Page 81 of Catch Me (Becoming Us #4)

Travis

It had been a week since the last game, and the sky in Seattle was grey, the cold seeping through the windows of this shitty little apartment that cost a criminal amount for the size of it.

But he wanted to be in the city, in Capitol Hill, because that was where he felt at home.

It seemed artsy over here, so maybe that was why.

I leaned against the counter, sipping coffee while he sat on the couch. He was sketching Tessa, who was sprawled at his feet, her tail thumping every time Roman looked at her.

She’d flown here with me yesterday, and she’d been a menace until she finally got to see him.

He’d smiled then, but now his pencil moved slowly, deliberately, like he was carving something out of himself.

I watched him, the way his shoulders hunched and his jaw tightened every few strokes. Something was off.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen lighting up. He glanced at it, then froze with his pencil mid-air. I caught the name before he flipped it over. He stared at the blank back of the phone like it might bite.

“You gonna get that?” I asked, setting my mug down.

“Nope.” He went back to sketching, but his lines got sharper. Tessa whined, nudging his knee, and he scratched her ears absently.

I walked over and sat on the arm of the couch. “He’s been calling?”

“Every day.”

I clenched my jaw as I thought about the things Roman’s dad had said to his mom. “Fuck him.”

Roman snorted, a ghost of a laugh. “Yeah, well, he’d say the same about you.”

“Let him.” I slid down onto the cushion beside him, glancing at the sketch. “You think he’ll show up?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. He’s stubborn enough. Probably wants to drag me back to Idaho, fix me with some outdated church shit.”

“He doesn’t get to do that.”

“Won’t stop him from trying.” He looked up at me then, his brow smoothing out. “I don’t think he believes in conversion. Just God in general. Prayer. Getting me away from you is probably high up on the list.”

“Do you believe?” I asked absently, hoping to shift the mood a little.

“Yeah, just differently than him.”

“What’s that look like for you?”

He stopped sketching, staring at the page like it held answers.

For him, it just might. “When Ross’ family went through everything with Til and Alex, he made sure his church knew that we were meant to love everybody.

We didn’t have to agree, but it wasn’t our job to tell God that he’d made a mistake when creating us. Judgment wasn’t ours to pass.”

“That still implies there’s something wrong with it, though.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I don’t believe that, and I know Ross doesn’t either.

I think that was him trying to meet everybody where they were, whether they agreed with him or not.

But I don’t really think faith is one-size-fits-all anymore.

I used to try and force myself into this version of belief that I thought was the only ‘right’ one, the one that s aid people like me didn’t belong.

But that didn’t feel like God. Not the way I know him now.

“What I believe... it’s rooted in personal conviction.

I don’t think God’s love looks exactly the same to everyone, and I don’t think it has to.

Faith isn’t about memorizing rules or fitting into someone else’s mold.

For me, it’s about living in a way that reflects honesty, love, and grace, and I can’t see any of that in someone who’d turn people away just for being gay.

Or in people who would do that. I still believe.

But it’s not about shame anymore. It’s about peace.

And I don’t think I have to give up who I am to hold on to that. ”

Listening to him brought a smile to my face.

I’d never been religious, and neither had my family, for the most part.

We went to church during the holidays sometimes, but we didn’t put a lot of stock into it.

I’d never thought too much about Roman’s beliefs, even though I knew that his stepdad was a pastor and his family was religious.

“I like that,” I said. “Maybe one day, your dad can see it that way too. And if he doesn’t, I guess those are his own convictions. You can’t change him.”

“We should just call him,” he said suddenly. “Get it over with.”

I blinked a few times. “You serious?”

“No. I don’t know.” He laughed bitterly, tossing the pencil down. “But he’ll come here if I don’t. The longer I ignore him, the more inevitable it is.”

I shifted closer, my knee brushing his. “What’s he like? When he’s mad?”

Roman’s eyes went distant, and I knew he was somewhere else—some memory I couldn’t touch.

“Rude,” he said finally. “Loud. When he doesn’t like something, he expects you not to like it too, otherwise you’re wrong and he’ll make sure you know it.

First sketchbook I ever had, he tried to get me into the kind of stuff he does, but I wanted to draw characters from my favorite shows.

He said that could make me famous in his field if I was any good, so I kept going to make him proud, but it wasn’t about tattooing.

I just didn’t tell him that. Not until I was fifteen. ”

“He didn’t like it,” I guessed.

“He said he’d let me learn from my mistakes when I was living on the streets. ”

My stomach twisted. “Jesus, Roman.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his face. “He’d yell at my mom too, tell her she made me soft. She’d cry, and I’d just... watch it. Until I couldn’t. I’d attack Til or anyone in my path. To me, it was better if they were in pain so I could act like I wasn’t.”

I reached out to put my hand on his arm. “He’s not going to hurt you. Or her.”

He looked at me, his eyes full of a raw emotion I couldn’t narrow down as just one thing. “ don’t want to be that kid who couldn’t fight back.”

“You’re not that kid.” I slid my hand to his, gripping it hard. “And I’ll be there. He doesn’t get to win this.”

He stared at our hands, then nodded slowly, like he was testing the weight of it. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

Hopefully, my next words wouldn’t ignite that temper. “I don’t think you should talk to him over the phone.”

When he looked at me, there was panic on his face. “What do you mean?”

“It’s easier for him to dehumanize you and say horrible things if he’s not looking at you.

Even if he’s a complete asshole to you, he should be made to do that to your face.

It’ll give you more closure, and if things do go well, you can spend time figuring things out together. You need to face each other.”

“I can’t do that.”

Taking his other hand, I squeezed them both. “You can, but it’s up to you.”

“Will you . . .”

“Yes, I’ll be there. Anytime, anywhere, I’ll be with you. I’ll take care of you and keep you safe, Roman.”

He took a shaky breath. “I guess he’ll get to meet his favorite player.”

“Former favorite player.”

He laughed, even though he looked like he was going to be sick. I didn’t feel great about the whole thing, either, and I was worried about the outcome, but the cat was already out of the bag and he needed this.

I let go, leaning back, but I kept my eyes on him. As he started to draw again, I watched him work, the way his hands steadied, the way he poured himself into it .

He’d fight. I knew he would. But that fear, that kid he’d been—it was still there, lurking. And I’d be damned if I let anyone drag it out of him again.

After a while, he set the sketchbook down and leaned into me, putting his head on my shoulder. It wasn’t fixed, not even close, but it was something.

It was enough for now.