19. A Long Walk #2
Stacks and I gave up first, retreating to our table with fresh drinks and the bone-deep tiredness of forced networking. Romi stayed out longer. I tracked her movements without meaning to. She held court, moved through the crowd like water.
By the time she slid into the seat between us, I'd finished half my second mimosa.
The server came by and topped off our drinks. Romi thanked her with a nod, never quite making eye contact, but warm enough to feel genuine. Then she turned back to us and said, "So, what did I miss?"
Stacks immediately launched into a story about the time she nearly got kicked out of a Billboard afterparty for turning the VIP section into an impromptu twerk contest. I listened, half-present, but my mind was stuck on Romi's hand hovering near mine on the table, never quite touching, but always in orbit.
Every time she laughed, it was a controlled burst, like she was rationing joy for later.
The photographer appeared out of nowhere, a woman in a white polo with a camera the size of a small animal. She asked if we could pose for a candid. I watched Romi's face shift instantly: smile on, chin up, stare fixed past the camera. The three of us raised our glasses, and the shutter snapped.
Stacks grinned and crowded in, stage-whispering, "Ooh, they gettin' all three of us in one shot? That's it—watch the timeline implode. Maybe now the fans'll finally mind they damn business and let us brunch in peace."
Skye was sitting with a handful of minor league influencers, her face tight and her phone clenched in both hands. Across the lawn, she glared darts at us every time we so much as breathed in her direction.
"See, I thought the seating was random," I said.
Romi gave up the tiniest hint of a smile, and I realized it was the same one she used when she demolished someone in a battle. Cold, precise, a bit mean. "Nothing in this business is random."
Stacks clapped once, loud enough to turn heads. "Nah, see, I love you, girl. Shit just gets handled, period. No notes."
I caught Skye's gaze across the garden again. She had murder in her eyes and a full drink in her hand, which felt like a problem with an obvious solution. Part of me hoped she'd do it, just to liven up the party. She didn't. Glared, then turned back to her phone, thumbs flying.
I turned to Romi, voice low. "You could've put her anywhere."
"She did it to herself," Romi replied. Her voice was flat, but the edge was unmistakable. "Sometimes the best move is just letting the other person hang themselves."
I remembered what Stacks had said about Romi: hard-femme energy under all that armor. It was true, but it was more than that. She knew how to wield her own power, even when she played it quiet.
I watched her for a second, memorizing the way she looked in this light.
Man, I was cooked.
The white party was in full spiral by the time the main course landed.
The event planners had gone full wedding-industrial-complex: tables with custom water bottles, napkins rolled into origami swans for the main course, a jazz quartet under a white pop-up tent playing Earth, Wind, & Fire covers.
Every time I looked up, there was another round of champagne on the way, and a new server with a bigger tray.
Everyone in the garden was talking about the same three things: the leak, the nominations, and who would be the first to get canceled before the show.
I'd never been more tired of my name. Across the way, Bishop had Shiloh crowded against the bar, and Shi was letting her, both of them acting like the whole garden couldn't see it.
Quill Manifest dropping by our table was a pleasant surprise because he showed off pictures of his new twin babies.
Romi drifted in and out of our conversation, engaging enough to keep up.
When she wasn't talking, she stared off into the distance, eyes moving from one group to the next.
I wanted to ask her what she was seeing, but every time I got close, she caught me looking and flashed that same tight-lipped smile.
Stacks handled most of the heavy lifting.
She regaled us with stories from her latest press tour, all the insane media requests and her upcoming collab with some legacy pop act.
Every now and then she tossed a grape at my face or tried to get Romi to admit to liking a boy band. It didn't work, but it was a good show.
About an hour in, the crowd buzzed louder.
I felt it before I saw the cause—heads turning, phones lifted, a low-key stampede at the entryway.
Then Liora Fresh appeared at the front gate, all six feet of her, in a cream pantsuit with lapels like aircraft wings and a husband who looked like he could lift a Prius.
Every influencer, exec, and semi-relevant microcelebrity tripped over themselves to get a handshake or a selfie.
It was the perfect distraction.
