Trip To New Hope

Chapter 4: Trip To New Hope

Two Weeks Later…

“You’re wearing my hoodie.” Roman stated. “When did you steal that one?”

“I didn't steal, I borrowed. Those are two different things.” I muttered, buckling in, “if I die on this trip, tell everyone I looked cute and smelled amazing.”

“Will do. You sure you got everything?” He asked as he settled into the driver seat.

“Anxiety? Check. Emergency snacks? Check. A dress that my sister says is ‘too good for me’? Triple check.” I counted off my fingers.

“That was a low blow, by the way. I can't believe she said all that over a dress. You okay?”

“I'll survive. She's said much worse to me.”

“And the most important? Did you get it?” Roman started his sleek, black Aston Martin. His sunglasses perched perfectly atop his hair.

I grinned wickedly. “You bet.”

Roman laughed as he pulled away from the curb. “Remind me never to mess with you, Sav.”

“Or buy you a wedding gift.” I added.

“No need to worry about that. I'm never getting married. Ever.” He emphasised.

I rolled my eyes. “Everyone says that. Then boom, suddenly they're happily married with twenty kids and a dozen dogs.”

He scoffed. “Cute picture. But not for me.”

I frowned. I've known Roman for five years and this is the first time he's ever spoken about this.

“Why?”

“Some things just aren't meant for some people. Sav, look at me, do I look like the type of guy that fits into that picture?” He asked with one hand on the steering.

I took a good look at him. From his green eyes to his Adam's apple down to his ivory coloured cashmere sweater and black pants. “Sure.”

He shook his head. “I don't think so. I like my life as it is.”

“If you're anti-marriage, why are you going with me to New Hope?”

He glanced at me before turning his attention back to the road. “Who knows? Maybe it's the spirit of adventure. Maybe for experience? Or just because I'd do anything for you.”

I let that sink. “Why don't you wanna get married? I know I do want to settle down some day when I'm older.” I placed a hand on my chest.

“You're turning thirty, Savannah.” He cackled.

“I can still say when I'm older. There's no rule that prevents thirty-year olds from saying it.” I argued. “Besides, you never stated the reason why you swore off marriage.”

“Let's not dig up dead bodies, love.”

I playfully glared at him. “I'm still gonna get that story out of you, one way or another.”

“Till then, love.” Roman smiled.

An hour into the drive, the GPS announced: "Continue on I-95 North for 67 miles."

I looked at him, head tilted. “Okay. It’s time.”

“For?”

I turned dramatically in my seat, pulling out my phone.

“The road trip playlist. It’s a sacred ritual. First song sets the tone.”

Roman arched an eyebrow.

“If you play Taylor Swift, I’m driving us into a river.”

I gasped.

“You take that back.”

“You take that playlist back.”

We wrestled over my phone like children, with Roman not wanting to give it up. At one point, I climbed halfway into his lap trying to pry it back, giggling and shrieking.

“I will end you, Blackwood!” I swore.

“You’re gonna get us pulled over.”

Eventually, I gave up, breathless and flushed.

He handed the phone back with a smirk.

“Fine. Play your heartbreak anthems.”

“Damn right I will.”

I queued up a dramatic song about betrayal and exes. We listened in silence for a beat.

Then I said, softly, “Do you think they’ll believe us?”

Roman didn’t answer right away.

Then he said, “I think if we’re not careful… we might start believing it ourselves.”

We looked at each other…

Then burst into laughter.

“You almost got me.” I giggled.

~~~~~~~~~

We've been driving for two hours. Conversation flowed like it always did with Roman—effortless, familiar, full of sharp banter and long silences that never felt awkward.

“You sure you want to do this?” I asked as we passed the ‘Welcome to New Hope’ sign. “There’s still time to turn around. Fake a car fire. Say you got food poisoning. Or I can say I had a pregnancy scare.”

“I canceled a sexy vacation for this,” he said. “I’m not half-assing it, Sav.”

“Right. Because this is a performance.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave me that unreadable look again… the one that made me feel seen in ways I wasn’t ready for.

“This isn’t just a performance, Sav,” he said finally. “It’s the start of a battle.”

I nodded. “They're not gonna know what hit them.”

The moment we crossed into New Hope, my stomach dropped. The group chat was still buzzing.

I looked out the window to places I used to know.

People I used to know.

The houses grew more familiar, more homey, and more weaponized by nostalgia and memories I thought I'd successfully kept buried.

By the time Roman turned into the gravel driveway of my childhood home, my hands were sweating.

Can I really pull this off for one week?

“Sav? You okay?” He reached over to place his free hand on my thigh.

I smiled. “Of course. I just got sucked into the music.”

We both turned to the house. Me, with a glum expression. Him, with surprise.

“Sav, are you sure we're at the right house?”

I gulped. “Yes.”

The Hart family home was nestled at the end of a winding, tree-lined driveway.

A timeless monument made of stone, with ivy creeping along the edges like whispers of old secrets.

Two tall brick chimneys crowned the sharply gabled roof, hinting at roaring fires that warm the silk-draped drawing rooms. The tall, amber-lit windows that still glow like honey at dusk, spilling golden light across the manicured hedges that flank the front entrance with a soft arch that cradles the wooden double doors, facing the wraparound porch with wrought-iron lanterns and polished oak railings

And finally, to the left stood a blooming cherry tree bush with pink petals against the stone like a blush that won’t fade, no matter how many winters come and go.

“Your house is quite bigger than I imagined.”

“I forgot to mention my dad is a retired federal judge.” I ran my sweaty palms over my black joggers.

“You skipped the part where you're supposed to let me know the Harts live in a fortress.”

Nevertheless, Roman pulled into the gravel driveway like he owned the place.

The welcoming committee was already waiting at the front entrance.

My mom. My older sister, Alyssa. My aunties. My cousin, Lizzie, from Florida. My little niece. Chloe in head-to-toe white.

And worst of all— Dean fucking Archer.