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For the key west shorts, I would loveee to see them around the time babygirl was first born or even when Capri was pregnant with her. I’m so obsessed with them i just wanna know everything!🤍🤍
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄.
lessons learned from the trials and tribulations of your miscarriage, roman is firm on ensuring he doesn't miss a beat during your early pregnancy with lorelei. but when he flies you out to lounge backstage at a show, you aren’t thrilled. you thought break ups entailed separation.
content | toxic dynamics.
𝄞 “i love you so much i cannot lose you so. i heard about soulmates i've never gotten this close. i'm so close. so close. so close to making it real.” 𝄞
KEYWEST!VERSE | white bone: the smau. | 7k.
Apart from the low murmur of commentary from the announcers table on the mounted screen, the dim, private dressing room is otherwise quiet.
Silent, still, and serene, just as you prefer. Any alternative in your current state would most likely earn the nearest individual a death glare.
Just three months in and the ease in which you become irritable over even the slightest offense has become one of the biggest hallmarks of your pregnancy; the temperature being set one degree higher than you usually prefer, even the sound the friction certain pillowcase fabrics make under your ear at night. You’re so sensitive to everything around you, so when the pendulum that is your emotion swings, it swings far.
But tonight, you’re particularly irritated. Even more so than usual.
It’s your first time at Madison Square Garden, never mind New York City, so you should be in brighter spirits. Yet, it’s the last place in the world you want to be because Roman, too, is here.
Approximately a year and a month ago, that wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, it’d be something of an incentive. You’d come out to support him and watch from your pick of the litter: either his dressing room, the arena’s suite, or ringside. You’d always tend to opt for anything but the latter. Meek by nature, sitting front row always comes with millions of eyes you’re simply inclined to shy away from. But since then, circumstances have changed. Drastically.
He’s not your man anymore. And he hasn’t been since he cost you that lucrative partnership with the World Surf League.
The business opportunity presented itself at South Bay, the exclusive coastal Country Club you’ve been granted access to ever since he added you to his membership plan in 2018. The year you met.
At a charity event you were invited to on behalf of Sunburnt, you were introduced to the Event Director of the WSL. A man that goes by the name of Lucian Montclair. A businessman, a bachelor, and a sight for sore eyes— not that you were looking. He spoke to you a little bit about the WSL; how they’re the premier home of global competitive surfing and that they’re making Key West an annual stop for their championship tournament, and that, if you were interested, he’d like to open a line of communication between the two of you because they’re also looking for local businesses in the surfing scene to partner with and they have their eyes on Sunburnt.
Initially, it’s purely a business relationship.
For Lucian, somewhere along the way, that changes. Perhaps during the millions of meetings you had with him and his team, with locations varying from the Country Club itself to hotspots around town, both the expensiveness of the restaurants and the time you met him at increasing with each incremental progression into the deal. Gradually, he grew fond of you.
Too fond.
When you brought Roman to one of the WSL’s black tie events and introduced the two men, it didn’t take him long to pick up on it. On the way Lucian would laugh while looking at you when one of his peers cracked a corny joke. On the way he couldn’t help but look over at you when you weren’t looking. On the way he kept trying to passive aggressively belittle professional wrestling as a legitimate sport in front of you.
Roman tried to control his temper as best as he could for your sake.
Your excitement about the opportunity and what it could do for Sunburnt as a brand was palpable. That type of strategic collaboration could send you to an entirely different stratosphere if you played your hand right.
The position the cosign of such a conglomerate could place Sunburnt was nothing to scoff at.
He knew he was on thin ice as it was. His jealousy had always been a problematic fork in the road of your relationship, and you two were just starting to recover from the fallout of the deceptive ‘girls trip’ Anastasia took you on to Portofino, Italy. A period in which you spent many nights sleeping in the guest bedroom because as true as it may be that he didn’t fall for their bait, you were still deeply upset that he’d made them comfortable enough to believe their plan could even work in the first place.
You two were still on fragile ground. You weren’t out of the woods.
It all came to a head during Solar Flare, the summer surf festival hosted by the town of Key West. Lucian and a sparse group of interns on behalf of the WSL were set to attend and promote their Championship Tournament that would be stopping in the island in just a few short months.
You were surprised to see Roman making his way onto the beach during the set-up of Sunburnt’s canopy tent during one of your treks back and forth from the shop to the sand. He’d just landed from his flight home the night prior, and you wanted him to catch up on some sleep. But as tired as he was, he’s never liked the thought of you doing manual labor when he’s around. Or even when he isn’t for that matter. So he took the crate of merch and apparel from your hands and took it to the tent as you returned to the shop to get more.
Lucian tried to make conversation with him to fill the silence while Roman put the tent together. Small talk, shit he can’t stand from someone he can’t stand. But it went unbelievably left when Lucian’s chuckle bled into a comment underneath his breath about how ‘this must be what Capri is always talking about.’
A comment that grabbed Roman’s attention, no question.
“What?”
Lucian shrugs. “Nothing, man. Never mind.”
Roman blinks. After a beat, he places the metal plate of the tent down. “Nah. What’d you just say?”
“I’m just saying man.”
“Saying what? You talking to my girl about me?”
“She’s the one doing the talking, bro. Take that up with her.”
The force of Roman’s right hook connecting with Lucian’s jaw disorients him long enough to catch him off guard with another one. In the blink of an eye, the two men are on the ground wrestling for leverage.
Roman, on top, sends relentless bone-cracking punches to the face until he hears bystanders yelling and running to them in the distance. The split second it takes him to peer up at the stranger trying to pull him off is all Lucian needs to grab the small metal pole lying on the ground and swing it at Roman’s nose.
“FUCK!”
His face throbs hot, the sight of his own warm blood on his fingertips when he quickly presses it against his nostrils turning a switch off completely.
With a smaller crate in your hands, you only heard the ruckus when you rounded the corner of someone else's tent. It wasn't until you recognized the colors of clothing you saw a mere twenty minutes ago that everything in your hands dropped to the ground and your feet carried you to the crowd trying to rip them apart. And that’s when you saw the real carnage.
The blood stained sand.
The swollen knuckles.
Lucian’s groans of pain bleeding into the bystanders pleas for an ambulance. For 911.
Once the men were able to peel Roman off him, he stumbled to his feet and snatched his arms away to raise both palms into the air as his chest heaved— his fingers wiping at the blood on his busted lip.
But looking at Lucian… it made you queasy.
To say you were even irate with Roman would be an understatement. So much so that when the cops handcuffed him and took him to jail, you didn’t bail him out.
And the WSL pulling the plug on the partnership was the last straw.
You and him were over.
Nothing would get you to hear him out, not even the seven digit lump sum he wired you that he estimated would be the first year payout of the deal had it gone through. You didn’t care what he told you Lucian said to him to warrant what transpired, because none of that was about Lucian. It was about you. He knew what that meant to you. What it meant for Sunburnt. And he couldn’t help but ruin it for you anyway.
The tapping of knuckles on the door and the quiet creak as it opens diverts your attention from the segment broadcasted on the monitor, “Pri.”
You swallow the bite of the meatball marina sandwich you’ve been working on before slightly projecting your voice for direction in the spacious dressing room, “over here.”
On paper, Namina Baraz is the only child of your mother’s only sister. But ever since the summer your mother dropped you off at your aunt Yvette’s and never looked back, you’ve never seen her as anything less than your sister. Neither one of you, in good faith, could ever say you weathered a storm alone. Not the loss of Yvette after her short battle with cancer a few years ago, not the subsequent deep bout of depression Namina fell into, not the trials and tribulations of managing your inheritance of your aunt’s small surf shack by the shore.
When she calls, you answer.
When you call, she answers.
And call, you did.
Ever since Roman found out you were pregnant, he’d stripped his schedule so bare that even classifying him as ‘part-time’ is giving him too much credit— but this short string of appearances that conclude with tonight’s Madison Square Garden show, he is contractually bound to. Apparently, the string is far too long for you to go unsupervised despite only being in the tail end of your first trimester. Which is why he’s essentially forced you to fly out here.
And precisely why you’re so agitated. Because to you, he’s just using your pregnancy as an excuse to excerise control over you.
If you’re honest, you have no one to blame but yourself. You have never been more resolute about him as you were after he’d ruined that opportunity for you. After you broke it off for good. It was over.
Then you’d heard about them. About her. Around four months after the split, after four months of radio silence on your end despite the millions of messages that were left on read and phone calls that were declined, he’d starting seeing someone else. Mia.
It was the first time you’d called him since everything went down, and you let him know about himself. That he’s a liar. That if he was so quick to move on with her of all people, then they surely had something going on behind your back while you two were together regardless of what he told you when you got back from Italy. That he isn’t worth the fuck that made him.
