I could hear something in the background on his end. A TV turned low. Maybe a game. Maybe news. Roman always had noise on in his place because silence annoyed him and company annoyed him more.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to confess to a murder.”
“Good, because my lawyer says not to discuss that.”
“Jace.”
There it was again. My name without the joke.
I stopped.
Roman exhaled. “Vanessa texted Rachel today.”
Rachel was his ex-wife. They had been divorced for two years and still shared a group chat about restaurant recommendations because apparently straight people were complicated too.
“Why?” I asked.
“She wanted to know if I knew what was going on with you.”
My stomach dropped. “Jesus.”
“Rachel told her to ask you.”
“Great. Love that.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Roman let the silence sit.
That was his thing. On the ice, he could wait out chaos until someone else panicked first. In conversation, it made me want to chew through the upholstery.
“She says you keep pushing off Aspen,” he said. “Says you’re tired every time she tries to talk. Says you’re there and not there.”
I stared down at my sneakers.
“She’s not wrong,” I said.
“No, she isn’t.”
“I’m having dinner with her tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“It might not be good.”
“I didn’t say it would be fun. I said good.”
My throat felt tight enough that breathing took concentration.
Roman continued, “You snapped at Milo yesterday for asking if you wanted coffee.”
