still trying to figure out how much things will move around as we drive before I decide to get anything else.
He even relented and let me buy some bras.
As much as the saying, “home is where the heart is,” is true, you still have to make the house—or caravan—feel like a home.