14. Waverly
CHAPTER 14
WAVERLY
Fortunate:I have someone in my life who is guiding me like a father figure would.
Unfortunate: Nightmares keep me awake almost every night.
The warmth of the sun is hugging my soul. I allow my arm to fall to my side, yet unable to move the rest of my body. There he is. “Patrick?” I peek out of the corner of my eye to look at him.
“Waverly, wake up! You need to move. The water, it’s coming fast!” I start to panic. A massive wave is barreling toward us, but I can’t move! My body is dead weight, and my eyes will barely open.
“Waverly! Waverly…”
“Waverly…Waverly…” A hand touches my shoulder and I pop up, sweating and out of breath. I look around filled with pure panic, searching my surroundings for safety… Roman .
He sits down on the bed next to me with fear in his eyes. “Hey, are you okay? Breathe…” His hand rubs my back in slow, steady circles. I don’t ask him why he’s here or how he got in, I’m just relieved I’m not alone.
My breathing slows and I rub my clammy hands over my sweaty face. “Yes. It was just a nightmare.” I realize that I’m wearing nothing but a thin white cami and I tug the blanket around my chest. The damage was already done. He tries to recover his gaze that dropped to my breasts which were on full display. His throat bobs up and down and he looks down at the bed.
“Do you have them often?” he asks, concerned.
I nod and take a few more deep breaths. “Almost every night. Always the same. It’s Patrick screaming at me to wake up and telling me to run. My body won’t move and my eyes barely open and the wave… It’s so big…”
Roman pulls me into him and kisses the crown of my head. A caring gesture. “I’m so sorry, Kensi. I’m sorry you had to go through all of it alone.”
I wasn’t completely alone. I had Tom. Tom had a way with words—of calming me down for hours…hours that had turned into days until I could finally get off that mountainside. He had a soft voice and a caring way about him. A kindred spirit. I haven’t told Roman about him yet, or my mom. My mother would probably have me admitted if she found out I was writing letters to a man on the other side of the world, seeking advice on Tao.
“What is it? You just tensed up,” Roman almost whispers. He lets go of me, putting space between us.
“It wasn’t you. I just…I have to tell you something.” He waits, challenging me to tell him my secret. “I’m talking to someone.”
And now he’s standing. “I mean, it’s not what you think.” I release the blanket against my chest and stand up in front of him.
Roman holds up his hands. “Hey, what you do with your time is your thing. You don’t have to go on the trip. I know my mother guilted you into it…” He starts toward the door, and I stop him by rushing around in front of him, resting my hands on his hardened chest.
“Roman! Would you wait?” I snap and his eyes widen. “For Christ's sake!”
“Okay.” He tucks his hands in his jeans pockets and turns back to face me. He looks really good today. His dark hair is messy, and his baseball jersey shirt fits tight against his lean torso. I force my eyes to meet his and see he’s wearing a grin. Dammit . He just caught me checking him out. “I’m sorry. Continue with what you were saying.”
Eyes away from his chest, I’m able to focus once more on my tale, not wanting to relive those hours but knowing that I have to. “When I ran that day, from the wave, I climbed to a house on the mountainside…. Where I met Tom.” Roman’s eyes go dark . Is he jealous? The thought of Roman being jealous of me talking to another man squeezes my heart.
“Relax, caveman. He took me in for safety. And he was an older Irishman who had lost his wife and fell into studying Taoism… He knows what I’m going through… We write letters to each other.” Tears rim my eyes. I know that I’m so fortunate to meet someone like him, regardless of the circumstances.
“What kind of letters do you write?” he asks with a faint smile, genuine interest in his eyes. Not a look of jealousy.
But I can’t quite meet his eyes as I reply, “He’s been teaching me about Tao, and how to release all that doesn’t serve me. How to live more present, purposefully, and to just… be, ” I continue, afraid to look up at him. Afraid that he’s judging me.
“I’m happy he’s able to help you.” The tension in his shoulders relaxes and I let my hands fall. “So, he’s like a pen pal?” he asks.
“Exactly, but he’s turning out to be my own personal psychologist. “I laugh at the idea. “But your mother didn’t guilt me into anything. I’m going on the trip.” I lower my voice and continue, “Because of the help from Tom—from his words—I’m able to go and be in the moment and not live in the past.”
Roman gives me one of his perfectly shiny, full smiles, “Good! Then let’s get going because as much as I don’t give a shit about being late for the plane, I do care about being late to the dock. My mother can be intense, as you know.”
