Roman is staring unflinchingly at me. So, I follow orders. I hold up my glass of cola and give Roman the smallest of nods.
“I lost my house, my job, my award,” he says.
I cringe.
“Just say it. It’s okay. A lot of people need second chances. You aren’t the first to lose these things.”
“All in the same day?” My stomach rolls—it’s not a pleasant memory.
“Come on!” he cheers.
“Fine.” I puff out a breath and bounce on my heels. “I lost my house, my job, the best piece I’ve ever created, and my award,” I say.
Roman nods, lifting his own glass with mine. “But Irefuse to carry those losses with me anymore,” he says, motioning for me to repeat him.
I shut my eyes and attempt to believe what he’s saying. “I refuse to carry those losses with me anymore.”
“My mistakes don’t define me.” He nods for me to continue, to keep vowing along with him. And I’ve come this far.
“My mistakes don’t define me,” I say, and my voice is stronger, like maybe I even believe those words.
“Good,” he says. “Take a sip and smash that glass.”
With wide eyes, I glare at him. Yes, he told me his plan, but at the time, I had no idea it involved a beautiful, delicate, tulip glass.
He stares unapologetically back.
So, I breathe, sip, and smash my glass to the alley floor. Coke and glass shoot out like a shockwave explosion.
Bolting, Roman swoops one arm around me, moving himself behind me, blocking me from shards and glass. “Okay—there’s some built-up tension there.” He exhales pent-up air from his chest. “Good job. Way to get it out. This time, maybe toss that glass a little farther away.”
My chest heaves. “Now what?”
“One more,” he says, holding up the remaining tulip glass of Coke. “What else do you need to let go of?” Roman’s blue eyes bore into me—there is a right answer to this test. But he’s not spelling out the answer for me this time. I have to take this one—all by myself.
I press my lips together and slide my gaze from Roman’s face to the dark liquid of my cola. Then, taking it from his hand, I hold it into the air. I lick my lips and swallow. Heart pounding in my chest, I open my mouth. “My parents don’tunderstand my career path. They worry over my survival constantly. But I can’t stop that. I can’t control that. My actions do not equal their pain,” I say, and just like the last, I smash the glass to the alleyway ground.
Thirty-Four
The bar is deckedin holly and lights, giving this rustic space a Christmas glow. Though the glow may end at our pool table, as Rosalie is currently giving her best friend the evil eye. And while I haven’t hung out with the guys or Fran all that much, I’m very aware that she’s often cooking up a scheme. Lucca has told me as much. He loves Fran’s schemes.
“Shot for shot?” Rosalie says to Fran, one hand on her hip. She’s suspicious of the game that only Fran seems to know, which means we should possibly all be ducking for cover.
“Yep,” Fran says, her tone innocent.
Stella doesn’t look worried, but I’m unsure if that’s because she knows this game or she just doesn’t know Fran well enough.
“I don’t know that game,” Rosalie says.
“I do,” Lucca says. He winks at me, and I’d bet good money that the man has never heard of this game. None of us has. In fact, Fran might be making it up on the spot.
Callum and Zev hold pool sticks in their hands, like me, watching the encounter.
“You don’t know all my games,” Fran says to her friend, ignoring helpful Lucca.
“Yes, I do. I’ve been your best friend for six years. We’ve lived together for five. I knowallof your games.”
Fran shrugs like Rosalie’s gripes don’t bother her one bit. “Not this one.” She swivels to look at the rest of us. “Okay! Here’s how you play: If you sink a shot, you get a shot.” She holds up a Ziploc bag with folded pieces of paper.
