by Hunter Rose
“Well, what do you expect?” I growl. “I see a random strange man leaning against my car –”
“How dare you,” he grins. “There is nothing random about me.”
I feel my lips wanting to curl upward, feel myself wanting to smile, but I squash that feeling hard and ruthlessly. I don’t want to encourage Roman in any way, shape, or form, because that man is like a shark. When he smells even a drop of blood in the water, he’ll latch on hard and won’t let go until he gets his way.
“What do you want, Roman?”
“To take you out for a drink.”
“It’s just after two in the afternoon,” I point.
He shrugs. “It’s happy hour somewhere, as they say.”
I shake my head. “I have things I need to do before I pick Kinsey up from day care.”
“What do you have to do?”
I let out a long breath, doing my best to remain patient and calm. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have errands to run.”
He remains where he is, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the trunk of my nine-year-old Toyota Camry – which is in desperate need of a wash – one ankle crossed over the other, a tiny smirk on his face. Roman is the picture of relaxation.
“Come on,” he presses. “I want to talk. We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“I disagree, we have plenty to talk about,” he shakes his head, his voice firmer. “Specifically, we need to talk about our daughter.”
Belatedly, a question rises in my mind – a question that should have been the first out of my mouth. But he had me so rattled; the thought didn’t even occur to me until now.
“How did you know where I worked?” I ask. “I know I never told you.”
“I have a lot of friends in the medical community,” he responds. “I asked around.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I wanted to talk to you,” he explains. “And because I don’t have your current number or address. And, as you pointed out, you never told me where you worked.”
His answers are smooth and his face entirely neutral, but there’s something behind his eyes that tells me he knows a lot more than he’s letting on. Has he been digging around and trying to gather information about me? And if so, for what purpose? The moment that question passes through my mind, the answer follows. It sends a cold chill sweeping through me. He’s digging into my situation because he’s planning on taking Kinsey from me.
Oh God, is that what he’s doing? Is he really digging into me, dredging up whatever he can manage to show that he’s better able to care for her than I am? Is that what this is about? Is he going to try to convince me to let her go? Or is he here to inform me that he’s just going to take her?
My heart thundering in my chest and my body trembling, I search his eyes, trying to discern his motivations. But I see nothing. No hint of genuine emotion. No glimpse of his plan. Nothing but that cool detachment I’ve seen in him so many times before. But when I think back to that look of pure adoration on his face, that look of something like love in his eyes when he looked at Kinsey, it terrifies me.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But Kinsey is my life. She’s my world. And until now, I’ve never had to worry about somebody showing up and taking her from me. If that ever happened, I honestly don’t know what I’d do.
What I need to do is find out what he’s thinking. I need to know what he’s planning on doing and where his head is at. I need to know whether or not I need to gear up for battle. If he tries to take her from me, I’m going to fight like hell. Tyson has lawyer friends who can help me, should it come to that. But I really hope it doesn’t. A fight for custody wouldn’t do Kinsey one bit of good. If anything, it will only do her harm.
I let out a quiet, calming breath. Before I do anything, I need to know what he’s thinking.
“Okay, let’s go get a drink,” I tell him. “I need to take my own car, so just follow me.”
“Excellent,” Roman replies.
“When I said a drink, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he groans as he looks at the smoothie sitting before him.
I shrug. “Well, as a father now, you’re probably going to have to drink less anyway. So you better start practicing.”
“Speaking of which, I’m curious about something,” he replies.
“About what?”
He looks at me and purses his lips. “Tyson – husband or boyfriend?”
“Gay,” I laugh hysterically.
“Gay?” he sputters. His eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “Seriously?”
“Not that my private life is any of your business,” I smirk. “But I can make an introduction if you’d like.”
“Shut up,” he says and can’t help but laugh. “And you let me believe he was your husband – why?”
I shrug. “I didn’t let you believe anything. You just assumed,” I point. “That’s on you.”
“Yeah, I suppose I did,” he grins ruefully.
“Besides, you deserved it.”
“Let’s not get too crazy,” he protests.
My personal life really is none of his business. I was under no obligation to tell him anything. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have said a word. I can see by that gleam in his eye that I’m only encouraging him. Which is something else I probably shouldn’t do. And yet, seeing that gleam in his eye, seeing the desire inside of him, gives me more than a bit of a thrill. But it’s probably not something I should encourage too much lest it come back and bite me in the butt.
“So, how’s your smoothie?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Yeah – it’s great,” he responds.
He purses his lips and considers the plastic cup in front of him. Rather than a bar, I took him to a Jamba Juice in a local outdoor mall. It’s the middle of a workday, so the place isn’t as busy as it normally is, with only small clusters of people moving from shop to shop. I look across from where we’re sitting and admire a swanky black dress in the window – something I’d never be able to afford. Not that I have any real practical use for it anyway. It’s not like my social calendar is brimming with cocktail parties.
