Chapter 40
brIELLE
The spare key is in the lemon planter. Keep it. I want you waiting for me in my bed when I get home.
Those were the last words I heard from Roman before his game started.
Not only had he given me permission to go to his house without him, but he also offered me a way to do it again. Over and over if I wanted to.
My grin is completely out of control as I blindly reach into the planter and dig around for the key. The cool, jagged edge catches my finger before I pull it out and hold it in front of my face. It’s too small to mean so much. But yeah, there’s no denying what keeping it represents.
Two months.
That’s how long we’ve been running these circles around each other. It’s a drop in the bucket compared to how long he’s lived, yet he’s so sure about this. About me. How am I supposed to question that?
All our talk of hypothetical weddings hasn’t spooked me any more than his offer to keep this spare house key has.
What should have had me taking several steps back has drawn me closer to him instead, like his acceptance was the last and only thing keeping us from taking these gigantic leaps. All of it feels right.
I’m not scared. Not intimidated or nervous.
And I know that’s because of him. The man who hides behind cold walls of caution because once he lets you in, you’re there for life. There’s a finality to him that gives me the confidence to decide that I want to stay.
That’s . . . just about the craziest thing I’ve ever done. And I’m terrified that this bubble is going to pop.
I snap up from my crouch and slip the key into the lock. It clicks open, and I give the door a gentle push.
Evie’s not home this early, which means it’s really just me here. Alone. In the home where Roman raised his niece over the last five years, all by himself.
I’ve avoided snooping too much, not out of fear but nervousness that I’d overstep. The memories of Lena are tucked away from prying eyes, and I can’t help but wonder how Evie feels about that. Is it because of her that there are no photos of her mother on the walls, or was that Roman’s decision?
There’s a voice in my head that tells me not to go looking. He clearly trusts me enough to leave me here unaccompanied. Would I be betraying him for looking for something—anything—related to his sister?
I’ve been patient. I don’t push or prod him into telling me what happened to her. There are pieces of each of us that we don’t want to share with anyone. The softest, most sensitive spots in our hearts that grow inflamed with the slightest brush of a finger.
I don’t want to hurt him. Ever.
But didn’t he consider for even half a second that giving me free rein in his home would make me curious? Did he decide that he was okay with me looking around and think that this house key was enough for me to know that?
“Just one photo,” I tell myself as I slip out of my wedges and drop my overnight bag to the bench by the door.
I refuse to spend another night here without the proper supplies, so I may have brought enough of them to fill a drawer or two.
The hardwood floors gleam under the sunlight beaming in through the front window.
I watch my shadow pass over the planks and carry through the living room.
Beneath the TV on the wall rests a built-in, three-shelf-high entertainment system.
On either side of the open shelves are two closed cabinet doors, both of which I’ve never seen him or Evie open.
It’s a long shot, but I lower myself to my knees in front of it and lightly tug the left, black doorknob. Camera gear sits on the shelves. It’s the same story on the right side.
Disappointment flickers through me for a brief moment before I force myself off the ground and shake it away. It’s for the best that there was nothing there.
I rush out of the room and snag my bag before making my way down the hall. Roman’s bedroom door is open already when I plow through the threshold and blow out a ragged breath. Running a hand over the top of my head, I gather my thoughts and will the guilt for snooping to vanish.
Instead of diving into the bed that I’m pretty sure is made out of pure feathers, I shove my hand into my bag and find my phone. The latest score for the game is on the screen, along with the notification that says Kellan hit a grand slam. I beam at the screen before feeling it dim a second later.
The two missed calls from my mom sit there like a haunting reminder of the events of the other night. I’ve worked hard to forget what happened, and that includes ignoring her calls and my brother’s right alongside them.
It is what it is, I tell myself. I’m not thinking about all of that right now.
Glancing around Roman’s bedroom, I only have one thought. It’s so dreary in here.
The lack of colour is almost concerning as I take a longer-than-usual look around the room and sigh. Similar to the living room, he’d decorated in shades of beige, white, and black. The curtains are pulled back, and the backyard-facing window is bright as the light shines across the bland bedding.
My pink-and-orange bag is the most colourful thing in here.
Setting it on the bed, I twist my mouth at the stark contrast. If I’m going to be staying here more often, I need to make this place homier.
Not the messy, cluttered version of that term—Roman would hate that, the neat freak he is—but lived-in.
A few photos on the heavy six-drawer dresser and a throw pillow on the plain-Jane bed.