All of which he silently took with a grin on his face on the other line, because all that passion meant you still cared. It wasn’t over.
Still, he maintained that he’s never stepped out on you not once, and that he and Mia are casual so she’s not his girl.
The phone call that broke that seal of no contact for the first time in four months tore the floodgates open again. Armed with the knowledge that you’d never even look at him again if you truly believed he cheated on you, he’d started stopping by Sunburnt to bring you lunch on a daily basis. Just looking for a sliver of time to speak to you. You’d dub him, busying yourself with a customer and leaving him for Namina to deal with.
One time, he happened to catch you while you were closing. It was a rainy memorial weekend and the shop’s hours of operations ended at noon, the time of day he always stopped by. Your car was at the mechanic and Namina, who was supposed to give you a ride, double-booked her schedule after forgetting the holiday hours.
He followed you for three blocks in his car. His window rolled down and his foot barely on the gas to match your steps on foot, he tried to coax you into his car against your silent defiance. But the universe was on his side, because three blocks in, it started to pour. The type of rain you can’t see through.
His voice booms to outweigh the heavy pitter patter hitting the concrete sidewalk, “get in the fucking car before I come grab you and someone calls the cops on me, Capri. You’re gonna get pneumonia.”
In the passenger seat with your arms crossed and your head turned to the window, he didn’t give you any choice but to hear him out. He parked the car in a desolate spot near the ocean and dismantled the belief that he was unfaithful for two hours. And you only believed him once he swore it on the baby you two lost, which you were inclined to do because it was the first time he’d mentioned the sensitive subject since you lost her.
The relapse happened only once, six months into he and Mia’s situationship.
One night, you were feeling particularly bothered. You’d were missing him more than usual. What was he doing? Was he with her? Was he thinking of you? You two had been in casual communication ever since that clarifying conversation in the car so to quell the ache in your chest, you found yourself going through you and his’ recent messages.
The decision to send him a picture of you from your gallery was quick and impulsive. Two selfies from one batch, nothing too crazy. The casual finger on your parted lip in the second one, though, was flirty enough for him to bite.
Capri. 7:10PM
wrong person. sorry.
Roman. 7:14PM
Why’d you send me that?
Capri. 7:16PM
it was an accident.
Roman. 7:16PM
Right. Well. I miss you too.
Capri. 7:18PM
lmao no you don’t.
Roman. 7:18PM
Send me another one.
Capri. 7:18PM
You haven’t texted me in three days.🙄
Capri. 7:19PM
no. come see it in person.
That night three months ago, you two had the nastiest, most disrespectful sex you’ve ever had and you regretted it all in the morning.
You knew you were pregnant before you took the test. It was just intuitive. Every day that went by without your period was a day you pushed to the back of your mind simply because you just did not want to confront it. Then the relentless morning sickness kicked in, and left you no choice.
He’s stoic, “you’re pregnant.”
You blink down at the seven different brands of pregnancy tests laid out on the bathroom counter, your arms across your chest. “Yes.”
His eyes peer from the stick in his hand, to your eyes, and back. Then, he chuckles.
You whine and drop your arms from your chest to snatch the test from him, “this isn’t funny Roman! Why are you laughing?”
He follows you into the bedroom and leans on the doorframe, trying to hide his lax grin while you pace back and forth, “nah. It’s not funny. But I’m not about to act like I’m upset. I’m not. And you can’t be either. If I recall correctly, I gave you what you wanted. You’re the one that was begging me to nut ins—”
“Quit it. I’m being serious. I can’t be pregnant. This isn’t something you bring a baby into, Roman. Jesus Christ.”
A long pause. “What does that mean?”
“If this environment is already unhealthy for the both of us, what would it be for a baby? I mean, we’re not even together.”
His eyes are drawn onto a spot on the carpet as he reads between the lines of what you’re saying, “…you don’t think we’d be good parents?”
You’re wallowing in self-resentment. You’d freed yourself from his shackles for good and all but crawled on your knees to pick up the rusted steel off the floor and restrain your wrists back in them by your own will. You scoff and speak before thinking, “Roman you’re barely a good man.”
He blinks, “so I’d be a bad father.”
You stop pacing and stare at him with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Shit.
Under that thin veil of irritability that comes with the natural reshaping of pregnancy hormones, self-resentment has followed you like the trailing stench of cheap perfume throughout the entirety of your first trimester, souring nearly every interaction you’ve had with him ever since. Every doctor’s appointment. Every phone call. Every text message.
“Damn near got lost trying to find this room. Jesus.” Namina places her purse down on the coffee table when she gets close enough and reclines on the sofa beside you.
“Here.” You turn to grab the Firehouse Subs bag from the corner table behind you and place it on the sofa between the both of you.
You’ve only been without her for eight days now, but that’s also eight consistent days you’ve spent with Roman. The most you’ve spent with him since the break up, and the strain is starting to show— which is precisely why he’s flown her out this weekend. Perhaps some time with someone who isn’t him will offset the tension lining your shoulders.
“Heard me?”
“That you almost got lost? Yeah.”
She snorts at the view of you finishing off your sandwich and opens up the bag to inspect the contents Roman picked up before the show to satisfy the craving you’d mustered the courage to admit.
She grabs the Snapple and twists the top off before taking a cold sip, her eyes glued on her cousin. “Mia’s here.”
You turn away from the monitor and blink, your eyes gravitating towards the dressing room door. “You saw her?”
“On my way here, yeah.”
“She saw you?”
“Shit. I hope so. Otherwise it’d be a waste of an outfit.”
Typically, you’d laugh at that. It’d get a chuckle out of you at the least. Tonight, you do neither. You can’t, because you’re distracted by the gradual boiling of your blood. It starts off with a slight heat that increases incrementally until there’s a blazing fire in your chest.
You already can’t stand being here as it is, but for him to invite her on top of everything? You’re pissed off.
In all honesty, you pity the woman. Once you found out that nothing truly happened between them during the duration of the relationship like you believed when he started seeing her of all people, it became abundantly clear that he started seeing her so quickly to get a rise out of you. To hurt you like you hurt him.
But you vowed to never give him the satisfaction of a reaction over her pathetic ass again, and you don’t make empty promises.
Namina’s elbow rests on top of the sofa, her forehead pressed against her fist as low chatter emits from the broadcast on the screen. “How’s that going though? Him and her?”
You shrug carelessly and take a sip of your bottled water. “He’s barely anywhere else other than with me so I know it’s terrible for her. And I can’t for the life of me seem to care because that’s the type of pain she wanted for me.”
“You accept her follow request?”
“Nope.”
Two weeks ago, you logged onto your second instagram account. The private one meant for your close friends and family with eighty two followers. On it, you had a follower request from Mia’s public, verified profile.
She shakes her head, “good. I would’ve let it collect dust too. Slick trying to be on that kumbaya shit. Get the fuck on.” Namina, as is one of the only people who knows about what happened when you went to Italy on that July 4th, treats both Anastasia and Mia like they did it to her personally.
Just as you’re about to respond, the door creaks open.
Shirtless, breathless, and sweaty, Roman appears at the threshold— his hand ripping the velcro of the black glove off his other hand as he walks in.
His tone as diplomatic and matter-of-fact as always, his eyes land on your cousin. “Namina.”
She smirks at the deep contraction of his diaphragm in an attempt to regulate his breathing. “Mm. He tore your ass up, ain’t he?” she tsk’s and shakes her head in disappointment, “just as I was getting used to the sight.”
He breathes out a chuckle through his nose and looks at you. You’re looking back at him, but you aren’t laughing. Instead, you’ve just got that thousand yard stare in your eye.
After a beat, she clears her throat and grabs the bag you gave her and her purse off the coffee table. “I’m gonna head back to the Airbnb. I wanna beat the traffic. I’ll text you in the morning, ‘kay? Rita’s opens at noon.” You nod and let her hug you before she bids Roman goodbye and leaves the dressing room.
He sizes you up when a hush falls over the room, “you finish your sandwich?”
To clue him in without verbally responding to him, you ball up the empty paper your sandwich was packed into and place it in the plastic bag it came in before taking a swig of ice cold water as you maintain eye contact with him.
He exhales, “Capri.”
“I didn’t need to be here.”
“Yes you did.”
“I’m twelve weeks along. I don’t need supervision.”
He turns his back to you and slips his glove off, tossing it onto the shelf underneath the monitor— ignoring you in hopes that it’ll dead this conversation that he won’t entertain.
It’s the last sliver of disrespect from him you can take, “you’re such a fucking asshole.”
