Chapter 23
Iris
“Bon appétit,” our waiter says.
As he walks away, Roman and I greedily dig into our main courses. So far, every appetizer has been otherworldly, so we’ve both got high expectations for our meals.
“Mine is incredible,” I say. “How’s yours?”
“Delicious. You need to taste this.”
We take bites from each other’s plates and rave about everything.
But when conversation about our food dies down, Roman falls silent, yet again.
He keeps doing that. Going dark on me. Mostly, it seems like he’s been drifting off to another place in his mind.
Getting lost in his thoughts. A few times, however, it’s seemed like he’s actively stopped himself from saying something to me.
Something that was on the tip of his tongue.
The same way he did on the patio at the bungalow earlier.
If I’m right about that, then I’m dying to know what he’s been leaving unsaid.
Roman takes a sip of his wine. He takes another big bite of food. His Adam’s apple bobs. He looks out at the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the restaurant. Finally, when he returns to me, he asks, “Do you have a contract where you work?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you have a specified amount of time you’re contracted to remain at your job?”
I stare at him, too flabbergasted to answer. Where is he going with this?
“The reason I ask is, the other day, you said you’d like to move to LA ‘one day,’ but not any time soon because you love your job in Denver. I’m wondering if you’ve got a contract that’ll keep you in Denver for a specified amount of time. And if so, when is it up?”
My heart is crashing. “I-I don’t have a contract like that. My employment is on an at-will basis, which means I can quit at any time and they can fire me at any time.” An epiphany strikes. I lean forward and whisper, “Is that where you’re going?” I mouth the rest. “LA?”
Roman smirks and nods.
“Oh my gosh,” I whisper-shout. “You’re getting your favorite coach and the best weather in the world? No wonder you’re so excited.”
Roman laughs with glee. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know I can trust you.
” He looks around and then leans in to whisper, “The team has been in a rebuilding phase for its entire existence.” He laughs.
“But the new team owners are committed to building a winning franchise. They believe in me. And with Coach there, too, and the players they’re gonna build around me, I know I’ll be able to deliver in a whole new way. ”
“Of course you will. It’s so exciting, Roman.”
“And the best part is—” Roman abruptly stops talking and smashes lips together.
“What?” I prompt excitedly, leaning in, even more. “What’s the best part?”
Roman scratches the stubble on his chin. He takes a sip of his wine. Replaces his glass.
“What is it, Roman? Don’t leave me hanging, dude.”
Roman leans back and exhales. “I’ve got a son, Iris. A four-year-old named Maverick. He lives in LA with his mother.” He clears his throat. “The best part is that I’m finally going to live in the same city as my son and therefore get to be the father he deserves.”
I’m floored. Speechless. Rendered mute.
Other than today, I’ve spent every waking and sleeping moment of the past five days with this man, and quite a few minutes of those days, Roman’s had to listen to me yammering on about how much I love teaching preschoolers.
Kids the same age as Roman’s child. And he’s never once bothered to mention he’s the father of a four-year-old before now?
How has Roman not once felt compelled to say, “Actually, that story reminds me of my own son?” Or maybe, “Wow, Iris, I know what you mean about that, because my own son does the same thing?”
Roman breaks the lengthy silence first. “What are you thinking?”
“That it’s unfathomable to me you didn’t mention your son before now.”
“I’m not accustomed to talking about him with strangers. It wasn’t personal.”
I flinch. “You felt comfortable telling a ‘stranger’ about your new team, though?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re not a stranger now.
But that’s what you were when I didn’t tell you about my son.
” At my hard stare, Roman shifts in his seat.
“I suppose, looking back, there were several times when it would have made sense to mention him. But by then, it seemed too weird to bring him up for the first time, so I didn’t. ”
I take a long sip of wine to gather myself. “Who’s his mother?”
“Someone I barely dated. She’s an actress and model in LA.
Hence, the reason she wasn’t willing to move to the house in Baltimore I’d offered to buy for her.
I bought her one in LA instead, and I’ve been flying across the country to see my son, as much as possible, ever since.
In the offseason, that works out okay, even though it’s exhausting.
But during the season, I barely get to see him.
” He lights up. “But that’s all about to change.