Even swapping out the cream rug for one with a splash of colour would make a world of difference.
“Time to shop,” I sing.
I’ve only passed by Roman’s office a couple of times, but I remember where it is.
My laptop is at home, and I detest shopping on my phone.
It only takes a minute to get from this room to the one down the hall.
I linger with only my toes past the threshold, imagining what he looks like when he’s sitting behind that giant, black desk and whether he ever gets as distracted thinking of me as I do thinking of him.
While I might not do my work at a desk, I do spend hours hunched over the table in my kitchen with my foot on the pedal of my sewing machine and a pin or two pinched in my teeth. And I grow just as distracted then as I would doing it anywhere else. I blink those thoughts away.
If I thought his bedroom was boring, then his office is terrifyingly bland.
There’s an alarming lack of personal touches to the walls and even his desk.
Besides a computer, the only object that shows any shred of his personality is the signed Seattle baseball tucked away inside a pretty glass box.
I recognize the signature despite never having seen it before.
The letters are messy, nearly illegible, the same way my brother’s name is when he scribbles it on something.
This is undoubtedly Roman’s name on a ball stamped with the logo of the team he played for before getting injured.
I’ve heard the story a thousand times, thanks to the gossips on the Havoc, but every time I do, it makes my gut tighten.
A second meniscus tear in ten years. It was impressive in itself that he had recovered completely from the first one, but he was only in his early twenties then.
When the second came six years later . . .
I look away from the ball and move around the desk. The leather chair looks exceptionally comfortable. Plopping into it, I sigh, confirming my suspicion.
It spins easily as I face the computer and grip the mouse. With a shake, the computer comes to life. I try the same password that he uses for his phone and watch as, a moment later, the screen goes black and then lights up again.
I blink once, twice, five times.
It’s me. The photo that’s stretched across the screen is me.
I’m pursing my lips at the camera while leaning against the bar in Pretty Little Pour.
The pink lights paint my hair and the sides of my face, creating a glow that matches the one in my eyes.
Somehow, you can tell even through this picture how happy I am.
My heart stumbles over itself a few times before I force myself to open the web browser, hiding my face.
I almost call him. He wouldn’t answer with the game taking place, but I’d do it anyway just so I could leave a voicemail telling him that I love him. That’s not how I want to tell him, though. Not even close.
Instead, I stretch out my fingers and start typing into the search bar. One letter is all it takes for my heart to stop stumbling. It stops beating altogether.
After Hours isn’t what I was hoping to find.
But there it is. The single letter I typed has grown into an entire website, placed there automatically, used so often that it was assumed that’s where I wanted to go.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Fear barrels into me. He knows. Somehow, he found my account and found out what I do to earn extra cash.
I haven’t told him yet. How does one bring that up to the man they want to build a future with?
It isn’t embarrassment that’s kept me from telling him, but the mortification that once he knew I posted videos of myself—naked ones—online for money, he’d change his mind.
It wouldn’t matter that I haven’t uploaded anything since I came to terms with the depth of my feelings because . . . Because I still posted so much of myself for others to see before then.
Panic has me clicking on the website and entering the main page. I stare at the pink logo and chew on the inside of my cheek. With one click of the mouse, I find the missing piece to the puzzle.
Quiethours.
The username auto-fills into the box I clicked, and I push my chair back from the desk. Away from the computer and the screen and the name that sends me hurtling out of the room. I leave the door open the way I found it and go back to the bedroom, aiming for the bag I’ve left on the bed.
Its weight puts me off balance when I haul it over my shoulder and then speed back to the living room.
The open space makes it a bit easier to breathe as I palm my chest and close my eyes, slowing my racing heart.
Running from my problems seems to be a common occurrence recently.
First, my father, then Wes, and now Roman.
I don’t want to duck out of here and hide, but I do want to scream someplace else.
Anywhere other than here, where one of the wealthy homeowners in this neighbourhood will hear and call the cops.
Or worse, call him.
There has to be an explanation.
But will it be good enough to excuse him from knowing exactly who I am, and what I’ve done, without telling me? To make it less hurtful that he spoke to me as Crushedvelvet and—
He’s paid me.
Oh, fuck.
My stomach roils as I make the choice to run. I make the choice knowing full well what might come from it. The mess I’m leaving behind for him to find in a few short hours.
That bubble I was afraid would pop does exactly that, and the puncture is gaping too wide for me to pinch it back together.