Chapter 9
ROMAN
Aurora Marigold has more purpose in cleaning one house than I have in my entire life. She’s down there attacking my grandfather’s old desk so she can earn back the money she was forced to pay, while I’m sitting around doing…
Nothing. I’m doing nothing.
So here I sit, in a house I inherited, in clothing purchased with money I didn’t earn, and all I feel is disgust—especially because I brought this situation on myself. There was a time when this life was the life I wanted. I wanted to play. I wanted to have fun.
And I still want those things. But this way of living has begun to feel empty. Meaningless.
A surge of frustration rises inside of me, and I swallow it down before digging my phone out of my pocket. I stare vaguely out my bedroom window as I call my sister.
She answers after a few rings, which I’m a little surprised at. She’s beyond busy these days; I wasn’t sure she’d answer at all.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” Her voice is a little distracted. “What’s up?”
I clear my throat, unsure how to proceed. I’m not really big on heart-to-heart conversations, but if there’s one person who will be honest with me and completely nonjudgmental, it’s Denice.
“Am I immature?” I finally say.
“Yes,” she says. “You’re immature.”
I can’t quite stop my shoulders from sagging, even though I expected this answer. “Yeah. Okay. How so?”
“Do you have time for the list?”
My lips twitch at this. “Denice,” I say. “I’m serious.”
She hums, but when she speaks again, she’s no longer teasing. “You want maximum output with minimum effort,” she says. “Part of that is just good sense—”
“It’s great sense,” I point out.
“But you miscalculate and take the easy way out when it would be more beneficial to do the work.”
I let those words stew for a second, turning them over in my mind. “You’ve given this some thought, I see.”
Her laugh isn’t a confirmation, but it’s not a denial, either.
“You’re smart, Roman. But you calculate everything, and sometimes your calculations are wrong.
You went to college, got a degree, tried working for a few months, got bored, and decided it would be easier to work for Dad.
You’ve been following him around ever since. It’s been years.”
“Ouch,” I say. The word is casual, but the arrow pierces deep.
“Sorry,” she says gently. “But it’s true.”
She’s right. That’s what makes it so painful. The portrait of my life is unimpressive.
I take a deep breath as the realization sinks further into my mind—and as it produces an almost desperate desire to do something. To climb out of the pit I’ve happily wandered into.
Instead I drift away from the window and sit on the edge of my bed.
“How’s Nessa?” I say, aimlessly smoothing my pillowcase.
“She’s good,” Denice says, an unmistakable note of adoration entering her voice now. “She’s the cutest thing that has ever existed.”
“She really is,” I agree. I have a stupid amount of photos on my phone, half of them identical, all of them featuring the chubby, long-lashed baby who’s stolen my heart in a way I never believed possible. “I’ll come see you guys later. Maybe this evening or tomorrow night.”
“You can change her diaper while you’re here,” she says, and I grin.
“I’ll do it. Let me know if you need help with anything else while I’m there. I know Louis works long hours.”
“I will,” Denice says, and in the background a baby starts crying. She sighs, but she doesn’t sound at all upset when she goes on, “I have to hop off.”
“Yep,” I say, still smoothing my pillowcase. “Thanks, Denice. I’ll talk to you later. I’ll drop by soon and do some diaper duty.”
“Love you!” she says, and I’m about to respond, but she hangs up before I can speak.
So I end the call and toss my phone to the side, halfway across the sparsely made bed, before looking around my room.
It’s an odd mixture of styles, because I’m not finished moving in yet.
I couldn’t bring myself to sleep on the mattress my grandparents slept on.
It felt wrong on multiple levels, many of them gross.
So I got rid of their old bed and brought mine in instead, but the curtains are still the heavy brown ones that were in here, and there’s a chair in the corner that probably hasn’t moved an inch in thirty years.
There are boxes stacked in front of the mirrored closet doors, and although I’ll unpack at some point—soon—I don’t want to do it right this second.
Despite Aurora’s claim that everything here was dark and dusty, I have aired the place out several times already.
It was like a crypt when I first showed up a month ago.
The house had been sitting empty for years, not yet in disrepair but definitely not livable.
I spent about a week with the doors and windows all thrown open for hours at a time, every single day.
