Page 16 of When We Meet Again

Rose takes our menus and puts them back into the holder for us. “Comin’ right up.” We watch Rose disappear into the kitchen before Roman leans across the table with a stern look on his face.

“As much as I’d love to talk about the eighties and what’s up with Rose’s get up, I think we have more pressing matters.” His eyes are serious and his lips tight, which throws me off. He’stooserious And I silently nudge him to say something.

“Tomorrow night. We’re going line-dancing at Two Balls and A Bull,” he concludes casually.That is not what I expected.

“Oh, are we now?” I cock a brow. “I think I’ll hold off. I suck at dancing.”

“Nice try. I’ve seen you dance. You’re amazing, Kensi...” His voice trails off, like he didn’t mean to say it.Does he think he’s overstepped?

“Yeah, no. It’ll take me at least five-to-seven business days to recharge from last night.” The bell rings at the front of the diner, and we both instinctively turn like we’d know the person. And surprisingly, we do.

I decide not to shout her name, and instead wait for her to notice us. This is the second time she’ll have seen me with Roman. I’m not in the mood for a million questions.Why are you spending so much time together? Is there something going on with you two?I can hear it now.

“Waverly? Roman?” Victoria eyeballs us.Here we go.“What are you doing all the way out here this early in the morning?” She takes one look at my hair, at Roman’s hair, and back at me.“You know I could assume something, but it wouldn’t make any sense.”

“I took her stargazing in the bed of my truck, but that isn’t the issue at hand, Victoria.” I give him wide eyes as a silent threat to stop talking. “Waverly here won’t let me take her line-dancing at Two Balls and A Bull.”

Victoria throws her leg out to the side and rests her hands on her hip. “I know you’re going through some shit, but dancing makes everyone feel better.”

I snap my head to Roman, praying he doesn’t press it any further. I don’t have a leg to stand on with this argument. “You don’t look like the line-dancing type.” It’s all I can come up with. Not my finest argument.

“There’s a line-dancingtype? And what might that be. Enlighten me.” Roman leans back in the worn chair, extending his legs in front of him. His legs are so long, they reach me across the table and surround mine. His eyes squint, and he licks his lips, causing an unexpected heat to pool in my belly. That look is something I’m familiar with, but it feels different now.

“Not likeyou, Mr. Twenty-Four-Year-Old-Bad-Boy with his black bomber jacket and aviators like he’s Tom Cruise inTop Gun. You wear combat boots or Air Max’s. And you live in gray sweatpants, whichshouldbe illegal, by the way.” I close my eyes briefly and hold my hand up. “And every time someone says ‘y'all’ like poor Rose over there, you wince like it’s nails on a chalkboard.”

Victoria whistles. “You know, I’m meeting my dad here, but you guys,” she chimes, pointing at us with finger guns. “I’ll see you both tomorrow night for line dancing because I think that’s a great idea.” She shoots me a warning glare and trots off.

Roman leans on the table, closing some of the distance between us, legs still extended. “So, you like my sweats, hmm?” He knocks my legs with his knee, and I feel the heat creep up tomy cheeks. I’m lost for words, which is unfortunate, as he goes to open his mouth, and I know I can’t take anymore. But we’re saved by my new friend, Rose, who throws two plates down onto the table in front of us.Perfect timing. I glance at my food just long enough to see that it looks safe to eat—and delicious, but I’m sure that’s only because my stomach’s eating itself.

The morning passeswith us sharing memories of Patrick. All of them positive, of course, and eventually Roman drops me off so I can snuggle on my couch to catch up on my missed sleep. I lie there on an emotional high. Needs of mine were met; I was touched: our hands, him tucking my hair behind my ear. Even though I backed away, I still felt it in my soul.

I spend way too much time lying awake, not thinking about all the ways Patrick made me happy, but all the ways he never met my needs. At the end of the day, he did the bare minimum to make me feel loved. I would walk up to him randomly and hug him. He’d put his arm around me quickly, give me a squeeze, and back away; hugs were always on his terms.

I hate how much Iwantto hang out with Roman.Ugh.Did I crave Patrick’s presence like this? Maybe at first, I did. I couldn't wait for him to get home after being on duty on the boat for months on end. After a while, when he’d come home, he’d be distant, but gave me what I needed when I asked for it…kind of.

I bring the pillow over my face and let out a primal scream.Scream therapy.My grandmother taught me that when I was a kid. It was a place to put my emotions when I had too many and didn’t know how to sort them. It’s definitely come in handy over the years. I let out one more loud scream into the fluff and toss my pillow to the bottom of the bed.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go line dancing,” I mumble to myself. Staring at the ceiling causes my heart rate to increase, and not in a good way. Images of Roman cross my mind. Him in jeans that hug his strong thighs, the way he would hold my body close to him…him hovering over me wearing nothing at all. I roll over onto my stomach and let out a breath.That was strange.

My phone vibrates on the bedside table, snapping me back to reality. I contemplate ignoring it. It’s probably my mom, and I’m really not in the right state of mind to discuss my current mood with my mother. But because I’m a masochist, I check it anyway.

New text message. Roman.I smile to myself like a big dork, prop myself up on my elbows, and my brows pinch as I tap the icon.

Roman: For your journal ;)

It’s the pic he took of us. I take a few minutes to really dive into the way he’s holding me. His smile isn’t just a smile. His mouth is partially open, which means he’s in the middle of laughing. The entire aesthetic of this is something you’d see on Pinterest.

Me: How’d you get my number?

Roman: Never deleted it in the first place.

I debate on whether to text him back or not as I walk into the bedroom and look over at an empty box sitting next to Patrick’s closet: a closet he was so adamant about having because he said I had too many clothes, and when we combined them, he could never find his shit. My brain wants to pack his stuff and donate it to get it over with, but my heart? It’s not ready yet.

But why? Is it because I was so madly and deeply in love with him that I can’t bear the thought of getting rid of clothes thatstill smell like him? Or is it because his clothes are home to me. They’ve all I’ve known for so long that it’s the norm to still have them around?

Either way you look at it, moving his clothes into the box is a change. And as creatures of habit, do welikechange, or do we justacceptit?

I glance down at my phone still in my hand.

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