Chapter 32 Roman
ROMAN
Marnie walked out two days ago and she hasn’t come back.
She’s been staying at her apartment, dealing with her mom’s house, going through belongings and paperwork and all the logistics of death.
We’ve texted a few times—brief, functional exchanges about nothing important.
Nothing about us. Nothing about Winters or the investigation or the fact that I kept secrets from her.
Nothing about the fact that I miss her so much it physically hurts.
December 29th is tomorrow. It’s been five years since the call. Five years since 7:43 AM became the time that split my life into before and after. I thought I would have her to focus on this time to get through the pain. But apparently I fucked that up, too.
So I’ll handle this alone. The same way I’ve done for years.
Practice today is brutal because I make it brutal.
Extra drills. Extra conditioning. Anything to keep my body moving and my brain from counting down the hours.
“You trying to kill us or yourself?” Dex asks when I’m running my third set of suicide sprints.
“Both.”
“That’s not funny.” He skates closer, voice dropping. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been off for days. Snapping at everyone, showing up early, leaving late.” He studies my face. “It’s almost the 29th.”
I stop mid-stride. “How do you know about that?”
“You think I don’t remember? Last year I found you unconscious on your bathroom floor at 2 AM.” His expression is grim. “Vomit on your shirt, empty bottle on the counter. You scared the shit out of me.”
The memory makes my stomach turn. I’d woken up in his guest room with no memory of how I got there, just shame that lasted for weeks.
“That was different—”
“Was it? Because from where I’m standing, you’re doing the same thing. Just haven’t hit the whiskey yet.” He grips my shoulder. “Talk to someone. Marnie, me, a professional—someone. Don’t do this alone again.”
“Marnie’s not—” I stop. Can’t finish that sentence. Not speaking to me. Not available. Not mine anymore.
“Not what?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. And tomorrow’s going to be worse.” His voice softens. “At least let someone know where you are. Let me check on you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Then don’t act like you need one.” He skates backward. “I’m texting you tomorrow. If you don’t answer, I’m coming over. Non-negotiable.”
After practice, I sit in my truck in the parking lot and stare at my phone. At Marnie’s name in my contacts.
I could call her. Could tell her about tomorrow. Could ask her to stay, to not leave early, to just be there.
But she’s angry. Grieving. Dealing with her own shit. And I’m the one who made it worse by keeping secrets.
I drive home alone.
The apartment is empty when I get there. She’s still at her mom’s house, probably. Boxing up memories and trying not to fall apart.
I should go to her. Should help. Should do something other than stand in my kitchen staring at the calendar on my phone.
I pour a drink. Just one. To take the edge off.
It doesn’t help.
December 29th.
I don’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Just watch the clock tick from 5 AM to 6 to 6:30.
I get up. Make coffee I won’t drink. Stare at my phone, now showing notifications I haven’t checked. Texts from Dex. A missed call from Barrett. Nothing from Marnie.
The whiskey bottle is in the counter where I left it yesterday. I pour a glass.
It’s 7:30 AM. Too early for this.
But what does it matter? The whole day is wrong. Has been wrong for five years.
I scroll through old messages. The same ones I read every year.
Matty: Dude, stop worrying. I’m FINE. Go to practice. Score some goals. Be the hockey robot you are.
Me: I’m not a robot.
Matty: You literally scheduled “spontaneous fun” in your calendar last week. You’re a robot.
I remember laughing at that. Remember thinking he sounded good. Happy, even.
Three days later he was dead.
At 7:43 AM exactly, I drain the glass.
By noon I’m drunk.
Not falling-down drunk. Not yet. But enough that the edges blur. Enough that the memories don’t cut quite as deep. Enough that I can breathe without my chest feeling like it’s in a vise.
My phone keeps buzzing but I silence it and pour another drink. I’ve lost track of which number it is.
The photos on my phone are worse than the texts. Matty at eighteen, first day of college. Matty at twenty, home for Christmas. Matty at twenty-one, two months before—
I can’t look at that one. Can’t see him laughing and alive and completely unaware of what’s coming.
Matty: Ro, I’m good. Dr. Kim says I’m making progress. Stop treating me like I’m going to break.
Me: Not treating you like anything. Just checking in.
Matty: You “just checked in” three times today. That’s not checking in, that’s surveillance.
Me: Fuck off.
Matty: Love you too.
Was he lying? Did Dr. Kim really think he was getting better? How did none of us see it coming?
Another drink. The bottle’s getting lighter.
My phone buzzes again, but it’s not Marnie.
Dex
Answer your phone.
I know what today is.
Don’t do this alone.
I turn the phone face-down. Pour another glass.
The room is spinning slightly by the time my phone rings for the tenth time.
I ignore it.
It rings again.
And again.
I’m reaching to silence it when I see the name. Marnie.
My finger hovers over the button. I should answer. Should tell her—
I send it to voicemail but she calls back immediately.
I let it ring out.
A text appears.
Marnie
Dex says you’re not answering. Please pick up.
Roman. Please.
I stare at her name on my screen. At the proof that she’s checking on me even though she’s angry, even though I don’t deserve it.
The whiskey makes me sad. Makes me think about texting back. About calling her. About admitting I’m not okay and I need her.
Instead I reach for the bottle.
Marnie shows up at almost 7. I guess Dex made good on his promise after all.
I’m on the couch, bottle mostly empty, room tilting sickeningly when the front door swings open.
She’s standing there in jeans and one of my sweatshirts, hair pulled back, eyes finding the whiskey bottle immediately. Then me on the couch. Then back to the bottle.