I braced a hand on the table and leaned in toward Romi, close enough to catch her scent. Coconut and something sharper, like lime or crushed herbs. "Want to go for a walk?" I murmured, voice low.
For a split second, I thought she'd shut me down, but her posture relaxed. The tension melted from her face. "Goodness, yes."
We stood, casual as a pair of ghosts. Stacks caught my eye, gave a wink, and went right back to fielding a toast from the next table over.
We left through the garden arch, following the flagstone path away from the main event.
The chatter and music faded, replaced by the sound of gravel underfoot and the caw of a distant crow.
There were hedges on either side, tall enough to block out the view.
In the shade, the air was cool and damp, a relief after the sunlit meat grinder of the patio.
Romi walked with her scarf still slung over her shoulder. She didn't say anything at first, just breathed in the quiet and let it fill her lungs.
I waited, matching her stride, letting the silence do the work.
When we reached the first curve in the path, she stopped and glanced at the tangle of wisteria overhead. The purple flowers drooped like an audience, watching and waiting. She let out a breath and her shoulders dropped, the tension leaving her right there in front of me.
Romi turned to me, eyes dark. "Thank you," she said, voice dropped down to nothing.
"For what?" I asked, even though I knew.
"For knowing when to dip out."
We walked deeper into the garden, past the wisteria and the cypress, past a koi pond.
The further we went, the quieter it got, the only sounds the crunch of gravel and the pulse in my ears.
There was a rose maze at the back, all neatly trimmed hedges and stone benches tucked into corners.
It was meant for photo ops, I guessed, but right now it was empty.
Romi found a bench half-shaded by the hedge and sat, smoothing her dress over her knees. She looked so collected, so perfectly assembled, that it took me a second to remember she'd been as rattled as me this week, too. Maybe more. I hovered, not sure if I should sit or pace or keep standing.
She patted the stone beside her. "You can sit, you know."
I did, careful not to let our knees touch. For a long minute, we said nothing.
Finally, I blurted, "You were right. About Skye."
Romi blinked. The dark in her eyes went from wary to wary-and-unsurprised. "I usually am. But go on."
"The forensics came back. It was her. She turned the track over to MikkiLeaks. Maybe for money, maybe for spite. Clout. Who knows? She tried to cover it, but forgot to use a decent burner. She played me." The words hitched out, like I couldn't believe them as I said them. "You warned me, though."
Romi was quiet for a moment, weighing it. Then she said, "Y'all have history. You wanted to believe her. That's not a weakness."
I shook my head, feeling the heat in my cheeks. "It is. In this business, it's the only one that counts."
She studied me for a long moment. "You think I don't get played?"
"No," I said, too fast, then caught myself. "I mean—"
"I do. Niko did. I get tried by people a lot smarter than Skye.
You just don't hear about it, because I don't let them see me bleed.
" She traced a line in the gravel with her toe, eyes following the movement.
"I didn't tell you because I wanted to win.
I told you because I didn't want to watch you get gutted by somebody who wasn't worth it. "
My throat went tight. "Thanks."
She turned to me, and for a moment, her expression softened. "You don't have to thank me. I know the price of this. Pay it with every bar. Even if the world wants us at each other's throats."
That did something to me, what she was offering up. I felt it: a flash of hope so bright it made me dizzy. "Is that what you want, too? Us pretending this is nothing?" I asked.
She hesitated. For the first time, she looked away. "I don't know. I keep telling myself it's all part of the game, but when you look at me like that—" She broke off, biting her bottom lip.
I wanted to reach for her hand, to do something crazy, kiss her until we both couldn't breathe right, but I kept my fists balled in my lap. "It's not just the game," I said, because I had to.
She nodded, slow. "No. It's not."
We sat in the hush of the rose maze, the whole party a world away. I smelled the flowers, the grass, the faintest trace of Romi's perfume.
Romi looked at me again, and this time she didn't look away. "You know, for someone who came up scrapping for every inch, you're terrible at defending yourself. Your eyes give away everything."
She wasn't wrong. And I wasn't trying to hide it, not anymore. Not while I was looking at her.
That made me smile, for once. "So teach me."