I glance at the clock. “Oh my God! Roman Huxley! That’s what you’re doing here! Why didn’t you say something sooner? Why didn’t my alarm go off? What the hell? My phone is dead?”
He picks up my phone off the desk, holds it up, and I stare at the reflection of myself in the black screen. I catch a glimpse of my fresh-out-of-sleep self, and I run my hands through my hair.
“Oh no! I can’t believe you’ve seen me like this!” His eyes fall to my boobs again, but we both end up frozen and stunned. I find myself strangely flattered by his interest, and I’m by no means blind to his attraction toward me, but I know that there has been a shift between us. Something I’m not opposed to, but something that may be forbidden.
Roman’s phone chimes from his pocket, startling us from our obvious gaping.
I speed around the room trying to find something normal and semi-nice to wear on the plane, and he finds my charger to plug my phone in for a few minutes. I don’t want to look like a homeless person when Roman looks…well, how Roman looks. I roll my eyes and try not to smile. I finally feel a bit of happiness today. Like the storm is moving out. Like the sun is peeking out from the dark cloud that’s loomed over me for so long. And I know in my grieving heart that it’s all thanks to Roman Huxley.
“I’ll let you get dressed. Meet me outside,” he gently demands. “Don’t forget your passport and your phone.”
I salute him and keep moving.
I lock my apartment fifteen minutes later. I decided to take a quick shower but don’t tell Roman about the reason for the delay.
“What?” I stare at him, as I’m walking down the steps. He’s leaning against his motorcycle, two helmets balanced on the seats.
“Nothin’.” He smirks like he’s James Dean in his ‘bad boy’ roll.
My black Doc Marten boots shuffle against the gravel as I slowly approach the pair of gray eyes consuming my soul.
“Is this okay?” He gestures to the blacked-out Ducati.
“Yes!” Have some chill, Waverly. “Yes. It’s perfect.” I smile. Eighteen-year-old me is screaming obscenities in my brain, right now. Early teen me was obsessed with the ‘surfer dude’ vibe. Floppy hair , I used to call it, with a year-round tan and light eyes. I honestly thought the young Eric von Detten was the end game. But as I got older, the darker features grew on me. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dark soul.
Roman checks two of those three boxes. I’m not in the ‘dark soul would bode well for me’ type of wavering mental health state at the moment, though.
“You good, Kensi?” His smile jolts my lady parts into high gear as he hands me my helmet with his glove-clad hands in exchange for my phone, which he slides into my backpack and zips up. “When I turn, turn with me. If you shout, I probably won’t be able to hear you, so if you need me, knock twice.” His hand drops to his legs and taps two times. I nod in response. Roman brushes my hair out of my face, never taking his eyes from mine before sliding my helmet on, “One more thing…” He grabs his helmet and shakes his head, moving his hair from his face, “Hold on tight.” And then he gives me the sexiest smile before pulling his helmet on.
I grab his outstretched hand to help me onto the bike and the engine revs to life.
It’s been a while since I’ve been this nestled up with a man, and the warmth of his body is making my hands tremble. He takes my hands in his and pulls them tighter around his torso, causing us to be completely, every inch of our bodies, flush with one another.
As we pull out of the parking lot, the rev of the engine is enough to send my senses into overdrive. This is everything I thought it would be. Roman Huxley checking another item off of my bucket list. That's two more than his brother ever bothered to do.
We pull up to a red light and he taps my leg, and I tap back. A blossoming heat settles between my thighs and it’s not from his body. Every time I touch him, my heart beats out of my chest wanting more. Needing more.
I look past him and see a camera. He has the screen zoomed out far enough that you can see we’re on his bike. I smile even though you can’t see it through the helmet.
Regardless, I’ll know in this moment I was happy.
This is me. Beaming with excitement behind a darkened visor because of Roman Huxley.
Flying on a private jet wasn’t on my bucket list, either, but it should have been. Roman helps me up the steps, not that I’m incapable, but because he’s such a gentleman. It’s a feature I’m not used to, so it would behoove me to point it out. How a woman his age hasn’t snatched him up yet, well—it’s mind-blowing.
I take in the plane’s luxurious interior. It’s well-lit with accent lighting. The chairs are white leather and almost as fluffy as my Lovesac. There are pillows and soft blankets everywhere.
I smile to myself. It’s obvious he’s paying attention to my comfort.