He props one foot up at a time onto the surface of a steel chair and bends at the hip to undo the laces of his sneakers and prepare for his shower, his eyes locked onto his pristine Jordans. Lowly, “yeah? And what else?”
“And I wish I never met you.”
His jaw tightens as he slips out of the shoe and switches to his other foot.
“And I hate that I’m tied to you forever now.”
The venom in your voice stops him in his tracks. He looks over at you, “because I want you with me instead of that house on your own while I’m away?”
“Because—”
No. He’s not getting the satisfaction.
“This is the first time I’ve made you fly out and I told you it won’t have to happen again since tonight is the last show before my schedule lightens up. Stop fussing with me, Pri. This is for your own good. There’s nothing I can do for you if I’m not with—”
“I want to go to the hotel. Now.” You untuck your feet from underneath your legs on the sofa and slip them back into your abandoned sandals on the carpet.
He stares at you for a moment when you divert your attention to your phone. In the five years that he has known you, you have never been this short tempered with him. It took some getting used to in the first few weeks, and sometimes he knows just how to pacify you, but sometimes you just wear him out. Right down to the white bone.
If a lesson is significant enough, he’s always been the type of man that only needs to learn it once. And nothing has ever been quite as significant as the violent sound of blaring horns, screeching brakes, your panicked gasp, and shattering glass on the other end of a phone call while there’s thousands of miles separating the two of you.
That night was just as traumatic for him as it was for you. So you can be as disgruntled as you want at the lengths his preventative measures go to. Leaving you by your lonesome is not a risk he’s willing to take.
His shower is cold and languid, just as he likes. The cool stream regulates his respiratory system, relaxing his muscles and lolling his heart rate to a steady gallop. He has half a mind to call for you and tell you to get in to reap the same benefits, a subtle smirk growing on his face under the shower head at the memory of you and him showering together and him twisting the temperature handle to frigid while your eyes were closed just to watch you shriek.
Once he gets out the shower, gets dressed, and neatly scoops his hair in his classic updo, he makes his way back out to the dressing room. He grabs your plastic bag as you grab your purse and mutters for you to come on.
Accustom to the cozy dimness of the dressing room for the past several hours, the corporate fluorescent lights of the arena halls are much harsher than you expect. In the few seconds it takes your pupils to readjust to the paleness, Trinity turns the corner and finds two figures stepping out of a dressing room in her natural line of sight. When she processes exactly who it is, a huge smile grows on her face and she starts beelining it towards you.
She can barely contain herself as she gets within earshot, “say it ain’t so.” Her excitement is as infectious as confetti and sprinkles.
You nod with a tight-lipped grin before she shrieks and pulls you into a tight hug, “oh my god. You know Jimmy’s mouth is the size of the great barrier reef and he still can’t manage to hold water. Congratulations! How do you feel?”
You tug a wisp of hair from out your face and tuck it behind your ear as she shoves Roman on his upper arm in jest, “thank you. Um, I’m good. Surprisingly. Really bad insomnia and I’m averse to certain scents, but that’s far and few in between. I’m thugging it out for the most part.”
As they chit chat, something urges Roman to look up.
In the distance past Trinity’s shoulders, who’s stood in front of them both, is Mia. She’s on the other side of the hall, leaning against the cinderblock wall as she talks to someone he can’t make out of. Her mouth stops moving when she too spots him, and then you, and then Trinity’s palm on your barely discernible stomach.
His brows furrow. Considering the origin of their little rendezvous, finding Mia backstage isn’t necessarily surprising. But it’s been a long time since the last time she made an appearance he didn’t know about ahead of time.
His lips rolled into his mouth, his sight flits back to you but you must already feel the heat of her gaze because your eyes happen to naturally travel to the other side of the hall for a second. Yet, despite the fact that you also spot her, your conversation with Trinity doesn’t miss a beat. You don’t seem to be caught off guard by her presence at all.
“Huh? Um. Yeah… Yeah, I’ll tell him.” Her eyes glued to your flat belly once Trinity removes her hand, Mia’s mouth is on autopilot, just absentmindedly rattling off whatever Irene needs to hear in the moment in hopes that it’ll conclude the conversation about the details she wants Mia to relay to her father for his upcoming Hall of Fame induction.
Irene doesn’t seem to get the hint, her voice distantly droning off more specifics as Mia’s heart slowly slips into a free fall on the tile she’s standing on, the violent pounding of her pulse blocking out any information from penetrating her eardrums.
You can’t be…
Are you?
When it came to you, she was only really aware of the fact that you and him were no longer together. The current state of the relationship, whether you two were still in contact or if you were on good terms, was always a big fat question mark. Due to the lax nature of his relationship with Mia, he’s never felt the need to divulge that type of intel no matter how many times her insecurities implied that she was curious.
It’s not her business. Letting her know would imply that she’s entitled to.
Which makes this all that much worse.
She knew something was off.
He’s been even colder than usual. Dodging calls and texts. Postponing one link up after another. Even becoming shorter with her when they speak.
The first sign of snowfall after the warmest summer in history is much more is jarring when it follows a million years of winter, which is why she’d shown up tonight. She’d probably hold the grudge that she was forming against him for a little longer before folding, but she’s become even more tender since they’ve started sleeping together.
Now, she just feels like a fucking idiot.
Irene says something that Mia quickly nods to before she finally walks away, and when Irene exits, Mia’s eyelids start getting warm. She exhales a shaky breath. She feels so fucking stupid. Of course. Of-fucking-course. She doesn’t even know why she tries sometimes.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. I just had to say something. I’ll let you go. I’ll call you later.” Trinity gives you a look that communicate that there’s a lot to be discussed as she backs away before turning around and leaving.
Your smile gradually shrinking, you turn and walk the opposite way until you’re past the premise of the arena and into the lot. You’re some steps ahead of him, which isn’t easy to do considering his frame, and it’s how he knows you aren’t happy. “Slow down. You don’t even know where I’m parked.”
“I’ll find it.”
Five minutes into the ride, some song by Miguel begins to waft through his Escalade.
One hand combing through his beard as his other steers the wheel,the ease in which you glossed over Mia’s presence when you saw her comes back to him.
The fact that you weren’t caught off guard makes him wonder whether or not you might've already been privy to the fact that she was there. You’d been backstage for hours, you might’ve even ran into her prior if you ventured outside the threshold of his dressing room like you had the freedom to while he was in the ring. It would explain why you seemed so upset with him when he returned, especially since your issue with traveling had been been laid to rest days prior.
He knows you like the back of his hand. If you believed for a second that he had a part to play in her attendance tonight on top of your irritation at the two of you’s forced proximity, you’d be livid right now. And you’re livid right now.
A couple months ago, he would’ve reveled in it. Shit, even if it wasn’t true he’d let you believe it if it meant you’d feel the fury he felt when you broke it off with him for reacting to finding out you’d been letting Lucian in on you and his’ relationship troubles.
It was unfair.
While you two were together, when you found out Mia had been trying to move in on him while you were in Italy, he let you express it openly, whatever that looked like even though he hadn’t had an active hand in anything she did. He didn’t punish you for feeling violated. He didn’t leave you when you felt violated.
The same cannot be said for you.
So when you called it quits, he went tit for tat.
But shit’s different now. You’re carrying his baby, and under no condition does he need you in any unnecessary distress right now. You’re as vulnerable and sensitive as you’ve ever been, and his concern for your wellbeing trumps all that other shit. Fuck all that.
He’s never internalized anything in his life as much as he did what you said to him once you found out you were pregnant.
You don’t think we’d be good parents?
Roman you’re barely a good man.
… So I’d be a bad father.
He didn’t give you much of a chance to elaborate. He left your apartment soon after you’d said it. He doesn’t know if you’d walk it back or double down, but it wouldn’t neutralize the bullet wound anyways.
Still, the fact that your faith in his ability to be a good father was in question shook his foundation like wobbly tectonic plates. If he let his projection talk, it’d say that all but confirms you hadn’t forgiven him for the car accident and he can’t even say he blames you for that because, in all honesty, he hasn’t either.
He looks over at you in the passenger seat. Underneath the hand mindlessly toying with the anti-nausea band wrapped around your wrist just below your sleeve, the crop of your corset jacket exposes the skin of your lower belly. You look barely bloated to the naked eye, partly due to the optical illusion of the vintage top’s deep swooping hemline.
He looks back at the landscape of Manhattan at night, “I didn’t know she was going to be here tonight.”
You roll your lips into your mouth, raise and then drop your eyebrows as you hum in bored acknowledgement. “Hm.”
“I’m serious, Pri. I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t even know. She shows up whenever she wants to these things.”
