I despise seeing her like this, as anything other than the fierce spitfire she usually is, but there’s also a genuineness to her pain. She's giving me a gift by letting me see the real her. A part that I bet she doesn’t let many people see, and I will fight tooth and nail so no one else ever does. This side of her is now reserved for me alone.
“She said she missed your fire. And she didn’t say much about the reasons why you left, but I saw the comments on your socials?—”
“You follow me on social media?” she asks, deadpan.
“Of course, and you never followed me back. Which is rude, by the way.”
She smirks and leans closer so I can trail the hot cloth over her arm. She’s so fucking striking. I wipe the cloth over her face, removing the mud. I will never grow tired of seeing all the versions of this woman.
“Obsessed much?” she teases with a small smile, then bites her bottom lip.
I lean in and kiss her, plunging my tongue into her mouth and taking everything I can. Finally, she’s submitted to me. I know the moment is fleeting, and I know she doesn’t yet understand the truth of my intensity. But she’ll learn in due time.
Her hand comes between us, and she shoves me away with a smirk.
I can’t help but mirror her smile as I continue to wash her. “The comments led me to an article about you abusing a woman named Meredith.”
She sinks deeper into the water. “I slapped her.”
“Well, that’s far too boring.”
She cuts me a scathing glare. “We’re not all made to kill, Mr. Psycho. Some of us abide by society’s norms, at the very least, by not murdering people.”
I shrug. “We’re all born with the instinct. It simply depends on who’s willing to act on the impulse. When you’re raised to nurture those thoughts instead of denying them, you’d be surprised by how liberating it can feel.”
Her eyebrows furrow, and I know I still don’t entirely make sense to her. I’ve never really cared if anyone understood me, but if I allowed anyone into my clever mind, it would only be her.
“Your agent mentioned you have a collection coming up that you haven't finished, and you haven’t been active on your socials since your friend's death. So I didn’t need confirmation from your mother as to why you might’ve wanted to get out of town for a while. I only needed to know where.”
She doesn’t respond to that, and it irks me that these gossips have impacted her. Romi doesn’t seem like the type to care what others think about her, but I imagine it feels like another heavyweight added to her shoulders. So, I dare to ask the question she’s been running away from since the moment I met her. “Do you want to explain to me what happened on the day Lorraine died?”
She’s quiet for a moment, drawing back into herself. “I’m surprised you haven’t already looked into it yourself. You seem like the capable type.”
“I’m more than capable, sweetheart, but I’ve been waiting for you to tell me yourself.” And that’s the truth. From the very start, I wanted to see the world through her eyes, understand her struggles, and why she lashes out like a wounded animal. Not through a profile curated about her, which would’ve fast-tracked the process, but I wanted more than that; I wanted to explore Romi for the raw and messy version she was.
I thought it was to spite my brother, but I realize now, what lies between us has nothing to do with unnerving him or dividing his world from the inside out. I can’t punish her simply because he’s a dick.
Romi leans back against the edge of the tub, considering me for a moment. I gently run the wet cloth along her skin, checking the water to make sure it’s still hot enough. The sting of the bullet wound is a gentle throb, and I know I should stitch it up soon but am reluctant to do so because it’s a consistent reminder of her.
“I haven’t really spoken to anyone about it,” she says, then bites her bottom lip before continuing. “Lorraine and I walked Borris every day along the wharf. She had highs and lows with her depression, and always assured me she was in control, but after living two years with someone, you become accustomed to their patterns.” She sighs heavily as she stares at the water. We remain there quietly until she’s ready to speak once more.
“I knew she was in a low period. It was often triggered when her mother, Meredith, contacted her. She only ever called when she needed money to dig herself out of a hole. It put a strain on Lorraine, but she never stopped it. I almost felt guilty for having an incredible mother myself.”
She falls quiet again, as if every word is being dragged out of her, but she pushes through, and I give her the opportunity she needs to finally get this off her chest. I’ve never cared for listening to others, but for her, I hang off every word, if only to better understand so I can fix it all.
“The evening before Lorraine passed away, we spoke about her manuscripts and publishing them. Then we began discussing her mother, and I encouraged her to cut her out of her life, and it turned into a massive argument.” Her voice cracks. “We both said some cruel things, and I told her she could rot for all I care. But I didn’t mean it. I always promised I’d listen and be there for her, and I wasn’t when it counted most.
"That morning, we didn’t even speak. I had Lily’s father’s funeral and left before she’d even woken up. It’d been raining for a few days, and I'd warned her the night before to be carefulon the water's edge, but…” I sense the moment she’s not with me anymore. Her mind drifting to a different place entirely, and what she sees, physically hurts her. “She never learned to swim,” she finally forces out. “And I wasn’t there to?—”
I gently wrap my hand around the back of her neck, ensuring she’s looking at me as I say, “It was not your fault.”
“She drowned!” she snaps, all that bottled ferocity and grief bubbling to the surface. “She drowned, and I wasn’t there to help her! The one time I couldn’t go with her, and she slipped into the water and fucking drowned after I said all of those awful things! When I found out, all I could think of was our last conversation, and if I’d pushed her over the edge. What if she took her life because of what I said? What if it was my fault? Can you imagine how painful that death must’ve been? How horrible and lonely and—” Her words get caught, coming in and out as her voice trembles, and all I can do is massage the knot in her neck, listen to her story, and let her force out the pain because it’s most likely the first time she’s done it since her friend's death.
She wipes at her tears and tries to cover herself, but I bring the cloth to her face, to wipe over her chin, delicately forcing her to look at me. So she knows that I want to see all of her ugliness, all that she’s willing to lay vulnerable, and I will listen. I will be here—whether she wants me to be or not.
I will always be here.
“I called her four times after I returned home from the funeral, but she never answered. An hour later, I got a call from the police asking me to identify her body. I was her emergency contact. That’s how unreliable her mother was. She didn’t even have her as her emergency contact! I was the only one she had, and I hurt her with what I said when I should’ve been more understanding.” She hiccups.
