Roman leans back and exhales. “I’ve got a son, Iris. A four-year-old named Maverick. He lives in LA with his mother.” He clears his throat. “The best part is that I’m finally going to live in the same city as my son and therefore get to be the father he deserves.”
I’m floored. Speechless. Rendered mute.
Other than today, I’ve spent every waking and sleeping moment of the past five days with this man, and quite a few minutes of those days, Roman’s had to listen to me yammering on about how much I love teaching preschoolers.Kids the same age as Roman’s child.And he’s never once bothered to mention he’s the father of a four-year-old before now? How has Roman not once felt compelled to say, “Actually, that story reminds me of my own son?” Or maybe, “Wow, Iris, I know what you mean about that, because my own son does the same thing?”
Roman breaks the lengthy silence first. “What are you thinking?”
“That it’s unfathomable to me you didn’t mention your son before now.”
“I’m not accustomed to talking about him with strangers. It wasn’t personal.”
I flinch. “You felt comfortable telling a ‘stranger’ about your new team, though?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re not a stranger now. But that’s what you were when I didn’t tell you about my son.” At my hard stare, Roman shifts in his seat. “I suppose, looking back, there were several times when it would have made sense to mention him. But by then, it seemed too weird to bring him up for the first time, so I didn’t.”
I take a long sip of wine to gather myself. “Who’s his mother?”
“Someone I barely dated. She’s an actress and model in LA. Hence, the reason she wasn’t willing to move to the house in Baltimore I’d offered to buy for her. I bought her one in LA instead, and I’ve been flying across the country to see my son, as much as possible, ever since. In the offseason, that works out okay, even though it’s exhausting. But during the season, I barely get to see him.” He lights up. “But that’s all about to change. I’m finally going to have joint custody of him.”
“Congratulations,” I say flatly. “That’s wonderful for you both.”
Another silence looms.
When Roman doesn’t fill it, I do the honors.
“Do you get along well with your ex?”
Roman nods. “She’s a great mother, and she’s married to a good guy. We all co-parent well together.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I don’t consider her my ex, though. We had a fling, basically. It was nothing. Totally forgettable and meaningless, although it turned out to be life-changing for both of us, obviously.”
Suddenly, I don’t want to hear more. I’ve known all along Roman is a lot more experienced than me, in terms of the multitudes of people he’s slept with, but suddenly, I don’t want to sit here, actively thinking about him casually fucking another forgettable, meaningless fling like me and impregnating her.
Who the fuck is this man I’ve been sleeping with? Laughing with? Pouring my heart out to? I’ve always thought Roman’s simply a more guarded person than me. A person who doesn’twear his heart on his sleeve, unlike me. But suddenly, I feel like Roman isn’t merely guarded; he’s deceptive. A con artist. It was one thing for him to keep his football superstardom to himself. I get that. Butthis? What purpose did his silence about his son serve, other than to keep his most authentic self hidden from me?
“Say it,” Roman prompts on a sigh.
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
I meet his gaze. “I don’t understand why a gym owner from Delaware couldn’t have had a son.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I get why you lied about your profession and fame. I might have done the same in your shoes. But not telling me, apreschool teacher, about yourpreschoolerwhen I’ve talkedabout how much I love teachingpreschool kidsis extremely weird. Actually, no. It doesn’t even matter what I do for a living. Your silence would have been extremely telling, regardless.”
“Telling? In what way?”
Anger floods me. “On the yacht, you said you’ve been yourself with me in every way that counts, and I believed you. But that implied the gym owner was stillyou, except for all the football and fame stuff. That’s not true, though. You have a child, Roman. One for whom you’re rearranging your life to make a deeper connection with. Which means the gym owner wasn’t you at all. Not in the ways that count.”
“Football is one aspect of me, and my son is another. There’s a lot more to me than either of those things.”
I glare at him with skepticism. “All I’m saying is, if you were truly being your authentic self, other than about football, like you said on the yacht, then the fucking gym owner would have had a four-year-old son who lives in LA.”
Roman looks pissed. But I don’t care. I said what I said.
