Only when we’re closed in do I ask, “What happened?”
But it’s wrong to ask it. I know it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. It’s not what matters.
Roman’s eyes flick to me and away. He doesn’t reply. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. I hear the water running and all the normal sounds of him getting ready for bed. Normally though, the doorwould be open and I’d be with him, not standing out here like I’m on pause.
He emerges wearing black warmups. Usually, he sleeps naked, but he gets into bed like that. He lies on his side with his back to me.
My throat closes. I go into the bathroom and get ready for bed. I take a shower so that I can cry without Roman hearing me.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Roman is still lying exactly as he was. He doesn’t move even as I get in bed with him. He keeps his back to me. I don’t want to put my back to him, but I can’t handle seeing that, so I do it anyway.
***
I never fall completely asleep, so I’m partially awake when Roman starts letting out short, distressed huffs. They tug at my semi-conscious mind.
Usually, I’m more relaxed and his dreams don’t wake me. Usually, I only stir after he’s gone and my body senses the wrongness of his absence. But I knew this was coming.
I sit up, groggy and slow. Roman is twitching in his sleep. His vocalizations are getting sharper. I reach for him. It’s automatic. I’m not thinking. I just lay my hand on his shoulder.
Romanexplodesawake.
He moves so fast that I can’t track what happens. All I know is that the world flips and spins andsuddenly I’m on the floor, pinned under him. His arm is hooked around my neck. He’s snarling in my ear.
“Ro-man,” I choke out. I don’t fight him. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. “St-op.”
The shudder that goes through him shakes my body too. He makes an awful, broken sound as his grip releases and he scrambles away from me.
It takes me longer to get up. I’m so disoriented. By the time I’m on my feet, he’s at the door.
“Roman!”
He yanks it open and bolts out. I fumble for my sweats, tripping over them as I yank them on. Roman’s footsteps are thundering down the stairs. I hear Vitali’s door open down the hallway. I hear Vitali shout, then the sound of his and Quinn’s footsteps, but I’m already racing after Roman.
He doesn’t head for the kitchen or the porch like he usually does after a nightmare. He goes downstairs, but he’s not heading for the gym either.
By the time I reach the garage, Roman is already in one of the cars. The engine roars to life and the tires squeal, drowning out my shout. The garage door opens as the car races toward it.
I run after the car, but it’s too late.
He’s already gone.
FIVE
Roman
I don’t know exactly how or why I end up here. Some part of my brain must have been making decisions while I was unaware of it. This option, maybe, has been sitting in the back of my mind for a while because I walk straight through the old Constantine gym like it makes sense.
Light from the street filters in through the high windows, giving vague shape to the punching bags and elevated boxing ring. Darkness swallows me as I walk along the hallway. The only sound is my bare feet on the concrete and the harsh puffs of breath that I can’t seem to get control of. I bypass the locker room where we kill people and take the stairs down to what used to be a storage area.
I hit the switch, flooding the main room with harsh fluorescent light, revealing an old couch and microwave, the underground exit at the back, and the steel door to the holding cell.
I punch in the cell’s code, a number still lodged in my brain from the past. The past does stick like that. There’s no deleting it. Even when you feel like you don’t remember, it’s there.
The lock clicks. I open the heavy door. I go inside and let it thump shut behind me, engaging the automatic lock.
This cell is very different from my last one. It’s smaller, and instead of a long wall of bars, it’s completely enclosed in cinderblocks and steel. There’s a mattress and toilet but no sink.
I start pacing corner to corner, but it’s very frustrating because there isn’t much room. There’s no punching bag or pullup bar. My hands are fisted at my sides. There’s nothing I can do with them.
