Page 80 of Catch Me (Becoming Us #4)

Roman

The bedroom smelled like sex and Travis’s cologne, a mix that should’ve been comforting but wasn’t.

Not tonight. My feet dragged on the carpet as I paced.

The phone was still warm in my hand from the second call with my mom.

Her steady voice had cracked me open at the bar, helping me spill all the shit about my dad I’d kept locked up.

Now, back here with Travis, it wouldn’t stop leaking out.

I felt bad that this was overshadowing his win. It should’ve been the best time of his life, yet here he was, trying to hold me together.

He sprawled on the bed, propped on one elbow, and watched me like I was a wild animal he didn’t want to spook.

The empty cartons from our ice cream run still sat on the nightstand with a sticky spoon beside it.

I’d laughed then, high off the World Series win and his arms around me, but the buzz was gone now, replaced by this gnawing thing I couldn’t name.

“Roman.” His voice was low, and he sounded tired. “Sit down. You’re making me anxious. ”

I stopped, wanting to say something snarky, but I dropped onto the edge of the bed. Planting my elbows on my knees, I raked my hands through my hair. “He’s such a fucking asshole.”

Travis shifted closer. “He’s still going off?”

“Yeah.” My fingers tightened, pulling at the strands. “Mom said he’s been ranting since the game.”

“What’s he saying?”

I didn’t want to repeat it, but there was no point keeping it all inside. I knew from experience that it would only make everything worse.

“He called it disgusting,” I whispered. “He’s angry that I made it public. He had friends over for the game.”

He didn’t say anything as he watched me, his brown eyes steady. I hated that look sometimes. It was too calm, too patient. I didn’t deserve it.

I grabbed my sketchbook from the floor, flipping it open to a blank page. My pencil moved fast, jagged lines forming the Idaho house with its peeling paint, the wood porch, the shadow of him looming in the doorway.

“He’s always been like this.” My voice was as rough as the sketch my shaky hands created.

I focused on the drawing, using it to keep going when all of my instincts were telling me to run fast and far.

“He always knows best, and god forbid you disagree.” Shaking my head, I sighed.

“He demanded to know what was going on with me and why I’d done that ‘faggot shit’ for the world to see. ”

Travis’ jaw twitched, the first crack in his calm. “He said that?”

My nostrils flared. My mom had tried not to repeat it, but I’d asked her to—needed her to, really. Hearing it in her calm, mournful voice might’ve softened the blow. Or so I thought. It hurt plenty that way, and I could only imagine what it’d feel like when I heard real venom in it.

“He told her I’m an embarrassment and ruining my life. He blamed her, but my mom doesn’t tolerate his attitude anymore. She told him that my life is my own and she’s proud of me for all of my accomplishments. She said that as long as I was happy, she was too, then she hung up on him.”

I laughed at that, but it felt wrong, bitter. The pencil scratched harder, tearing the paper where his face should’ve been .

“I’m twenty-three, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to control me. He always has.”

He slid closer, peering at the sketch. I tossed the pencil down and ripped the paper down the middle.

“Hey,” he said, taking it from me. He held onto my hand tightly, and my eyes closed.

“Fuck, Travis, what if he shows up?”

“Then we deal with it,” he said, simple as that, like it wasn’t a bomb waiting to blow. “Together.”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t want you near that shit. He’ll—” I stopped and looked away. “He’ll say things about you. To you. I can’t let that happen.”

Travis’s hand landed on my shoulder firmly. “I’m not fragile, Roman. I can handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Neither should you or anyone else.”

I shrugged him off, standing again, and resumed my pacing. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.”

“My parents,” I began, thinking back on all those years ago.

“They always fought. I wanted them to leave each other, but they wouldn’t.

I was mad at my mom for staying, and I was mad at my dad for always being an asshole.

And I’m fucking mad at myself for becoming so much like him.

Realizing what I’d become—who I’d become—made me start to dismantle my beliefs a few years ago.

I tried to separate him from me, but figuring out where one began and the other ended was like dissecting myself.

“I’m not angry at my mom anymore, but I’ve never forgiven him, and with every piece of myself that I found in the mayhem, I saw how many of my parents’ problems were because of him and his refusal to change, even when it hurt me and my mom.

He’s not just loud about it. He’s cruel.

I’ve spent years building shit up so he can’t touch me, but it never works, and now—”

“Now what?” He stood too, stepping into my path so I had to stop.

“I have something to lose.”

“You think I’d run from this? From you? ”

I stared at him, my chest heaving. His sweater was wrinkled from the bed, hair mussed, and those eyes—fuck, those eyes—held me like they always did.

“I don’t know,” I admitted more quietly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I’m not running. Not from him, not from us.”

My hands clenched, then unclenched. I wanted to believe him. God, I did, but the fear was burning through my veins.

He took my face in his hands and brushed his nose against mine.

“You wouldn’t let anyone help you figure things out for a really long time, baby.

You couldn’t trust me when I told you that you were safe with me in December, and it hurt me, but I understand it.

Let me be here for you now. There’s nothing in your life that you have to go through alone anymore. You hear me?”

After a minute, I nodded. “I hear you.”

He smiled, like that settled it, and sank back onto the bed.

I didn’t move as I watched him grab the remote.

When he’d put something on, he grabbed my hand and dragged me down beside him.

I leaned into him, and he turned to kiss my temple.

The tenderness made me feel weak, but I didn’t pull away.

My fingers found his hand, and I traced the calluses that had built up from repeatedly throwing the ball for years.

We didn’t say anything else. We didn’t need to right now.

But as the TV glowed, I couldn’t shake it, the thought of my dad’s boots on my doorstep, his words tearing through everything I’d fought for. And Travis, here in the middle of it. I didn’t know if I could protect him from that. I didn’t know if I could protect myself.