Page 18 of Hale Yeah, It’s You

The Miller house looks exactly how it always has—the big oak tree that shades the yard, the rose bushes in the front garden, even the beautiful wrap-around porch are the same as when Mrs. Miller tended the house,—but knowing that Roman lives here now makes it seem like a completely different place.

If you could see energy with your eyes, I imagine the energy of the house has gone from a calming beach sand to a deep forest green.

A forest that threatens to pull you in and never let you go.

I stare at the rose bushes as if I might find my strength there, trying to gather the courage to step out of my car and walk the whole ten yards to the front door.

By the time I gather the courage to head to the door, I notice Roman in the front window. He has the decency to turn away and pretend he wasn’t watching me, but he’s not a very good actor.

I purse my lips, embarrassed that he’s seen me out here taking my sweet time.

It’s been more than ten minutes; how long has he been watching me have an internal meltdown?

I shake my head, knowing he’s likely still watching me, and finally step outside.

I resist the urge to stare down at my shoes as I walk up the path, keeping my head high and my shoulders back with a confidence that I don’t feel.

My nerves are wound tight, my body still buzzing from the kiss this afternoon.

Half of me wants more of that heat, the other half is ready to run for the hills.

Roman opens the door, a soft smile on his lips as I carefully take the two steps up onto the porch.

He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, his hair looks slightly damp and messy, as if he’s just come from the shower, white socks on his feet.

He looks domestic, and somehow this makes me more nervous than his suit and tie.

Here, in his own home, in casual clothes, he reminds me more of the young boy I used to know.

My throat works, suddenly tight and in need of water.

“I thought maybe you changed your mind about having dinner with me.” He leans heavily on the open door.

“Jury is still out.”

He steps out onto the porch, taking my hands in his. “In that case, you should come inside while they deliberate, I hear those verdicts can take a while.”

I purse my lips but a laugh slips through. “I see your jokes haven’t improved much.”

“They still make you laugh though.” He grins triumphantly.

“You have me there. I guess I’ll come inside.”

Roman nods but he doesn’t make a move to go back inside. Instead he leans down and presses one feather light kiss on my lips. “I hope you’re hungry. You gave me a reason to cook something good in my new kitchen.”

I lick my tingling lips, a different hunger building inside my chest. “Oh, I could definitely eat.”

Roman turns, leading us into the house. I don’t think I’m imagining the awkward nervousness coming off of him. Maybe we’re both still shaken from the kiss in his office .

“Make yourself at home, dinner is almost ready,” he says, leaving me in the foyer. I slip my shoes off by the door, the aged wooden floor creaking beneath my feet.

Inside the house, it’s warm and brightly lit.

Roman hasn’t changed much inside the old colonial home as far as I can tell.

Small white flowers speckle the sky blue wallpaper, and crisp white chair railings and crown mouldings pop against the backdrop.

What has changed is the furniture. Where Mrs. Miller had more clutter than she knew what to do with, from what I can see, Roman has barely furnished the large house.

“Looks like you have some furniture shopping to do,” I call down the hallway that leads to the kitchen, running my hands over the back of the pale gray couch in the living room. An antique looking coffee table and end tables are the only other furniture in the room. Does the man even own a TV?

“Did you say something?”

Heading down the hallway toward the kitchen I call out to him again. “I said it looks like you have some furniture shopping to do.”

I pause in the wide kitchen door frame, taking in the scene before me.

Soft music drifts to me from a small speaker near the stove, and Roman has a kitchen towel thrown over one shoulder, his oven-mitt clad hands reaching for something inside the oven.

His dark hair has fallen forward over his forehead and his tan arms flex with the movement.

This is a man who is confident in the kitchen, and it shows.

My heart squeezes in my chest, and emotion wells in my eyes thinking of how many years we’ve missed out on being part of each other’s lives.

The years have passed anyway, and we’ve both grown into adults with jobs and lives of our own.

I wonder who’s been lucky enough to share those years with him.

While I haven’t exactly pined for him or wasted my life waiting for him to return, there has never been another man who has touched my heart in the way that Roman had .

