Page 7 of When We Meet Again

"You know what?" He eyes my slow chewing and looks back at me. "Would you mind if I helped you out around here instead? Maybe..." His eyes dart to, and quickly back from, the empty cans of pop on the floor. “I can just pick up some of those cans?”

His cloudy-colored eyes sear into me as if he's waiting for me to break. It's the look of pity I hate getting from people. He, of all people, should understand. We stay staring at each other until I finally will myself to swallow the pizza, when really all I want to do is spit it out. It's disgusting. I'm pretty sure I was chewing a hair. My body convulses at the thought.Nasty.

"Sure," I finally say, shrugging and grabbing my water. I lift the gallon to my face again, glaring at him over the plastic.

"'Sure,’ as in I can help…?" he nudges.

I nod. "Have at it. Or you can join me on the couch for this fabulous episode ofI Love Lucy." I stare at the TV screen and let myself zone out again.

He says nothing but starts taking off his leather bomber jacket and lays it across the dining room chair. Our—damnit,my—apartment has an open concept. I can see the whole main living space. I was shocked Patrick wanted this layout, with him being such a private person and all.

I don’t feel Roman sit at my feet until he nudges them for more room. “I’ve never watched this. Isn’t this from our parents’ era?”

“I forgot you were twelve,” I deadpan before I toss the crust of my pizza at him. He yells and catches it because, among all things, he’s athletic. It’s those Huxley genes. I watch him go to take a bite of it before I return to the screen.

“Oh my…What the?!” Roman dramatically spits out the dough in his hand. “This is disgusting. How old is this pizza?” he asks before taking a swig of my-now-room-temperature water.

“And this tastes like breath. Jesus Christ.” He slaps my feet and stands before gathering all of the leftover food off my beautiful coffee table. It’s Mediterranean style and one of a kind, and I haven’t seen the top of it for almost two weeks now. I actually missed the pattern of that tabletop.

“Get up. Let’s go,” he says, coming back from the kitchen.

“No.”

“Yes. You need to get out of here. Your apartment smells like feet, and I’m pretty sure something in that bag of chips was moving.” He points to the big bag of Doritos.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I insist, pulling my lavender fleece blanket up to my neck. I hate being cold. Southern California is below temperature this time of year. But I refuseto move out of Venice Beach, no matter how much everything reminds me of Patrick.

He rubs his hands down his face in frustration. “Okay. How about this…I have to run a couple of errands. You come with me, but you don’t have to get out of the car.” He stares at me waiting for the answer. “Maybe we can open the windows, get a nice crosswind going through here?” The desperation of his voice is breaking me.

It’s been a year, a bazillion take-out food deliveries, nine-million movies, sixteen multi-season series, and only showering on the days I work. I’ve not done anything as a respectable part of society. Not that society should be looked at as the norm these days. It’s a shit show out there. But I guess it would be good to get out of the house. And at least Roman won’t grill me about how I’ve dealt with things over the past year. He’s going through the same shit.

“Ehhhh. Fine. But I’m not getting out of the car,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I said that already.” He smiles, his eyes sparking with something I haven’t seen before.

I roll my eyes as I slide off the couch. It feels strange to stand and have a destination other than the work, kitchen, or bathroom. I look down at my burgundy sweatpants and favorite, off-white sweatshirt. It has two hands giving the middle finger; an accurate depiction of my mood.

“Nice,” he chuckles, gesturing at the graphic before sliding on his jacket. “Let’s go.”

“You’re not going to make me change?”

He stops mid-movement. “Makeyou change? Why would Imakeyou change?” His eyebrows pinch together, genuinely confused.

If Patrick didn’t like what I was wearing, he would ask me to change. It was never forceful, but it was enough to make mefeel ever so slightly self-conscious about my clothing choice. I’m confused. Is Roman not embarrassed of me? Perhaps because I’m just a woman he’s helping out of the trenches, and nothiswoman, so he doesn’t give a shit. I don’t care enough to dig deeper intothatfeeling.

I grab my wallet by the pile of un-opened mail and follow Roman to his truck. The crinkled white envelope from Tom rests on my legs and I draw in a sharp breath before I tear into it.

Dearest Waverly,

Some people believe others have all the luck. Living in a state where you believe so-called luck is not on your side means you aren’t in harmony with Tao. It’s time, dear.

Luck is not something that randomly happens to someone, but it belongs to you when you decide to live by letting go.

It sounds contradicting, but once you let go of all stress, worry, and fear, you promote a sense of mental and emotional well-being.

Death of a loved one is difficult, but it won’t kill you. Although, you feel as if you’re dying.

Visualize yourself as indestructible.

---