Now, even looking at the brocade curtains and the yellowing carpet, I don’t know why I didn’t move in sooner.
I had been living with my dad. His place is huge, and I wanted to save money.
And, if we’re being honest, I liked the ease of staying there.
Last month, though, my dad told me I would need to come sit in for Denice at Soul2Soul for a bit until the official interim boss arrived.
I had no interest in his company—have no interest. I guess love is wonderful and great and everything, but my faith in that phenomenon is low.
And yet as my dad ordered me to come do this, I realized I had to listen.
I had to do what he said. Because I wasn’t doing anything else of importance.
I had no reason not to, and I lived under his roof, and he would make my life difficult if I fought back.
I’m under his thumb completely, and it’s all because I put myself there. I’ve followed in his steps, and—surprise surprise—I’ve ended up the same place he is.
So…I moved. He didn’t seem to care when I told him. He just grunted and then went back to his phone call. But to me, it’s a big deal. It’s exciting and liberating and I find myself wanting to take more steps in this direction.
I’m not sure what direction that is, exactly, but it’s away from my father. From the company he’s founded, although there’s nothing wrong with Soul2Soul; away from the way he thinks and the way he lives, loving no one more than himself. He’s a selfish, self-centered man.
And I…
I don’t want to be like that.
I startle at a clattering sound from downstairs, and with chagrin I realize I’ve been navel gazing for longer than I intended.
It’s a bit pathetic. So I take a few deep breaths and then leave the room, striding down the hall and to the bathroom, where I splash some cold water on my face. I avoid looking in the mirror, because I don’t like this version of myself—in my head, insecure, unsure.
I’m beyond grateful when I hear Aurora’s voice calling up to me.
“Roman?”
I open my mouth to answer, but then I stop, a smile hovering at the corners of my lips.
What will she do if I don’t answer?
I move quietly to the top of the stairs, just out of sight if she’s waiting below, and then I wait. It only takes a few more seconds for her to call again.
“Roman!”
I remain silent.
And it’s on her third attempt that she loses patience, something I expected to happen sooner rather than later.
“Roman!” she calls, but this time her voice is snappish.
My grin blooms when I finally stop suppressing it, and relief floods through me at the distraction she provides. I round the corner and bound down the stairs, my steps light.
“You did that on purpose,” she says, staring up at me accusatorially.
“But you handled it so well,” I reply, and I don’t bother to hide my smile. “I knew you would. Now—to what do I owe the pleasure of your shouting?”
Her expression goes from annoyed to suspiciously amicable. “It was either shouting or barging up into your personal space,” she says sweetly.
I can see her baring her teeth beneath her smile, and laughter rises in my throat. I tamp it down, though, my eyes falling to where she now holds something out for me.
“Here,” she says. “It was in the back of one of the big desk drawers.”
My amusement dies as I look with interest at what appears to be a bundle of papers. No, I realize a second later—envelopes. Letters. The paper is yellowing with age, and the stack is tied with twine.
“Huh,” I say. I step through the office doors and look more closely. “What is it?”
“Mail, I think,” she says, her hair once more that silvery-blonde color in the light streaming through the office window. “You won’t remember this because you’re ten years old, but people used to write letters to communicate—”
My snort of laughter cuts her off. “Let’s not exaggerate. You’re acting like I’m a teenager.”
She raises her brow at me, waiting with such command in her eyes that I decide to tell her.
“Twenty-five,” I admit, grinning at her skeptical look. “If you must know, I’m twenty-five years old—”
“A child. You can think of me as your big sister,” she says with a sniff.
“Not a chance,” I say automatically, because we’d have big problems if I found my actual sister as attractive as I find Aurora.
“I’m an excellent older sister—”
“Not to me, you’re not,” I cut her off. “And do I look like a child?”
I don’t. I know I don’t. And she knows it too, I see with satisfaction, because her eyes dart briefly over me, and she pauses a beat too long before she answers.
“You do,” she says, tilting her chin up in defiance. “But you get dressed and come to work for your big kid job, and we’re all proud of you for that—”
“All right.” Amusement bubbles in my chest, only faintly tinged with discontent at the truth in her words. I snatch the bundle of letters from her while she snickers. “Let’s talk about something else, please. Letters—what kind of letters?” I say.