You find a sudden interest in the buildings that look like they’re moving in time lapse through the passenger side window and lie through your teeth, “I couldn’t care less about your little sorry ass puppy, Roman. Just take me to the hotel.”
You care. Immensely.
In fact, with your emotions all out of wack, you can’t remember a time you ever cared as much.
.
The water from the bath faucet pelts the pool of water beside you as your arms reach behind you to unclip your bra, sighing in relief when you taste that first second of liberty. Jesus Christ. You make a mental note to stop by Victoria Secret in the morning with Namina to pick up new ones.
In front of the well-lit bathroom mirror of the penthouse suite, you peel your panties down your legs and blow a raspberry as you look at your body. The weight gain is moderate but you see the difference most in your face. It’s fuller, lightly rounder. You tug the towel off the rack. Just as you wrap it around your body, the door opens.
You gasp sharply and hold the fabric to your chest, “oh my g— can’t you knock?!”
He pauses to eye the clutch you have on the towel, his expression unamused. “There isn’t a square inch under there I haven’t seen. Relax. Here.” He hands you what appears to be a dark blue bottle. This must be what he was getting from the trunk as you went on into the hotel without him.
“What’s this?” You read the bottle label. Dr. Teal’s melatonin infused lavender foam.
“Pour it in the water. The lady said it’s infused with melatonin and smells like that shit you’re always talking about. It’ll help with the insomnia.”
You blink at the spot he was standing at once the door closes.
He navigates his way into the living area and lounges on the sectional before leaning forward to pick up the cold Corona on the coffee table and taking a swig, his eyes on the cream curtains draping over the floor to ceiling windows.
Your one stipulation to coming on the road with him for these two shows, once you reluctantly agreed to after fighting tooth and nail, was the hotel arrangement. You didn’t care if it was already booked, if you didn’t have a bed of your own, you would be taking your ass back to Florida— no questions asked.
He believed you, albeit unfortunately, because you delivered it with that pointed finger like you always use when you’re serious and you’re done negotiating. Unfortunately, because he’s sure a lot of the tension you’re carrying could be fixed in one night if you’d let him. He’d have you walking on air. Shit, you’re already pregnant. You don’t need to be walking around that fucking agitated anyway. It’s not good for you.
When his phone chimes, the glass rim of the bottle at his wet lips, he tips the Corona back and brings the screen to eye level.
MIA. 11:07PM.
lol.
MIA. 11:07PM.
you’re weird as fuck. hope you know that.
ROMAN. 11:12PM.
What?
MIA. 11:14PM.
you know exactly what i’m talking about.
MIA. 11:14PM.
here I am taking the initiative to come out and see you because you’ve been acting off just to find out exactly why lol.
MIA. 11:15PM.
congrats tho. hope that baby fixes the issues you and her have like you think it will. ✌🏽
A tick of irritation mars the fold between his brows at the exchange, his beer meeting the ceramic side table with a light clink.
This thing he and her have going on was always meant to be light and airy. Low commitment. Apart from the tit for tat shit, it was meant to make you sick enough to realize that you don’t want it to be over and you still do want him. Meant to be short; something to pass the time by since nothing seemed to emphasize your absence quite like the silence when he was on his own.
Still, he’s never given Mia the impression that this is any more serious than it is, nor that you were ever out the picture, so the grilling feels out of left field.
ROMAN. 11:20PM.
Why are you acting like that?
ROMAN. 11:20PM.
We’re aren’t exclusive. We aren’t even together.
MIA. 11:27PM.
so I’m just supposed to turn my feelings off when I find out she’s pregnant?
MIA. 11:27PM.
I’m a human being.
MIA. 11:29PM.
you say you care about me but never act like it Roman. you SAW me witness that entire thing knowing how I feel and didn’t do nothing. didn't say anything. didn’t even text me afterward.
ROMAN. 11:32PM.
She’s carrying my child. I’m not going to put her in distress for your sake. I’m sorry if that’s what you wanted.
ROMAN. 11:35PM.
I do care about you, but I told you what this was from the jump. If you’re expecting any more than that, and I think that you are, that’s on you Mia.
ROMAN. 11:37PM.
It’s not your place to speak on our kid. You’re outta line. Don’t do it again.
MIA. 11:39PM.
that’s not my intent. i just feel so fucking disrespected.
ROMAN. 11:40PM.
I wasn’t tryna do that. I’m doing what I gotta do as a man. and that’s take care of my responsibility as a father.
MIA. 11:55PM.
how far along is she?
ROMAN. 11:58PM.
12 weeks.
The pattering of feet against hardwood floors captures his attention. As soon as he cranes his head around, you walk past the sofa with the towel tied around your frame and stop in front of a small Miu Miu bag full of travel-sized toiletries.
He puts his phone down on the side table and picks up the Corona to take a sip as he watches you silently dig through the bag for your cherry blossom body lotion, “tired?”
“It’s not gonna work that fast.” You mumble.
“Shit. For $400, it better.”
You stop digging and look up at him, “that was $400?”
He grins to himself and takes a swig, picking up the remote and pointing it at the television.
You cut your eyes at him and grab your lotion.
Going back to your bed, your eyes search for the red shorts you forgot to bring to the bathroom when you went to shower. Feeling too tired to properly search for it, you grab two handfuls of the duvet and jerk it up into the air once to locate it faster. Instead, you hear the thump of an object much too heavy to be an article of clothing hit the floor.
Leaning over the bed, you find Roman’s wallet on the floor. When it fell, it must've landed on its spine because it opened on impact. You bend at the hip, picking it up to close it and place it on the nightstand but right as you close it, something catches your eye.
Curious, you open it back up.
Tucked inside but peeking out of one of the corner folds of black leather is what looks like a white piece of paper that’s been rolled and flattened due to the tight pressure of the stacks of cards inside.
Your lips rolled into your mouth, you looks up at the open door of the bedroom. The sound of the television is distant. After internally debating it, you roll your eyes and pull at the piece of paper in increments as not to damage it. When has he ever questioned you being in his wallet?
You unfurl it and your world stops spinning on its axis when it reveals an sonogram. For a few seconds, all you hear is blood rushing through your ears. You’re only able to take another breath again when your eyes dart around the print in a panic.
PATIENT: RYDER, CAPRI.
DATE: 6/1/2021.
It’s yours.
You take a seat on the edge of the mattress with your palm pressed against your chest. Fuck. The more you look at the black and white image, the more it’s wear and tear make sense. It’s been in there for nearly three years.
Once the panic fizzles out and the hammering of your heart returns to a calm thrash, what you’re looking at starts to settle in.
June 1st, 2021 was the date of your very first sonogram from your first pregnancy. The tech was a nervous medical student in her second year of residency, supervised by Dr. Emerson. A revelation that Roman had ample issue with if the biceps of his arms crossed against his chest had anything to say about it. He received every one of your gasps at everything from the coolness of the gel to the new sensation as a blunder on behalf of the poor girl— his low, disgruntled interjection of ‘easy’ as she pointedly depressed the instrument deep onto your belly only intimidating her further.
You have no idea where he found this from.
You had gotten rid of everything in the nursery following the miscarriage. Two months after the car accident, when he left for work and it turned into his longest stint away from home ever, you purged it all. The toys, the clothes, the diapers, the sonograms. Everything.
Or so you thought.
You didn’t want to be reminded of it, and at the time; in the same way the brain represses certain memories of trauma to protect you, you thought pretending it never happened would be better.
A blank canvas is less violent than a black and blue one, after all.
Yet, when you look at it in a different light, perhaps this time around is your blank canvas.
Despite how upset you’ve been at yourself more than anyone for letting your heart lead you back to him, it’s not lost on you in this moment that you’ve never once entertained the alternatives Dr. Emerson discussed with you during your first appointment.
Deep down, you know it was never an option because you have what the past version of yourself mourned losing in the palm of your very hand. You’ve just been so preoccupied with resenting yourself that you’ve been tainting a perfectly healthy pregnancy all on your own. The realization makes your vision blurry.
You’ve been assuming the worst in every situation imaginable; that him wanting you with him here these past couple of days is just him using your pregnancy as an excuse to exercise that control he loves, that he invited her here tonight to get a rise out of you. If it was a negative thought, it had to be true.
But looking down at the weathered paper through glazed-over eyes, you can’t help but wonder if his intentions are truly as nefarious as you keep assuming.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 most, if not all, things about your relationships easily fall under the category of unorthodox. a unique love story, to say the least. and the ending....well, that remains to be seen.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 angst. thorough themes, references, and discussions pertaining to mental health topics and pregnancy. brief reference to domestic violence.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 five thousand, eight hundred, and some change (5k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x plussize!black!reader
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos from pinterest and instagram. title graphic by me. dividers by @/cafekitsune
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝how will i know❞ by sam smith
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 this was originally a 2k outtake that didn't fit the timeline for the first part. thus, it was scrapped. decided to post it, but i needed to "finish" it off, and it somehow ended up almost 6k....hate it here.