The concern on her face nearly breaks me.
“Hey,” she says softly, closing the door behind her.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The words slur together. “You’re mad at me. You should be—you should be at your mom’s house. Being mad.”
“I was mad.” She sets her bag down, moves toward me slowly like I might spook. “I’m still mad. But Dex called and said you weren’t answering and today is—” She stops. “He told me about Matty. About the anniversary.”
“Shouldn’t have.” I try to stand, to tell her to leave, but the room spins and I sit back down hard. “It’s not—it’s not your problem.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Very observant, Dr. Walker.” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “Excellent diagnosis.”
She crouches in front of me, hands on my knees. “When did you start drinking?”
“Morning? Noon? Does it matter?” I wave vaguely at nothing. “It’s all wrong anyway. The whole day. Every year. Always wrong.”
“Okay.” Her voice is calm. Clinical. “Can you stand?”
“Don’t want to.”
“Roman, please.”
“I fucked up.” The words tumble out. “With you. With him. With everything. I keep fucking up and people—” My throat closes. “People leave.”
“I’m right here,” she says quietly.
“For now. But you’re angry. You should be angry. I lied. Kept secrets. Made decisions about your life without telling you. Just like I—” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t connect the dots between what I did to her and what I failed to do for Matty.
“We’ll talk about that,” she says. “But not when you’re drunk. Come on. Up.”
“Where?”
“Bedroom. You need to sleep this off.”
“Can’t sleep.” The truth tastes like ash. “Every time I close my eyes I see—I’m back there. Back in that hospital room. Back to—”
“Roman.” She stands, pulls me up with surprising strength. “Don’t go there. Not alone. Not like this.”
I let her guide me because I’m too drunk and too tired to fight. She gets me to the bathroom, hands me water. “Drink.”
I drink. She refills it. “Again.”
I drink again, and the room spins less violently.
She gets me to the bedroom somehow. Helps me out of my shirt. Doesn’t comment on the way my hands shake. On the smell of whiskey. On any of it.
“Lie down.”
I do. The ceiling spins slightly above me.
“I’m going to get more water. Don’t move.”
She disappears and immediately I’m back there. The hospital. The machines. The doctor saying words that didn’t make sense—
“Here.” Marnie’s back, pressing a glass into my hand. “Drink half. Then sleep.”
“You’re staying?” It comes out sounding more pathetic than I want it to.
“Yeah.” She climbs into bed beside me, still fully clothed. “I’m staying.”
“You’re still angry.”
“I am. But you need someone right now more than I need to be angry.” Her voice is gentle. “We’ll fight later. After you’re sober.”
“I’m sorry.” I manage to get the words out. “For everything. For lying. For—” My voice breaks. “For being this.”
“Shh. Just sleep, Roman.”
But I can’t sleep. Can’t close my eyes without seeing him. Can’t breathe without feeling the weight of five years of guilt crushing my chest.
“I should have been there,” I hear myself say. “Should have stayed. Should have known—”
“You couldn’t have known.” Her hand finds mine in the dark.
“I should have. I’m his brother. I’m supposed to—” The words catch in my throat. “I was supposed to protect him.”
“I know.”
“He called me. The night before. And I—I was at some team dinner and I sent it to voicemail. Sent my baby brother to voicemail because I was at a fucking dinner.” The words are pouring out now, five years of them. “And the next morning. The call came and I—”
I can’t finish. Can’t say the rest. Can’t admit I was too late. That I failed him. That everything I did wasn’t enough.
Marnie’s arms come around me and I feel her fingers card through my hair.
“I’ve got you,” she murmurs. “I’m right here.”
But even through the whiskey and the misery, I know the truth.
She’s here now. But I’m broken. And sooner or later, she’ll see that.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
Don’t remember the dreams starting.
Just suddenly I’m there. In Matty’s apartment. But it’s wrong—the walls too close, the air too thick. Matty’s there but he’s not right. Something’s wrong with his face.
“You left me,” he says.
“I didn’t—I had to go—”
“You knew.” His face shifts. Accuses. “You always knew.”
“No—”
He reaches for me and I step back but he’s closer now. Too close. Grabbing my arm.
“You failed me.”
“No!” I try to pull away, try to break free. “Let go—”
“You let me die.”
“I didn’t know!” I’m fighting now, trying to get away, trying to—
Something connects with my elbow. Hard. A sharp impact.
A cry of pain that’s not his.
The sound cuts through everything—the dream, the whiskey haze, the darkness.
My eyes open to dim light, head pounding, room spinning. There’s a ringing in my ears and my heart is racing and I can’t—
“Fuck.” Marnie’s voice. Thick with pain.
I try to focus. Try to understand what’s happening. She’s sitting up, hand pressed to her face.
My tongue is too thick. “What happened?”
“You were having a nightmare.” Her voice sounds wrong. “It’s okay. You were fighting in your sleep. Go back to sleep.”
But I’m awake enough now to see her hand is covering her cheek. There’s blood on her fingers.
I want to reach for her, want to check if she’s okay, want to—
But exhaustion and whiskey drag me back under before I can form the words.
Back into darkness.
Time passes. Could be minutes. Could be hours.
I surface enough to hear movement. Water running. The medicine cabinet opening. Marnie moving around the apartment quietly.
Then she’s back, sliding into bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.
I try to reach for her, try to apologize, but my body won’t cooperate. Can’t move. Can’t speak. Just lie there trapped between drunk and sober, between sleep and waking.
Between the nightmare and whatever I’ve done.
The last thing I register before true sleep claims me is her breathing beside me in the dark.