I couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment I realized I loved Roman more than a friend back then, but it was close to around that time at the lake. That slightly buzzed, comfortably content moment near the calm water, between laughs and silence, between innocent touches and intoxicating scents.
God, even the memory of that night made me want him. I could feel it now as I stood in his bedroom reminiscing, that ache in my heart, in my soul, for a taste of him.
I forced out a laugh, rolling my eyes at myself.
That felt so long ago. And while I’d tried to work up the courage to tell him…he’d gotten drafted and was NFL bound before I could blink. Then, not only was I not willing to risk our friendship, I definitely wasn’t ready to compete with the life that naturally came with the NFL. Models and celebrities and the most beautiful and perfect people I’d ever seen. And after a year, I’d convinced myself my feelings had been imagined. A slip in conscience on a night where we connected on a deeper level out of my sorrow for his affliction.
I found myself content in the role I played—Roman’s best friend.
As I always had been.
And then, I met Rick at a Raptors event Roman had taken me to.
And he was charming and sweet and unbelievably gorgeous. He found me interesting and listened to my stories and my dreams, and he wooed me in a way I’d never been pursued before. Flowers and lengthy notes about his love of me. And the sex had been wonderful the first few times.
Tears bit the backs of my eyes as I sank onto the edge of the bed, the laundry all put up, and the empty basket forgotten at my feet.
Rick’s changes weren’t a tidal wave—they were a slow trickle from a broken faucet. Little switches I’d easily brushed off due to stress or pressure or alcohol. A snap here, a jab at my weight there. A broken cabinet door after he’d found a cup in the wrong place. A fist-sized hole in the wall when I hadn’t answered his call because I’d been on the other line with my mother.
Selfishness in bed—flip me over and pound till release. No foreplay, no care for my pleasure. Just his.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d been so blind, so deep in it by then that I couldn’t see straight. The love, in the beginning, is what kept me clinging to him—or the idea of him—in the end. Because every bad treatment was followed up with a good one. Something sweet that reminded me of who he’d been at the start of our relationship, and every single time he did that I thought we were taking steps to return to who he’d been before.
Then the deeper I got, the threats against my family and friends started. Subtle at first, so passive aggressive I didn’t even register them. And then they became clearer, more real, and I felt so far gone that I hadn’t seen a way out.
And now, after getting the space and time to clear my head, I knew he’d only followed up with those sweet moments to keep me in my place. And he only used those threats when he saw my emotions slipping. Because he felt he owned me and he wouldn’t stand for me leaving him. Women didn’t leave Rick Baker, and I was lucky enough to be chosen as his. A prize, really. Because he could have anyone he wanted.
I swiped at the tears of anger rolling down my cheeks. Anger at myself for ever letting myself get so deep, so lost that I couldn’t tell right from wrong, normal from toxic.
For three years, Rick had slowly drowned me in an inch of water.
Until I’d had that glass-shattering moment—when his tight grip had turned nearly lethal when he’d thrown me against that wall. Thrown me like I was an opposition on the field, threatening his win. The moment where I knew one more second with him would be my end.
I scraped my palms over my face, forcing the memories away, the hurt and anger away. I had to get my life back. Had to find a way to remember who I was before all this had happened.
But right now? Right now, I had to make a celebratory batch of mocktail-mojitos, because Roman would be home soon, and he’d want to celebrate the Raptors win. He wouldn’t drink when he had practice tomorrow morning, but I wanted to make it fun for him nonetheless.
And having a fun drink with Roman was an effortless piece of happiness I’d gladly lose myself in.
* * *
“Hey, T?” Roman called from the hallway just off the kitchen.
“Yeah?” I toweled my wet hair as I walked through the house to meet him. “What’s up?” I asked when I found him standing in front of a closed door—the one that led to another one of his guestrooms.