3
Suddenly Corden’s voice was at my ear, breath hot with tequila.
The tequila I’d denied myself for months.
He was speaking through gritted teeth, so it took a while to decipher what he’d said, but when I did, the words induced violent palpitations.
I knocked over my glass and vodka splashed down my chest, trickling onto my lap.
Fuck’s sake. I was on my fifth round and it was beginning to show.
I scanned the room, and despite all the moving bodies, spotted him with ease.
The sea of tables parted to provide an unobstructed view, like I’d shook the staff of Moses.
His blue tux jacket glowed in the low light, a beacon at the end of my tapering vision.
He looked like a trillion bucks. The confidence I’d previously had in my stylist’s more subtle choices dissipated.
We’d agreed the collarless white button down would be cutting edge.
I’d also gone for the full black jacket and trouser.
Roman had gone more formal, opting for a bowtie, a matching silk pocket square—the works. Shit, I was already comparing us.
There was a woman with him, probably a manager, but for now, no one else.
As usual, he was an island. Lone and unspeaking.
Watching his surroundings with a nervous vigilance.
I waited, expecting her to arrive. Issuing forth in that leggy, showstopping way.
A stone-cold fox. Tawny haired and pale eyed.
I expected she would take the seat at his opposite side, with that haughty possessiveness she often exhibited on social media.
She was an Instagram model, after all. Her entire purpose was to be seen and envied.
At the mere thought of her, I overheated, the flush traveling down my spine then back up to scorch the tips of my ears.
She never appeared, and I was grateful, as seeing him after two tormenting years had winded me.
I tugged my collar from around my throat and swallowed dryly.
He was here. In the flesh. Seconds ago, I had no clue whether I would ever see him again, now here he was, mere yards away.
Why? This wasn't exactly his scene. What the hell was he trying to prove?
A quick recline in my chair ensured I was covered, since I intended to study him without being spotted.
My eyes strained with the effort, as the lights in his area were dialed down for ambiance, but I refused to forfeit the opportunity.
His hair was dark and relatively long, since it always grew quickly.
The sides were artfully faded from what I could see, and the front was slicked back.
Unlike mine, his hairline was neat and symmetrical.
Months ago, he’d shaven it all down to a buzz cut that hardened him, and I’d marveled at how good he looked bald.
It was a move implemented as the final nail in the coffin of his Invicta days, and it worked. Tonight, he looked reborn.
This wasn’t Rome, this was Roman. Nothing felt familiar.
He was dark, inscrutable. Mafioso. A rockstar with an enormous record deal and a ring on every finger.
A faultless wardrobe. From what I could see, he still worked with our old stylist for major events, and she hadn't failed him yet.
But there was something else I couldn't quite fathom. Disdain? Superiority? He’d always been vain, so I ruled that out.
It must've been confidence. Newfound confidence, particularly after that crazy debut on the Billboard Hot 100, blowing Invicta's chart record out of the water in a single effort.
Part of me was proud, but the rest had begun to view him as competition.
With him out of my life, he was dangerous.
More than I’d anticipated. He’d always posed a threat of sorts, usually more insidious.
The sort of risk inherent in growing close to someone afflicted by violent rage.
But now he posed a danger to my career. In the months to come, everything I did would be held under a microscope for his having done it first. We would be compared by every opinionated stan and media publication in pursuit of a hot take.
And in that case, someone must always wind up on the losing end.
For the life of me, I couldn't imagine him losing.
He'd got to set the precedent, and it’d be his bar I aimed for, hoping to come close.
But I was also excited. I wanted our music to be mentioned in the same breath and compared for the rest of our lives, because even if we were estranged, at least our legacies could be remembered in conjunction with one another.
And in that regard, I felt no envy. I longed to hurry in his wake.
And maybe one day if I was fortunate, he'd look back and smile.
Choking up, I grabbed what was left of Jen's martini out of her hand and swallowed it in one gulp.
She fumed and snatched the olive away before I could bite into it.
I promised to get her another, though that was a lie.
I couldn't bear to look up again, let alone rise and risk drawing attention to myself.
"I'm going to kill you if you don't get me another!" she hissed, glaring at the stage as another speech began.
I reclined again and took another appraisal of the impeccably groomed stranger in the collared shirt.
Our split had fallen far beyond the realms of a potential reunion.
Far beyond the awkward handshake and a ‘long time no see’.
He grinned at something onstage, but I was too late to catch the punchline.
He was uncomfortable with the scale of the event.
With the pageantry. He didn’t trust famous people and this place was lousy with them.
I crunched my toes in my shoes before bouncing my leg beneath the table. When the glassware began to clink, Jen set a hand to my knee.
"What's wrong? Is someth—" She followed my gaze across the room. He was sipping from a short glass of liquor. He smiled again when the woman whispered something in his ear. She had a remarkable underbite, detectable from across the room.
"Did you know he'd be here?" Jen whispered to John. He looked around, then scoffed upon spotting Rome.
"Don't turn around!" I hissed. To spite me, he turned and craned even more obnoxiously than before. "Fuck’s sake, mate, what're you trying to do?!"
"Rafeeee!" A woman sang from across the room. "Rafe, luv! Look 'ere, I'm 'ere, luv!" Adele stood and laughed her ridiculous laugh, waving me over.
I blew a few quick kisses in hopes they’d suffice, but she insisted I come over.
