The words come out hoarse, barely above a whisper, like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to.
I set down my coffee mug. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there staring at my face like he’s trying to process something his brain won’t accept.
Then he turns and walks straight back to the bathroom.
I hear him retching, harsh and violent.
When it stops, I follow. He’s at the sink, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles have gone white, staring down at the drain.
“I hit you.”
“You didn’t mean it?—”
“I hit you.” His voice is still flat. Controlled. “I was so drunk I hit you hard enough to make you bleed and I didn’t even wake up when it happened.”
I step closer. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps gripping that sink.
“You were having a nightmare,” I say. “About Matty. You were fighting something in your sleep and your elbow caught my face when I tried to wake you.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His jaw locks. “I fucking hit you, Marnie.”
“It was an accident—” I reach out to place my hand on his back, needing him to understand I’m not mad, not about this.
“Don’t.” He flinches back and the word comes out sharp. “Don’t make excuses for me.”
I can see his hands shaking even as he grips the sink harder. The tension radiating through his shoulders, his back. He’s holding himself together through sheer force of will.
My mom died nine days ago. I spent two of those days being angry at Roman for keeping secrets. But standing here watching him try not to fall apart, the anger just drains away. Because whatever hedid, whatever secrets he kept—he was trying to help, even if it was the wrong way.
And this? This wasn’t intentional.
“What do you need?” I ask.
He finally looks at me. There’s something raw in his expression, something I haven’t seen before.
“I need—” His throat works. “I need you to not be here right now.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Marnie—”
“Tell me what happened. With Matty. Not just that he died. Tell me how.”
His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump. “You don’t need to hear that.”
“Yes I do. Because you’ve been carrying this alone for five years and it’s destroying you.” I gesture at my face. “So tell me.”
For a long moment I think he won’t.
“Depression.”
The word comes out rough.
“He was seeing a therapist. Dr. Kim. I thought he was getting better. He seemed good, even.”
His hands tighten on the sink.
