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—haveno 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 abig 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.”