I’m finally going to have joint custody of him. ”
“Congratulations,” I say flatly. “That’s wonderful for you both.”
Another silence looms.
When Roman doesn’t fill it, I do the honors.
“Do you get along well with your ex?”
Roman nods. “She’s a great mother, and she’s married to a good guy. We all co-parent well together.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I don’t consider her my ex, though. We had a fling, basically. It was nothing. Totally forgettable and meaningless, although it turned out to be life-changing for both of us, obviously.”
Suddenly, I don’t want to hear more. I’ve known all along Roman is a lot more experienced than me, in terms of the multitudes of people he’s slept with, but suddenly, I don’t want to sit here, actively thinking about him casually fucking another forgettable, meaningless fling like me and impregnating her.
Who the fuck is this man I’ve been sleeping with?
Laughing with? Pouring my heart out to? I’ve always thought Roman’s simply a more guarded person than me.
A person who doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, unlike me.
But suddenly, I feel like Roman isn’t merely guarded; he’s deceptive.
A con artist. It was one thing for him to keep his football superstardom to himself.
I get that. But this? What purpose did his silence about his son serve, other than to keep his most authentic self hidden from me?
“Say it,” Roman prompts on a sigh.
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
I meet his gaze. “I don’t understand why a gym owner from Delaware couldn’t have had a son.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I get why you lied about your profession and fame. I might have done the same in your shoes. But not telling me, a preschool teacher, about your preschooler when I’ve talked about how much I love teaching preschool kids is extremely weird.
Actually, no. It doesn’t even matter what I do for a living.
Your silence would have been extremely telling, regardless. ”
“Telling? In what way?”
Anger floods me. “On the yacht, you said you’ve been yourself with me in every way that counts, and I believed you.
But that implied the gym owner was still you, except for all the football and fame stuff.
That’s not true, though. You have a child, Roman.
One for whom you’re rearranging your life to make a deeper connection with.
Which means the gym owner wasn’t you at all. Not in the ways that count.”
“Football is one aspect of me, and my son is another. There’s a lot more to me than either of those things.”
I glare at him with skepticism. “All I’m saying is, if you were truly being your authentic self, other than about football, like you said on the yacht, then the fucking gym owner would have had a four-year-old son who lives in LA.”
Roman looks pissed. But I don’t care. I said what I said.
“The truth is optional, as far as you’re concerned. Is that it? You tell it, sure, but only when it serves you.”
He rolls his eyes.
“When I found out about your real identity, I remembered how you’d pretended to be protecting me and my identity in that grocery store, when in fact, you were only protecting yourself all along. But I shrugged it off. Well, now I know: This is just how you operate.”
“Jesus, Iris.”
That’s all he manages in reply. Before he says more, a man and his son approach the table, and we both sharply lean back and look away, our cheeks and eyes blazing.
“Sorry to bother you, Roman,” the man says. “I normally wouldn’t bother you when you’re on a date, but it’s my son’s fifteenth birthday, and he was too shy to ask for a photo. I told him I’d ask for one as a birthday present.”
Roman’s face is beet-red, but he manages the same smile he flashed the woman in the grocery store. The same one he flashed that crew member on the yacht, too. The false, fake, lying one he’s a little too adept at flashing, if you ask me.
“Of course. Happy birthday.” Roman takes the photo, signs the cocktail napkin offered to him, and talks to the kid about his love of football. And through it all, I feel like I’m going to scream.
The fact that Roman is a father isn’t what’s pissing me off.
Who cares, since I’ll never see him again after tomorrow?
It’s that the mutual connection I’d thought our souls had formed this week doesn’t feel remotely possible anymore.
I mean, yes, I knew it was all a fantasy on some level.
But still, I feel duped. Not to the same degree as when I found Brandon’s burner phone, obviously, but fresh on the heels of that fiasco, I’m still raw enough to feel like those same wounds are taking another hit.
Roman speaks, jerking me from my spiraling thoughts. “Sorry to cut this short,” he says, “but like you said, I’m on a date, so . . .” He motions to me, prompting both father and son to peel their eyes off their idol and look at me for the first time during this encounter.
“Oh my God,” the kid blurts, his eyes bulging. “You’re the runaway bride from the video!”
Fuck.