“It’d look great on you,” he comments.
I turn to him. “Excuse me?”
He points at the dress in the window. “Couldn’t help but notice you gazing longingly at it,” he explains. “I think you would look great in it.”
“I was not gazing longingly at it,” I chuff.
He chuckles. “You were all but salivating on yourself.”
“Anyway, you said you wanted to talk. So talk,” I demand.
“Straight down to business, huh?”
I shrug. “It’s not like we have anything personal to discuss.”
He takes a sip of his blueberry concoction. “Oh, I don’t know, I think our daughter is pretty personal.”
“Get to it, Roman,” I snap. “What do you want?”
I take a drink of my peach and strawberry smoothie, waiting for him to get to it. I see him struggling to form the words, though. He looks uncertain. Kind of like he’s on unsure footing and is trying to navigate the path forward but finding it difficult. It’s strange seeing him that way. If there is one thing Roman Wheeler is not, it’s uncertain or unsure of himself. The man has enough confidence to fill the Grand Canyon – and more. It’s a rarity to see him appear vulnerable.
Finally, he turns to me and purses his lips. “I know you’re getting kicked out of your place,” he blurts out. “I know you have to find a new place to live.”
My mouth falls open, and I gape at him. I have no idea how in the hell he came up with that. It’s not like we run in the same social circles, and my current life drama is the subject of discussion during cocktail hour.
“How could you possibly know that?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter –”
“Oh, I think it does.”
He shakes his head again. “Focu
s on the bigger picture here, Scarlet,” he says. “You’re losing your home – which means Kinsey is losing her home as well. And I happen to know that you’re not really in a great position – financially speaking.”
“Roman, how in the hell do you know all this?” my voice – and my anger – is rising, drawing the attention of the scant few shoppers. “Did you hire somebody to look into me or something?”
“Yes,” he admits simply. “I did.”
“Who in the fuck do you think you are?” I shout.
“Keep your voice down.”
I glance around, see all the eyes on us, and force myself to take a breath. I hate being the center of attention. Especially when it’s because of drama like this. But I glare at Roman, the steady drip of anger I feel when I’m around him turning into a gush.
“You have got some balls,” I spit. “Who gave you the right –”
“Kinsey did,” he says, his voice ice cold. “Our daughter gave me the right. I needed to be sure she was being well cared for.”
My outrage is off the charts. All I want to do is punch the man. “Who in the hell are you to question how I’m raising my daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
“Fine. Whatever,” I snap. “That still gives you no right to invade my privacy –”
He sighs, and I see something in him shift. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but there is a sudden contrition in his face that’s entirely unexpected and makes me think I’m reading him absolutely wrong. Even when things were good way back when, I’ve never known Roman Wheeler to be contrite about anything.
“I know it doesn’t,” he says softly. “I was wrong to do what I did, and I’m sorry for that.”
His apology catches me off guard. It takes some of the righteous wind out of my sails. The bastard. His eyes are downcast, and I see actual remorse on his face – which also surprises me. Roman has never been the kind of man who second guesses himself or apologizes for decisions he’s made. He believes that when he makes a decision, his reasoning is sound, and he was right to do so. After all, that’s why we blew up at each other in the first place.
I still see hints of that cockiness and confidence in him, to be sure. But as I look at the man who’s staring at the tabletop, I see something more. I see the kind of capacity for self-reflection and depth of substance I saw in him back in Syria. It’s different and yet the same. The man I see sitting before me is the same Roman Wheeler I knew back then – for the good and the bad – but he’s also different in ways I can’t quite define just yet.
“Why did you do it?” I ask. “Why did you violate me like that?”
He looks up at me, and there is a strange light in his eyes. One I’ve never seen before. I can see the wave of emotion behind it, but I can’t define exactly what it is.
“Because I wanted to know you better,” he says softly.
I can’t stop the bark of laughter as it bursts out of my throat. The absurdity of that statement hits me as funny. All I can do is laugh. Roman looks at me, and when I see the grin pulling the corners of his mouth upward, I know he understands how stupid it sounded too.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I heard it as soon as I said it.”
“Maybe next time, you can have somebody just pass me a note during math class,” I tease him.
I know I should be pissed. And I am. The idea that he hired somebody to snoop through my life and report back to him is an absolute violation that fills me with rage. But as I look at him and see the embarrassment in his face, see the realization that it’s about the most immature and childish way to learn more about me sinking in for him, I can’t help but laugh.
Though I have to admit, there’s some small part of me – obviously, the twisted and demented part – that’s kind of flattered that he’d go to that kind of trouble and expense just to learn more about me and my life. That deranged part of me thinks it’s kind of sweet in a warped, messed up way. No, it doesn’t take away the bitter anger about him violating me like that, but it dulls it somewhat.
“Next time, just ask me directly,” I admonish him. “No more sneaking around and hiring secret agents to pick through my trash cans.”