For the first time since you two boarded his private jet, Roman flits his gaze from the ceiling over to you. His eye contact has been everywhere and elsewhere for the past almost hour, but this time, he’s not looking at the obsidian bottle you're holding. Fingers spread and splayed over the cream wrapping. What it is, you haven’t a clue. You’d just asked for something “good,” and the nice flight attendant with a pointed nose and freckles spackled over her T-zone honored your request.
The shit is very good.
Or maybe you’re just that bored.
You can fully understand why Roman asked you almost three times if you were sure you wanted to attend this PLE with him. International travel wasn't unfamiliar. You’d traveled overseas—Jamaica—the summer before your senior year of high school, and while it wasn’t a super long flight, it was the longest one you’d been on. Not the easiest, but not the worst, either. Stupidly, you’d put two completely different examples juxtaposed and were now paying the price.
Not even an hour in, and you’re already over it.
Doesn’t help that it was such a short turnaround time, either. Granted, the initial plan was to stay an additional day or two. Do some exploring. Despite politics you find egregious, sexist, and misogynistic, Saudi Arabia, geographically speaking, is a beautiful ass country.
It’s also a country Roman was eager to get the fuck out of following the disaster that was Crown Jewel.
Hence the sour ass mood he’s been in since he walked into gorilla, his cousin, Jimmy, flanked on his side attempting to butter him up with toxic positivity that only earned him a glare and silence that extended all the way to their ride back to the hotel.
Even now.
A part of you wishes that you knew what to say to help him feel better, but on top of still not being completely clear on the full backstory of how his family ended up so fractured and divided, you’re just….not good with that shit anyway.
Blind leading the blind.
The almost squeaking sound from across drags your eyes from your lap to the man now leaning over and reaching for the bottle. You chuckle and oblige, handing it to him, studying the way he reclines, head tilted back, liquid swimming down his throat. The slight scowl from the aftertaste and brief shake of his head followed by him falling back into that funk.
It’s gotta be the therapy you’ve been surprisingly consistent with the past month paying off that gives you a ridiculous, sudden boost of confidence. A fleeting desire to at least try to lift his spirits.
“There’s always next time.”
He waits until he’s downed his second swish, glare set on you, the same tone he’d used with his cousin. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I think we both know there’s nothing that could make you feel better right about now.” You roll your eyes, pulling your legs up to your chest. The sleeve of your shirt—his shirt—hanging off your shoulders, exposing your hot pink bra strap. “You lost that chance when you took that pin.”
Regret immediately fills you at your unfiltered, unintended shot at a man who was already down. Has, in many ways, been down since the night you both met and married him. Some of that down, no doubt, a result of your own actions.
Though the same could be said for the other way around.
He snorts, placing the bottle down on the tray beside the cream, leather seat. “Surprised you got the terminology right.”
Him not snapping and slinging that mud right back at you is…surprising but appreciated. Maybe those therapy sessions as part of your overall treatment have been helpful for him, too. Or maybe not because if that were the case, his other cousin, Jey, wouldn’t still hold such a level of animosity towards him. So much so that it ultimately played a large role in the disaster that was this match.
But also….if anyone knows that some bridges are burned beyond the point of repair, it’s you.
You know it all too well.
It’s what shifts the tide. Makes something turn in your stomach as you mush your lips, doing your best to string words together in a way that’s helpful vs harmful.
Lord knows you’d played your role of villain far too well over the past few months.
“You’ll figure all this out.” Roman once again looks over at you. That same guarded, irritated expression unchanging. “The fact that he agreed to even team with you and Jimmy has to mean something, right? He could have just told you to fuck off.”
Roman's reply is almost instantaneous. “He did.”
Despite the indirect rejection of what’s probably a poor attempt at comforting, it doesn’t deter you. Confuses you initially, sure. But then you realize he’s referring to Jey’s conduct throughout the match. The lack of cooperation. “Maybe.” You shift in your seat, shrugging your shoulders. “But he still showed up. Still tried. In his own way….and so did you.”
That’s when you see it. The subtle softening of his harsh, sharp features. The flick of his tongue to the corner of his mouth. It encourages you in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Trust me. If anyone knows about this whole fucking everything up and then trying to fix it shit, it’s me.”
Another quick reply, this one with a less austere tone. “Line starts behind me.”
And for the first time in a while, you smile. Not forced for the camera, a post or video to upload, perpetuating and maintaining a fraud that felt like it’d become your norm. A genuine, fucking smile.
“Well, make room for me next to you or something.”
And for the first time all night, he smiles.
You bite down on your bottom lip, lowering your legs to the ground. Eye contact locked as you close the distance between the two of you, assisted by the way he reaches and tugs you onto his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck as his do around your waist, big hands dropping to palm your ass through your thick, gray sweats.
“It’ll all work out,” you repeat, voice softer. “It sucks right now, but….” The swipe of his tongue over that soft, thick bottom lip is all the encouragement that you need with the thought that crossed your mind the minute he pulled you close to him. “Then again….”
Th lines around his eyes make an appearance, deepening and creasing as you climb off his lap. Dragging your palms down his chest, you drop to your knees. A flash of something in his iris when your fingers toy with and snap the band of his own sweats before smoothing over his thighs, gentle force making them part just enough for you to shuffle between them. “Not everything that sucks is bad.”
May, 2026
Your lips pressed together as you hum quietly to Mari's latest single clashes with the dark flooring as you make your way into the kitchen. But it's a sound that ceases when you’re met with the surprising sight of your husband’s broad back as he stands near the island.
“Hey, babe.” You kiss him on the cheek, sauntering past and depositing your Gucci bag onto the counter. “I thought you’d still be at the gym.” Because Lord knows this man’s gym sessions are already long as hell, but ever since he won the WHC, they’ve been even more ridiculous. Twice, sometimes up to three times a day. His morning and evening ones are typically done at home, but the afternoon one he gets in at Paragon. The elite, private gym he’s a member of that has a ridiculous monthly membership fee and perks that seem like something out of a movie.
It still blows your mind sometimes just how wealthy he is. You weren’t exactly living in poverty before meeting him, having been one of the luckier ones who makes a decent amount of money off your various platforms. But your manic episodes often included reckless spending, so much so that it’d greatly depleted what was, at one time, a hefty savings account. You’ve built it back up, and then some, since being with Roman. But if not for him….
You shake your head, willing the thoughts away.
It’s best you not go there.
“Finished a lil’ early.”
In the midst of opening up the refrigerator to pull out the cranberry juice, it’s his tone that immediately ceases your actions.
Something…something is off.
Bumping the door closed with your hip, bottle in hand, you turn your attention back towards him only to instantly still, ajar mouth frozen in place.
He’s still standing near the island, black, sleeveless Nike fitted shirt clinging to his chest, and while your eyes start to travel the length of his sculpted arms, something else takes precedent.
The bag.
And not even the large TJ Maxx bag on the counter in as much as it is the contents that you immediately make out via the brief, exposed portion of a striped, pink and white onesie sleeve.
Fuck
But if there’s one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s saving face.
Your hand tightens around the bottle, condensation dripping and melting between your fingers. “Oh.” You clear your throat, opening the closest cabinet to pull out a glass. “That.” You shake your head, back towards him while you fill the cup to the halfway mark. “Yeah, I was clearly in an episode. Hence why it was in the donation pile.”
“Y/N—”
“What? You going through my stuff now?” The teasing tone of your voice is intentional, a smirk on your face as you turn around and take a sip. Licking the rim with a wink. “Making sure I’m not getting rid of any of your memorabilia, old man?”
One look at his unchanged expression, however, tells you everything you need to know. You can’t charm your way out of this one.
A heavy sigh precedes the way you shake your head and place the cup back down on the counter. “Come on, Rome. It’s not a big deal.” Walking over, something tightens in your chest when you reach for the bag, hand hovering over the exposed item. It takes a second for you to push through it. Your eyes lift to his as you shove the onesie back with the rest of the pieces. “Seriously. It’s—”
“Y/N.” His deep voice cuts through your poor attempts at damage control once more. His eyes focused on you, peeling back every protective layer you’d attempted to frantically and desperately create. “This wasn’t just from one episode.” He gestures with a head nod, reaching to open what you wish nothing more to shove and throw away. God, something told you to load up your car before you left for your nail appointment. His hand messes around with the countless number of brand new, tag still on em’ baby clothes before he looks at you. “You’ve been buying this stuff, haven’t you?”