“Did you hear me?” Roman, having placed a delicious looking cheesy pasta dish on the stove, stares at me with concern. “Frankie, you okay?”

I blink back the tears, smiling at him and shaking my head. “Wow, that looks as good as it smells. I think I was distracted by food.” My voice sounds watery, even to my own ears.

Roman crosses the few feet separating us and meets my gaze. “I was telling you that I have the hardest time picking out furniture. I can’t seem to visualize it in my own space, and I usually end up with a bunch of things that don’t match. And since it’s only me here, I figure I have time.”

I picture his childhood bedroom, an eclectic mixture of styles and patterns, walls haphazardly speckled with movie posters and concert photos, and laugh. “Does it need to match?”

“Well, according to my last realtor, yes.” He laughs, his hand reaching up to tuck one of my curls back from my face.

“She told me to hide all my furniture in storage and let her stage the place. I think she was right though, it sold during the first open house. Do you know anyone with a good eye for that sort of thing?”

I take a shuddering breath before answering. “You could always go to a furniture store and pick out one piece and then let them match the rest of the items for you.”

Roman shakes his head, dismissing the suggestion. “That seems too easy.”

“Easy is nice sometimes.”

“I think I prefer complicated things.” Roman leans down and brushes his lips over mine again. “Sometimes it’s worth it to put in a little extra effort.”

The microwave dings and Roman pulls back. “I need to grab the bread before it burns. Go ahead and have a seat at the table and then we can eat.”

I take a seat in the adjoining dining room, surprised to find that Mrs. Miller’s old dining table still occupies the room.

Its wooden surface has been resurfaced and returned to its former glory.

All six dining chairs as well. Roman has set a table for two, the head chair and one to the left.

I choose the seat to the left, toying with the fringe on the woven cream-colored placemat as I wait.

Two glasses of red wine have already been poured, and I take a timid sip from my own glass.

“Here we are.” Roman places a plate in front of me, loaded with the cheesy pasta, a breadstick, and a delicious looking green salad.

“Wow, this looks fantastic. Thank you. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Roman takes his seat beside me, motioning for me to dig in. “I took cooking classes in college after I got tired of eating ramen noodles and day-old pizza.”

Taking a small bite of the pasta, I savor the flavor explosion in my mouth. Once I’ve swallowed, I beam at him. “Well, the classes definitely paid off.”

“Thank you. I found a love for cooking. The taste testing especially.”

We eat in comfortable silence, only the sound of soft music coming from the kitchen and our forks occasionally scraping against our plates.

I sneak glances at Roman, catching his eye a few times and earning a shy smile in return.

As much as we’re strangers to each other now, I’m still comforted by the familiarity of his presence.

“I really am sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have gone off like I did. I didn’t come to talk to you with the intention of fighting… it was a lot.” Roman fiddles with the stem of his wine glass. “I’ve missed you, Frankie. I hope Alayna knows how lucky she is, having you for a mom.”

Time is up. I need to set the record straight about Alayna, and get closure on how things ended with us the way they did, so that we can start fresh and leave the past where it belongs.

“Speaking of the other night…” I sigh, taking one more sip of wine for courage.

“I wasn’t as forthcoming with you as I should have been, and I need to set the record straight.

While Alayna is my responsibility, and I think of her like a daughter, I’m not her mom.

She’s my niece, Roman. She’s Clay and Tasha’s daughter. ”

Roman goes quiet, staring down at his plate, and I wish I could read his mind. When he doesn’t make a move to speak, I continue.

“I should have made that clear the minute I realized you thought she could be your own daughter, but to be honest, I was so hurt by how you left me in the dark… I liked the idea of letting you sweat a little. I know that was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Roman places his hand over mine. “Alayna is your sister’s kid?”

I nod, though the admission pains me. “Technically she’s Clay’s daughter.

My sister hasn’t bothered to show her face around here since the divorce hearing, and that was more than ten years ago.

That’s why I stepped in, because she’s my niece, and I love her like my own.

I’ve raised her with Clay, and it’s totally unconventional and people think it’s weird, but it works for us. ”

“I didn’t even remember Tasha and Clay were together.” He shakes his head. “But now that you say that, it all makes a lot more sense.”