“Not really, no.”
“Give me a fucking example,” he growls like a rabid animal.
“Example of what?” I ask.
“An example of how fucking romantic your husband was!”
“Okay,” I say as I swallow around the lump forming in my throat. “Adam didn’t use the word fuck in every other sentence when we had an argument.”
“Oh, and I bet you two never had any arguments either, did you?”
“Not really, no,” I admit. “We just got along. That’s how well we knew each other, and it’s not something I can explain. Adam and I dated for almost three years and were married for five years. That’s seven years of our lives we had to learn everything about each other.”
“He was in the Marines for several of those married years,” Roman points out.
“Yeah? So?”
“And you don’t think he ever did anything wrong while he was away from you?”
“No, I don’t,” I say confidently, to which I’m greeted with silence. “Why?” I ask. “Wait. You’re not trying to imply something here, are you?”
Roman rakes his fingers through his curls and says, “You still haven’t given me an example of what kind of romantic shit he did for you.”
“See! That right there, ‘romantic shit’ is what I’m talking about. The fact that you think it’s shit means it’s not something the president of the Savage Kings would ever do for a woman!”
“Try me,” he grits out.
“Fine! So, every Valentine’s Day, even though he’s gone, he still sends me a dozen red roses.”
“Wow,” Roman says with a grin and a shake of his head.
“What? It’s sweet and thoughtful. It means he cared enough to make future plans with a local florist to make me feel loved, as if he knew he wouldn’t get to come home alive.”
“What else?” he asks, propping his hands on top of his head, flexing his massive biceps and looking…smug.
“My week vacation here every year.”
“What about it?”
“Adam made the reservations for our anniversary week every year before he died. How many men do you know that would do that?”
Roman goes silent for a long damn time before he lowers his arms from his head and asks, “Is that it? Is that the best romantic shit you’ve got?”
“They’re pretty big ones. I can’t think of any old ones right off the top of my head…”
“Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
“Adam wasn’t psychic. He didn’t know he was going to die, so he sure as fuck didn’t buy you flowers or make vacation plans for you from fucking Afghanistan!”
“Yes, he did!”
“No, he didn’t,” Roman argues, which is really starting to piss me off. How can he act like a jealous jackass when I compare him to my dead husband?
“How do you know what Adam did or didn’t do for me?” I ask. “It sounds like you barely knew him! Whenever I ask you about him, you barely say a word!”
“Trust me, Charlotte. I knew him. He didn’t set up the vacation or the flowers.”
“Again, how would you know? How can you be so damn sure?” I yell at him. He simply blinks his beautiful, green eyes at me as if waiting…waiting for me to figure it out myself.
“No,” I suddenly gasp in understanding. “Roman, no! You?”
“Me,” he replies simply.
“But…why? Why would you do that?” I ask in confusion.
“Because after Adam died, I didn’t know what else I could do for you, and I needed to do something! But it’s been five years, Charlotte. It’s time for you to know the truth, and it’s time for you to move the fuck on!”
“Move on?” I repeat. “Like it’s as easy as just saying the words. Have you ever lost someone you love?”
“No. I told you I haven’t.”
“Then you don’t get to tell me to move on!”
“For fuck’s sake, Charlotte. Please don’t make me do this.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Tell you the secrets I promised Adam I would keep for him.”
“What secrets?” I demand. Instead of answering, he just goes over to the dresser and starts pulling out clothes and putting them on. “Tell me, Roman!” I say when I march up to him and jerk the t-shirt out of his hands. “What secrets of Adam’s have you been keeping that you think are so freaking bad?”
“He has a kid!” he shouts.
“What?” I whisper, having obviously misheard him.
“I didn’t want to tell you, baby. I didn’t. I thought you were better off not knowing the truth, thinking the man was some sort of saint. But he wasn’t. Adam had a kid with a woman while we were overseas. He’s four and a half now. I send them a few grand a month to help out with bills because she didn’t want to tell you and ask for any of Adam’s survivor benefits.”
“You’re lying,” I snap at him. “I can’t believe you would make up something so…so terrible!”
“Why would I lie, baby? Why?”
“Because you want me to hate him! You think that if I hate him, then I could love you, but you’re wrong! I will never love you as much as I loved him.”
I’m visibly shaking I’m so pissed when I toss down his t-shirt and go over to grab my clothes and start getting dressed.
“Charlotte, just wait a second, and try to hear me out,” Roman says from behind me.
“No. You’ve said plenty, and I don’t want to hear another word out of your lying mouth.”
“Then look,” he says, shoving his phone in front of my face so that I have no choice but to look at the photo on the screen. It’s a picture of a blond-haired toddler smiling big for the camera with a little round cake in front of him. “Tell me you don’t see the resemblance!”
“I-I don’t know,” I reply as I stare at the boy’s face. He has light hair, and his eyes go all squinty when he smiles in a way that is somewhat familiar.
“Let me take you to see him and Meredith. Talk to her and see if you still think I’m making this shit up.”
“Meredith?” I