We’d become friendly over the summer when we realized we were both vacationing at the same resort in Lake Como.
Our managers had introduced us, and we’d hung out and dined together most days until I departed home to the UK.
As someone who dominated music markets the world over, she was a tremendous friend to have in an industry often cold to outsiders.
Soon she took note of my reluctance and pouted, tracing a fake tear down her cheek.
I got up and made my way to her, crouching to avoid being seen.
We hugged awkwardly, since I was half squatting, and the entire table erupted in laughter.
She rambled in her clipped accent and called me Blue Eyes, an affectionate nickname I’d earned during our time in Italy.
It was her opinion I had the deepest and saddest blue eyes she’d ever seen.
She then smoothed down my mussed hair, fawning over how long it’d gotten and tucking it behind my ears.
Sometime later, I returned to my seat and straightened my coat.
When I glanced up, Roman was staring across the room, directly at me.
I nearly swallowed my tongue. We watched each other for a while, his face unreadable, before he brought two fingers to the top of his head in a lazy salute.
I inclined my head in response. With a half-hearted smirk, he dragged his attention back to the stage and seemed to forget he ever saw me.
As my table rose to leave, we locked eyes a second time and he gave a limp wave of farewell.
In it I heard: Good to see you. There was nothing more to be had; nothing more to be deciphered.
I knew he’d made a concerted effort to avoid giving the impression there was more.
I couldn't bring myself to smile back. As we watched each other on my way out the room, I realized I’d stopped breathing.
***
The rear exit wasn't exactly pap-free, but they’d been barricaded at a distance. I followed John and crew down the stairs into a night that had completely turned on its head. Every few steps I glanced back, searching for any sign of his emergence. None came.
Ten minutes into the ride home, Jen ventured: "Coffee?"
"Mm-hm," I muttered against my fist, elbow propped along the window.
“Espresso sounds good,” John agreed. We all had a bad habit of caffeinating after a night out.
"Sooo..." Jen began, after rerouting the driver to the nearest Starbucks. "How was it?"
I knew the question was directed at me. Playing it safe, I didn’t glance her way. I continued to watch the warped, whizzing shapes of Beverly Hills, strangled by my own cowardice.
"Lovely spread," I muttered, unwilling to encourage her.
"Not the party..." she insisted, after a careful pause. "How was it? It's been a while, right? Since you've seen him?"
"Sure. A while, I guess."
"C’mon, Rafe, gimme a little more than that, man—"
"Of what?" John interjected. "What're we on about again?"
"You didn't see?"
"Obviously not, babe."
"Roman! How could you not see him?” she gaped. “Where the flip were you?"
"How could he see anything when he never stops talking or texting?" I scoffed.
"Yeah, yeah—and how many times did you leave the table your damn self? Talking everyone’s ear off? And four drinks tonight, Ralph? Hitting it kinda hard, aren’t we?”
“Piss off.”
“Uh, five actually,” Jen corrected him, and I glowered her way.
“Wow, five. Sure, that isn’t worrying at all—"
"Back off, mate."
"You're in a mood," he snarked. "What crawled up your ass?"
"I told you: he saw Roman!" she shouted.
"I saw him too! Big freaking deal. Small world.”
"Way to trivialize probably the biggest celeb reunion of the past decade—"
"Trivialize? Please. He probably doesn’t even care. Ralph, you don’t give a shit, do you? You speak to him any?”
"No."
"No?"
"No," I ground out. "He just sort of...waved....and then I…waved…and then that was it. It was over."
"Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Brutal…”
“Well now, hang on—that's good, right?" she reasoned, ever the optimist. “It’s progress, compared to years of zero contact. Work with me on this…”
"Not really," I tossed her a glance. "It's been what? Over two years, now? Not a single word? Not a single text? After everything? It felt ludicrous, y'know? After seeing him, I just wanted to leave. I couldn’t face it."
"Maybe he wanted to come over, but couldn't—"
"I went to everyone. He could’ve easily done the same."
"But you didn't make a move towards him either, right?"
“Spare me the devil’s advocate bullshit.” I ruffled my hair, an unrelenting habit.
"So, it’s agreed.” John declared. “No one gives a fuck about that dude. His debut single was a masterclass in mediocrity. Without half a dozen songwriters and all the corporate guardrails, his music is dogshit at best—”
"Don’t listen to him. Rafe, you’re the extroverted one, theoretically," she continued. "So just imagine how daunting it must've been for him if y—"
“Y’know, this is why I never talk about this shit, alright? The band stuff. Just take his side, why don’t you?"
"It's not about sides, Rafe—"
"Isn't it?"
"No!" she laughed, then sobered. "What did you expect, exactly?"
"I just..." I nearly growled. "I dunno really. Something more, I guess? At the end of the day, it is what it is. That's just it, mate. Now we can leave it.” I dragged a hand down my mouth. “We'll go another few years without running into one another. Maybe five, maybe ten? How's that?"
"Then make a move," she shrugged.
"I did."
"Oh yeah?"
"Emailed the year he left. He totally ignored it. Changed his mobile number and moved countries. Never reached out again."
"Maybe his email changed too?"
"Mate, c'mon. People don't just change their bloody emails—"
"Some people might."
"Yeah, some people might," John cosigned, reading something on his phone. I slapped it out of his hand and he barked with laughter.