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 sodrearyin 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—butlived-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 baseballtucked 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 asCrushedvelvetand?—
He’spaidme.