Lying has never done you any good, and you’ve worked so hard to be honest with him. But you also are in no mood to have this conversation.
“It’s not—“
The hand not gripping a 3 to 6 month white shirt with a rainbow on the front grabs the back of the bar stool. He drags it across the floor and motions with his eyes. A part of you wants to protest, find a reason to leave, to deflect. But you also know your husband. Know that look.
It’s why you decide to not drag this out any longer than need be.
You sit down.
Smoothing your hands over your exposed thighs, the desire to tuck and play with the hem of your skirt is a hell of a lot more interesting and desirable than focusing on the way he pulls out the chair opposite of you. Places it so that he’s sitting directly across from you. Your attention only subtly shifting to him when he leans over just enough so his elbows are on his knees, hands clasped together. As much as you really don’t want to have this conversation right now—or ever—something about the way he won’t look at you, stares at the ground, is unsettling.
Especially since you know he’s not upset.
Roman’s anger is never quiet. It’s loud and always makes itself known. Any emotion similar or adjacent to that short, red creature is always visible and never hidden. Even in the early stages of development.
This is none of that.
Truth be told, you don’t know what this is.
You just know that you don’t like it.
Shifting in your seat, raking your nails over your thighs, you muster up the courage to break the silence. “Roman—”
“I want to have a child with you, Y/N.”
Acrylic tips wedged into your soft skin, toes curled against the bottoms of your YSL flip-flops, any non-verbal actions that you were in the midst of are immediately paused. Thinking, feeling, existing, and everything else in between also immediately halted to a sudden, abrupt pause in production.
Did he….
No…
He couldn’t have.
But reality is suddenly turned upside down when he lifts his head, looks you dead in the eye, and doubles down on what you’d thought was imagined. “I want us to have a child together.”
All you can do is blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. Stare and wait for the other shoe to drop. For him to cut the bullshit on this cruel joke.
He doesn’t.
Not even close.
He licks his lips, gaze collapsing once more. His jaw shifting before his words come out slower, quieter even. “You were right when you said I go back and forth. I do.” He shakes his head, rolling his neck. “But it’s not because I don’t know what I want. I do.”
“Roman…”
“I just….” He swallows. “I can handle when you’re manic. It’s not easy. Hell no, but….I’ve learned now what to do. What you need.”
And you don’t disagree in the slightest. Like many other individuals living with Bipolar 1, when you’re in the midst of a manic episode, one of your symptoms includes a heightened sex drive. And for a man who possesses just that without a mental health diagnosis in his medical chart, that worked just fine for him. Everything else—the lack of sleep, impulsive spending, risky behavior—he’d created parameters to protect you. Ensuring to essentially stay with you at all times, taking and hiding your wallet and car keys. Even your phone during earlier, more extreme episodes.
Essentially holding you hostage from the dangers that are you when you’re not in the right frame of mind. At the beginning, at the time, you hated it. Hated him. Told—screamed—at him just that.
Now….now, you’ve never been more grateful.
“What I can’t handle….” Your eyes hone in on the way his voice falters and something indecipherable flashes in his eyes. “—is the other one.” He looks at you once more, displaying it all without any reservation. “When you’re depressed.”
Your lips press together, hands shifting to the side of the stool. Cool metal under your palm, closing and tightening.
Despite only knowing him for a few years, you’ve probably talked to and with Roman more than anyone else in your life. And not once has he ever expressed anything like this. Despite there being a what and what with your manic and depressive episodes, because the consequences of the former have always been more….drastic, the latter hasn’t really been a thing touched on.
Not like this.
“You completely shut down,” he continues, licking his lips, voice even but strained. “Shut out everything and everyone, including me, and I don’t know how to get through to you when you get like that.” It’s not until then you realize that the reason the sight of him before you is suddenly blurred is because of the tears forming and brewing in your eyes. Even with the distorted image, there’s no mistaking the frown on his face. “I don’t know how to help you, and it freaks the fuck out of me.”
For whatever reason, it’s not until then that it hits you. Perhaps for the first time since he started speaking, you see it. Hear it, even. The uncertainty. The anxiety, almost. It’s….disarming, in some ways. Roman has always been the definition of confidence. Arrogance, really. Even the night you met when he looked like he’d just been kicked while already down, and he had in many ways. But he still held this….regality about him. It was always so attractive. Admirable. Seeing someone who was always so…..so sure of himself.
Thus, him sitting in front of you and openly speaking in such a vulnerable way….it’s the last fucking thing you expected him to say.
But he’s not wrong.
As chaotic and erratic your manic episodes are/were, you’d always said that you’d take those over your depressive episodes any day. While manic, you feel any and all the things. While depressed, you feel nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
Anhedonia, as you’d learned through therapy. The inability to feel pleasure or joy. Or anything.
You’d lay in bed, sometimes days at a time. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Completely and totally quiet. If you weren’t crying, you were sleeping. And if you weren’t doing that, you were offering nothing more than a soft shake of the head and small shrug to any and all of Roman’s questions.
And there were always plenty.
He bent over backwards, offered anything and everything he could, but nothing pierced the dense veil of depression.
The worst of which resulted in a 5150.
“The fact that you can get so low, and I can’t pull you from it scares the fuck out of me.” The bombs continue to drop, as does the feeling in her stomach. He pauses again, swallowing deeply. “How am I supposed to help you if you have an episode while pregnant? And if I can’t help you, how am I supposed to help our kid if he or she needs it?”
The corner of your lips twitch, tears briefly piling before spilling past your jaw. “Roman, I—”
“And you know me. You know that I don’t like talking about this shit. Admitting shit like this.” It’s true. He doesn’t, and now knowing what you know, you can understand why his mood would always fluctuate so quickly around the subject. Like most things, it was easier for him to lash out, say mean shit, than it was to be honest.
You can sort of relate.
Can understand.
“But seeing the baby clothes today,” he continues, standing up and moving towards you. It’s only then that you sniffle, quickly wiping at your eyes that are soon fixed on him when he cups your face. His frown has deepened, his voice whispered. “The fact that you’ve been buying them…” He thumb swipes away another roll of fresh tears. “That you were trying to get rid of them—”
You shake your head, refusing to allow him to take on anymore guilt that he already holds. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have purchased them in the first place.”
It was such an unintentional thing. Started out so small. Out at the store, casually walking through the aisles. You’d always felt something stir within whenever you had to walk past the kids section. Especially when passing racks of adorable baby clothes. Would sometimes allow yourself to look, to peruse, but the goal was never to purchase.
You weren’t being completely dishonest with him. Some of the many, various items of baby clothing were, in fact, being purchased in the midst of a manic episode. Where you truly believed that it was a necessary purchase given it being only a matter of time before you conceived. Had already envisioned and imagined how adorable your baby boy or girl would look in the three piece outfit.
But other times…..perhaps most of the time, you weren’t manic, and you certainly weren’t depressed. You were in that sweet, safe spot in between. And somehow, that seemed to hurt the most. Holding the items, sometimes with tears in your eyes because while they ended up being scanned and bagged as part of your overall purpose, each quiet drive home was driven with a single thought.
It’s never going to happen.
By the time you’d get home, you’d have changed your mind. Reflected and thought on comments and conversations where Roman referenced your future children. It’s what led you to keep them. To keep buying them. On the hopes of a what if. But gathering clothes to donate to local shelters in conjunction with the most recent, hardest conversation regarding children had finally carried you to the realization and acceptance that seemed like the most likely to occur.
And it wasn’t a pregnancy.
Thus, you ignoring your tears and the throbbing in your chest as you bagged up all of the items you’d purchased and ordered, forcing yourself to stop believing and waiting on a dream that was never intended to be anything more than that in the first place.
A dream.
“But you did,” he counters, softly. “And that means something, Y/N.”
Again, all you can do is look at him, stare and continue to be stunned and floored by words you never could have anticipated hearing today. If ever.
But if your husband, one of the most emotionally stunted men you’ve ever met, is capable of pushing past discomforts and knocking down walls, then you can, at the very least, do and offer the same.
You look down, covering your hands over his, gently dragging them down so you’re holding them in your lap. Brushing your own thumbs over his coarse knuckles. One of your fleeting thoughts being that he must have hit the bag today only for you to realize that of course he did.
It’s always been one of his favorite stress relievers.