“Pretty sure he didn’t actually pick through your cans,” he gives me a slight grin. “he’s pretty tech-savvy.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re still not out of the doghouse for that,” I bark. “Like I said, next time you have a question, just ask.”
He shakes his head. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you can be stubborn and pig-headed,” he tells me. “I’m pretty certain that I wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer from you if I asked.”
“You never know. You might have.”
He purses his lips. “Right,” he fires back. “The other day at the hospital, when I told you I wanted to help, you could have told me your situation. And yet, you didn’t.”
I clear my throat and look away. “Did you know then? Did you know I was hiding it from you?”
He shakes his head. “No, that was before I met with my investigator,” he answers. “At the time, I was just offering because I wanted to help. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I pick up my smoothie and take a sip just to give myself a brief distraction. It’s not easy for me to admit when I’m struggling. It’s near impossible for me to ask for help when I need it. I know these are shortcomings of my own, and I know that sort of pride will only be detrimental to my little girl. But still, even knowing that, I haven’t been able to change that part of me.
“Because I was embarrassed, Roman.” I feel the heat rushing to my face. “I was embarrassed by my situation. I still am.”
“There’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about,” he argues.
I sniff loudly. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to worry about things like being out on the street or juggling bills to make ends meet. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“You’re right. I don’t,” he admits.
I nod, my point made. We sit in silence for a couple of moments, my mind swirling with a thousand different thoughts and feelings. And though I’m still plenty pissed about him hiring somebody to dig up all the dirt on me they could find, there’s another part of me that’s happy – happy, of all things! – to know that he cares enough to have done it.
I know now it wasn’t for information to use as leverage against me. It wasn’t because he wanted to show me he was better than me. And I know that it wasn’t because he’s planning on taking my daughter from me. I can’t say exactly how I know, but I do. I can just sense it. His only goal – aside from wanting to learn more about me, apparently – was to find out how to better provide for our daughter. Because he cares. And that thought gives me no small measure of comfort.
And the strangest thing about all of this, about everything I’ve learned from and about Roman, is that I feel all that anger and pain I’ve carried for so long starting to melt away. Maybe I’m a fool. But I really do believe him when he says he didn’t want to ghost me. And I believe him when he tells me that it was his fear and nothing more that kept him from calling me.
I can’t say that everything is put right again and that we’re all okay. I can’t say that we’ll be able to just pick up right where we left off. We can’t. We’ve both grown and have become different people. But when I look at Roman now, I see that he’s grown into somebody very different from the man I knew in Syria. And yet, he still retains some of the qualities that had made me open the door to the flood of emotions in the first place. I can still see the man I let myself fall for all those years ago.
I don’t know what he’s looking for or what he wants. I don’t know if he is even looking to put things back together with me. All I care about right now though is that he genuinely wants to be here for Kinsey. He genuinely seems to want to be a part of her life and do right by her. It’s something I never would have expected from him four years ago, but it seems to be where we are today.
“Okay, so h
ere’s the deal,” he finally breaks the silence. “You and Kinsey are going to move into my place.”
I scoff and look at him, eyes wide, all those good feelings suddenly evaporating in a cloud of righteous indignation. Who in the hell is he to dictate my life to me?
“Oh, is that so?” I ask.
He holds up his hands and smiles, obviously hoping to head me off before I get a head of steam up.
“I didn’t mean to bark orders at you like that,” he protests. “It just makes sense. You and Kinsey need a place to go.”
“We can manage,” I snap.
“The only way you can manage it is by moving somewhere horrible and unsafe – or out of state,” he says, as if it’s fact – which, I guess it is. “I don’t want that for Kinsey, and I’m sure you don’t, either.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “No. I don’t,” I admit quietly.
“I have more room in my place than I know what to do with. I’m usually pretty confined to the top floor anyway. There are a couple of bedrooms on the lower floors that you’re both welcome to,” he goes on. “There’s a separate entrance for the top floor. It’s like its own place anyway, so you won’t have to see much of me. But I’ll be close by, and I’ll have the chance to spend some time getting to know my daughter.”
I open my mouth to protest but then close it again quickly. At this point I know it’s only my pride making me argue. It’s nothing more than an irrational response to a perceived threat to my independence. I hate having to rely on others for anything. And pushing away any and all offers of help has become ingrained in me. It’s like an involuntary response at this point, every bit as much as breathing.
It hasn’t always been easy, and maybe I’m not able to spoil Kinsey as much as I’d like, but I’ve always been able to provide for her. In some ways, I like to think our frugal lifestyle will be beneficial down the road to her. If she sees early that she doesn’t need all of those material things, maybe she’ll learn to appreciate what she has and to live a life that doesn’t require the latest and greatest anything; a slave to the latest fashion trend or new and improved gadgets. Living a life that doesn’t require her to keep up with the Joneses would be a happier life overall.