Glassware lines the back of the cabin, safely secured. The layout reminds me of a tiny home. I would one hundred percent live in a tiny home with Roman.
“Can I pour you a drink? It’s a long flight.” Roman walks behind a small, stocked bar toward the center of the plane. It’s lined with a dark oak with a golden trim. That can’t be real gold, can it?
This entire cabin looks like Joanna Gaines decorated it with luxe farmhouse décor. I’m obsessed.
“Please.” I offer him a smile. I feel like I’ve lived a completely different life lately. Like, from rags to riches…a little less on the rags part. A life I know I never would have had with Patrick.He never once offered to go anywhere with me on his family’s private jet. Even to the Philippines. I had to beg him just to fly commercial.
My eyes start to burn with the realization of how surface-deep my and Patrick’s relationship was.
Patrick never showed me this side of his life—the wealthy side. But why the hell not? Did he not find me worthy enough? Was he a complete waste of time? Did I really love him at all? There was never any spur-of-the-moment romantic times together. Mostly due to him claiming to be “not a romantic type of guy.” At the end of the day, I’m realizing that it was a cop-out.
Thoughts of Patrick are few and far between lately. And when they do squeeze their way into my brain, they aren’t thoughts of sadness. They make me think, like, really dive deep into the dynamics of our relationship. It dawns on me like the sun shining after a day’s worth of rain—I’m no longer grieving. Was every ounce of my grieving over him, or was most of it because I’ve become so lost as to who I am? Who am I on my own? Or maybe I’m just a complete psychopath having a conversation in my head with myself while I could be talking to Roman like a normal human.
Bringing myself back to the present, I run my hand along the edge of the bar. “This plane is stunning.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to tell my father you think so.” Roman smiles and hands me a glass of champagne.
“To the bucket list.” He holds up his flute
“To our memories,” I counter. It’s becoming a thing between us, and I kind of love it.“I should have had this on my bucket list. It’s so luxurious.”
I go to take a sip but pause with the glass to my lower lip as a flight attendant emerges from the cockpit. She’s gorgeous: short, dark hair, and long legs. I mean, my head is basically lined up with her hips, her legs are so long. Okay, that was dramatic, but still, to be that blessed with long legs…
“Mr. Huxley—” she says with a wide grin.
Roman cuts her off. “Emily, how many times have I told you not to call me Mr. Huxley. That’s my dad. You make me feel like a forty-year-old man who should have his shit together,” he jokes, but it stings.
“Sorry, Roman,” she giggles. She can’t be any older than he is. They exchange a few laughs while I try not to interrupt their moment together, while also trying to surreptitiously earwig on their conversation.
“How is your roommate? Is she still in the hospital?” Roman asks, genuinely curious.
“It was only gas! Can you imagine?” Emily rubs her hand over her soft cheek, turning a light shade of pink.
“I always knew she was full of hot air.” What a dad joke! Ha! If I didn’t know any better, I would think he’s the older brother. But his flawless face and the lack of wrinkles on his forehead say otherwise.
Emily laughs once more, touching Roman’s arm. But I watch him withdraw from her grasp before he walks toward me and rests his hands on the small of my back. “Emily, this is Waverly Kensington. Please make sure she gets whatever she needs. She’s the birthday girl.”
Emily turns to me and says shyly, “Happy Birthday, Miss Kensington.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say. She hovers in front of me. I’m not sure if she’s waiting for me to say something else, but this is the most awkward introduction I’ve been a part of for some time.
“Oh!” Roman plucks the still full flute from my hand and places it on the bar next to his. “Let me show you around before we take off.” He grabs my hand, something he’s never done, but it’s like second nature. We maneuver through a small hallway, and he points left. “Bathroom. There’s another hallway on the other side which also contains a bathroom.” He tugs me along to another door leading to the back of the plane and he opens it.
“Bedroom.” Since we have a long flight and have to stop off at Dulles before we jump the pond. We’re going to need to sleep.” My mouth goes dry, and I don’t say anything.
“Don’t worry. There’s a pull-out couch in the main cabin. You can have the bed. Plus, we each have our own bathroom.”
“We have time before we sleep to work out logistics, Rome.” I push his shoulder, trying to make light of the situation. The next words slip out without rhyme or reason. “Where does Emily sleep?”
“She doesn’t normally sleep on flights, but if she needs to, she uses the pull-out couch.” I pull my lips between my teeth and give a tight smile. For some reason, the thought of them out there together tugs at something I’m extremely unfamiliar with.
Jealousy.