“Do you….do you remember the big fight we had?” For the first time since you entered the home, humor briefly entangles with intensity. Specificity for a thing that was the norm for far too long is most definitely a requirement. “The first one regarding pregnancy.” Where you said no. “You—you said something to me that night. Something that….” Your tongue darts over your dry lips, voice hoarse, his eyes focused intently on you. “At the time, I hated you for.”
One could argue this sentiment has been felt several times over in the span of two years, mostly in the early, turbulent stages. But none more than that night.
“Fine, if you don’t wanna fucking say it, then I will,” he’d snapped. Anger and frustration painting his face and the tips of his ears red. The room around you two in disarray. Shattered glass littered across and meshed within the Persian rug. Both from the lamp you’d thrown and the one he’d shattered with a single swipe of his arm. A chair flipped over in the corner, and the TV still running in the background. The only sense of normalcy in that moment. “You know why you wanna have a kid so fucking bad?” He’d stepped closer, your fingers tightening around the neck of the half drunk bottle of wine in hand. Seconds away from joining the other broken, irreparable things. Much how you felt about your marriage in that moment. “It’s not cause you actually want to be a mother.” In that moment, you knew. Just knew what he was about to say. And even that level of preparation in the face of his stoic expression and sneer didn’t spare you the cascade of emotions. “It’s cause you just wanna prove to yourself that you’re not her. That you’re not your own mother.”
Your eyes shut, the memory reigniting another set of emotions, an evident revisiting given the way he attempts to pull his hands from you. To comfort you, you’re sure.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“You were right,” you whisper, allowing yourself to voice for the first time a realization you’d had in therapy a few months prior. “I hated you because….because you were right.” His subtle movements and efforts to comfort you are temporarily halted in the midst of a truth you know he didn’t expect to hear.
“Y/N….”
“My biggest—” Shutting your eyes once more, you’re taken back to a different time and place. The soft cushion behind your head and under your body. Hands clasped over your stomach, eyes still shut, the soft, soothing voice of your therapist walking you through a mindfulness exercise grounding you in a moment you’ve never needed it more. Keeping you on two steady, metaphorical, and literal feet. “My biggest fear in life was—is—ending up like her.”
“That’s why....” Another thick swallow, emotion stirring for another heavier round. The swipe of your tongue over your bottom lip met with a salty taste on the tip of your tongue. Tears. “That’s why I pushed back on getting help for so long. I felt like—like that made it real. That it made me her.”
If someone told you a couple years ago you’d ever be confessing this aloud to your husband who’s 16 years your senior and someone you met and married in under twenty four hours, well, you’d perhaps not not believe them. But it’d 100% be the actions that were contained within a manic episode. However, you’ve never been more sane and regulated than in this moment. A weight unloaded in the most unexpected of ways.
“But I know now that just because we shared the same diagnosis doesn’t mean we’re the same person. She made her decision. She chose not to live anymore.” A beat. “And I chose to finally start living.”
He takes a small breath as you manage a small smile that’s dimmed seconds later by the reminder of additional truth that you’d prefer to keep to yourself. It’s not an option though. It’s not an option because it serves no purpose other than to self-sabotage. There has never been a better moment than now to acknowledge even the most uncomfortable, heartbreaking of truths.
“I, uhh, I went to the doctor before we left for Italy. Just…” Once more, the burden of truth causes you to stammer, but you manage to power through. Slightly aided by the way you intermittently allow your gaze to focus on your still conjoined hands. A metaphorical representation of union and togetherness that’s saved you in so many ways. “Just wanted to know where I stand, fertility wise, if we were….”
Breathe
Roman says something, or starts to, and while you hate to interrupt him once more, you know yourself well enough to recognize that if you don’t get this out now, there’s a good chance you’ll find a way to keep it to yourself.
As you’ve done since you found out.
“My….ovarian reserve is significantly lower than it should be for someone my age. Like….a lot.” A forced, inauthentic chuckle accompanied by another wave of tears that stream down your reddened cheeks. “Like….’the chances of me conceiving naturally and without medical assistance is slim to none’ a lot.”
And while your doctor, the sweetest woman with a gentle disposition, warm and maternal, approached the conversation with a cherished delicacy, it wasn’t difficult for you to read between the lines. To decipher what she didn’t want to say for fear of crushing what she knows to be your dreams of motherhood.
That IVF is your best bet if you ever wish to have and carry a child.
And even that’s not guaranteed.
Revisiting the conversation takes a heavier toll on you than expected. It’s when you lift your hand to wipe away at the tears that seem to be coming with increased frequency and flow is when Roman takes advantage. Moves his hands to your waist, attempting to pull you into him. Sympathy, empathy, and everything else floating between the two of you.
“Y/N—”
“I think it’s just a sign, ya know.” Shaking your head, eyes naturally closing, it’s hard to tell who you’re trying to convince. Him or yourself. God knows it’s nothing you haven’t repeated a dozen times over. Sometimes it feels as though it’s working. Other times, it feels like nothing more than pouring waning hope into a bottomless cup with a hole so far deep that you don’t even realize your efforts are nothing more than a waste of time and energy.
“Y/N—”
“Motherhood clearly isn’t in the cards—”
“Y/N.”
Roman already has a commanding voice. Deep and smooth. It’s almost impossible to not be lulled in. But the way he says your name, needing and demanding your attention, easily snaps your eyes open onto his. Your lips part softly when he lifts one hand to the back of your neck. Leans in closer to where his cologne mingles with your perfume. Just another form of connection.
“Do you want this?”
For a moment, you’re taken back. Same place. Same people. Different environment. Destruction, broken, ruined items surrounding the shattered mess that was the both of you. Defeat never so prominent. He’d asked you the very same thing, just with a completely different meaning, exhaustion painted over his handsome face. The faint bruise under his eye similar to the one he had when you met, but that one was received via valiant efforts to retain. This one….this one was the one you’ll never be able to truly forgive yourself for.
“Roman—“
“Do you want this, Y/N?” He repeats himself, the hand on your waist squeezing and pulling just enough to where you stand up. Your hands naturally rest on his stomach, hardened and sturdy under your shaking, sweating palms.
There’s an initial attempt to protest that dies out in the face of acknowledgment.
Do you want this?
It’s the same question you asked yourself on the drive home from the appointment. Especially as you laid in bed that evening, scrolling and researching for hours on end about what options might exist. The top of most lists being IVF, and with that, as many horror stories as there were successes.
Countless attempts before successful implantation.
Countless attempts that never bore any results.
Women who’d tried every treatment option known to medical science only to have nothing to show for it except empty pockets and a broken heart.
You know that first one would never be the case. Not with the tax bracket Roman is in. But that second one….
It’s dangerous. In a variety of ways. What would it do to you mentally? To try, get your hopes up, only for nothing to come of all your efforts? Just imagining the scenario is heartbreaking enough. But for it to be your reality…
And then there’s the other side of it. The one where, at the end of it all, you have a beautiful, healthy baby boy or girl. It makes your chest fill and bloom with warmth and joy.
All things you’d expressed and discussed in your most recent therapy session, an extra that you’d, wisely, requested after finding out the news.
News that, now you think of it, also largely contributed to your ultimately deciding to discard of the baby clothes.
It was….too painful of a reminder.
However, the situation feels almost entirely reversed as you stand before your husband who’s finally and truthfully expressed his stance on this. Confirmed what you’d deep down wanted so badly to believe was the truth but also couldn’t verify in the face of countless objections and otherwise expressed sentiments.
A what if morphed into an actual possibility.
The process of trying to conceive is a journey and experience for most women, and many, as you’d learned through research, do require at least some form of assistance to actually achieve that conception. In that, you weren’t unique. The added layer of navigating that and your mental health struggles just put you in a slightly different category. A riskier one.
But a statement and unanswered question posed by your therapist returns to the forefront of your mind.
“This isn’t a matter of what’s the best option, sweetie.” You’d kept your focus on your lap, picking at your nails as she probed into your mental in a way that was both unnerving and appreciated. Necessary, especially. “It’s a matter of what decision, long-term, do you foresee negatively impacting you the most.” You can still feel the way you chest tightened moments before she laid it all out in no unclear terms. “Never trying and having to live with that ‘what if’ or trying and having to accept the possibility of it not working out the way you wanted it to.
Unknown vs Disappointment.
You didn’t have an answer to give then.
You have one now.
“Yes.”
And maybe it’s your own subconscious desires playing a cruel, mean trick on you, but you could almost swear there’s a brief flash of relief in his expression.
Like….like he’s happy.
“Then we’ll do it,” he announces, that thumb caressing the nape of your neck a soothing, gentle gesture. “We find out whatever specialist you need to see, whatever treatment you need, see what it specifically entails, if you’re mentally and physically up for it, and take it from there….alright?”
There’s something immensely comforting about the way he emphasizes and includes the tentative nature of it all. Highlights that consenting to trying does not equate consenting to doing. Learning the specifics, the risks, and everything else is truly where the hardest decision will need to be made. And as much as he has a say in it, too, at the end of the day, it’s your call to make. Your body that will have to undergo and sustain all the prickling and prodding.
Your mental that might be tested in ways you’ve never experienced before.
It’s frightening, for sure. Daunting and terrifying. Yet all of that fright and fear is readily eased by the reminder that you don’t have to face it alone.
Not even a little.
It’s what makes you lean up, arms secured around his neck as he hikes you up onto his waist. You smile and laugh into his neck, sniffling and whispering, “I love you.”
His quiet chuckle and the kiss to your temple accompanying a light squeeze of your ass and quiet but equally heartfelt, “I love you, too.”
a/n: if you've read some of my other content, you know i'm a whore for fleshing things out. in reality, and as reflected by the dates in this one and the first part, this "conclusion" would take time. even longer than what's reflected in these two pieces. but for the sake of answering the biggest question most of ya'll have, i gave you this.
was very very tempted to reveal at the end that it was all a dream. reader was just dreaming roman's confession, and it ended with them essentially realizing there's no way they can make this work. her wanting kids and him not. implied separation/divorce being the outcome. but i didn't want ya'll to cuss me out lmao
lastly, i almost wrote the first part being completely different in that reader shared with roman she was pregnant, and he wasn't happy. him wanting her to get an abortion because she knew how he felt. her not wanting to, especially when he knew she wasn't on birth control. thus, this super complicated, controversial scenario where it's, 'is he wrong for considering walking away even though she knew how he felt?" idk. that just seemed too complex and layered for a oneshot.
For the key west shorts, I would loveee to see them around the time babygirl was first born or even when Capri was pregnant with her. I’m so obsessed with them i just wanna know everything!🤍🤍
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄.
lessons learned from the trials and tribulations of your miscarriage, roman is firm on ensuring he doesn't miss a beat during your early pregnancy with lorelei. but when he flies you out to lounge backstage at a show, you aren’t thrilled. you thought break ups entailed separation.
content | toxic dynamics.
𝄞 “i love you so much i cannot lose you so. i heard about soulmates i've never gotten this close. i'm so close. so close. so close to making it real.” 𝄞
KEYWEST!VERSE | white bone: the smau. | 7k.
Apart from the low murmur of commentary from the announcers table on the mounted screen, the dim, private dressing room is otherwise quiet.
Silent, still, and serene, just as you prefer. Any alternative in your current state would most likely earn the nearest individual a death glare.
Just three months in and the ease in which you become irritable over even the slightest offense has become one of the biggest hallmarks of your pregnancy; the temperature being set one degree higher than you usually prefer, even the sound the friction certain pillowcase fabrics make under your ear at night. You’re so sensitive to everything around you, so when the pendulum that is your emotion swings, it swings far.
But tonight, you’re particularly irritated. Even more so than usual.
It’s your first time at Madison Square Garden, never mind New York City, so you should be in brighter spirits. Yet, it’s the last place in the world you want to be because Roman, too, is here.
Approximately a year and a month ago, that wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, it’d be something of an incentive. You’d come out to support him and watch from your pick of the litter: either his dressing room, the arena’s suite, or ringside. You’d always tend to opt for anything but the latter. Meek by nature, sitting front row always comes with millions of eyes you’re simply inclined to shy away from. But since then, circumstances have changed. Drastically.
He’s not your man anymore. And he hasn’t been since he cost you that lucrative partnership with the World Surf League.
The business opportunity presented itself at South Bay, the exclusive coastal Country Club you’ve been granted access to ever since he added you to his membership plan in 2018. The year you met.
At a charity event you were invited to on behalf of Sunburnt, you were introduced to the Event Director of the WSL. A man that goes by the name of Lucian Montclair. A businessman, a bachelor, and a sight for sore eyes— not that you were looking. He spoke to you a little bit about the WSL; how they’re the premier home of global competitive surfing and that they’re making Key West an annual stop for their championship tournament, and that, if you were interested, he’d like to open a line of communication between the two of you because they’re also looking for local businesses in the surfing scene to partner with and they have their eyes on Sunburnt.
Initially, it’s purely a business relationship.
For Lucian, somewhere along the way, that changes. Perhaps during the millions of meetings you had with him and his team, with locations varying from the Country Club itself to hotspots around town, both the expensiveness of the restaurants and the time you met him at increasing with each incremental progression into the deal. Gradually, he grew fond of you.
Too fond.
When you brought Roman to one of the WSL’s black tie events and introduced the two men, it didn’t take him long to pick up on it. On the way Lucian would laugh while looking at you when one of his peers cracked a corny joke. On the way he couldn’t help but look over at you when you weren’t looking. On the way he kept trying to passive aggressively belittle professional wrestling as a legitimate sport in front of you.
Roman tried to control his temper as best as he could for your sake.
Your excitement about the opportunity and what it could do for Sunburnt as a brand was palpable. That type of strategic collaboration could send you to an entirely different stratosphere if you played your hand right.
The position the cosign of such a conglomerate could place Sunburnt was nothing to scoff at.
He knew he was on thin ice as it was. His jealousy had always been a problematic fork in the road of your relationship, and you two were just starting to recover from the fallout of the deceptive ‘girls trip’ Anastasia took you on to Portofino, Italy. A period in which you spent many nights sleeping in the guest bedroom because as true as it may be that he didn’t fall for their bait, you were still deeply upset that he’d made them comfortable enough to believe their plan could even work in the first place.
You two were still on fragile ground. You weren’t out of the woods.
It all came to a head during Solar Flare, the summer surf festival hosted by the town of Key West. Lucian and a sparse group of interns on behalf of the WSL were set to attend and promote their Championship Tournament that would be stopping in the island in just a few short months.
You were surprised to see Roman making his way onto the beach during the set-up of Sunburnt’s canopy tent during one of your treks back and forth from the shop to the sand. He’d just landed from his flight home the night prior, and you wanted him to catch up on some sleep. But as tired as he was, he’s never liked the thought of you doing manual labor when he’s around. Or even when he isn’t for that matter. So he took the crate of merch and apparel from your hands and took it to the tent as you returned to the shop to get more.
Lucian tried to make conversation with him to fill the silence while Roman put the tent together. Small talk, shit he can’t stand from someone he can’t stand. But it went unbelievably left when Lucian’s chuckle bled into a comment underneath his breath about how ‘this must be what Capri is always talking about.’
A comment that grabbed Roman’s attention, no question.
“What?”
Lucian shrugs. “Nothing, man. Never mind.”
Roman blinks. After a beat, he places the metal plate of the tent down. “Nah. What’d you just say?”
“I’m just saying man.”
“Saying what? You talking to my girl about me?”
“She’s the one doing the talking, bro. Take that up with her.”
The force of Roman’s right hook connecting with Lucian’s jaw disorients him long enough to catch him off guard with another one. In the blink of an eye, the two men are on the ground wrestling for leverage.
Roman, on top, sends relentless bone-cracking punches to the face until he hears bystanders yelling and running to them in the distance. The split second it takes him to peer up at the stranger trying to pull him off is all Lucian needs to grab the small metal pole lying on the ground and swing it at Roman’s nose.
“FUCK!”
His face throbs hot, the sight of his own warm blood on his fingertips when he quickly presses it against his nostrils turning a switch off completely.
With a smaller crate in your hands, you only heard the ruckus when you rounded the corner of someone else's tent. It wasn't until you recognized the colors of clothing you saw a mere twenty minutes ago that everything in your hands dropped to the ground and your feet carried you to the crowd trying to rip them apart. And that’s when you saw the real carnage.
The blood stained sand.
The swollen knuckles.
Lucian’s groans of pain bleeding into the bystanders pleas for an ambulance. For 911.
Once the men were able to peel Roman off him, he stumbled to his feet and snatched his arms away to raise both palms into the air as his chest heaved— his fingers wiping at the blood on his busted lip.
But looking at Lucian… it made you queasy.
To say you were even irate with Roman would be an understatement. So much so that when the cops handcuffed him and took him to jail, you didn’t bail him out.
And the WSL pulling the plug on the partnership was the last straw.
You and him were over.
Nothing would get you to hear him out, not even the seven digit lump sum he wired you that he estimated would be the first year payout of the deal had it gone through. You didn’t care what he told you Lucian said to him to warrant what transpired, because none of that was about Lucian. It was about you. He knew what that meant to you. What it meant for Sunburnt. And he couldn’t help but ruin it for you anyway.
The tapping of knuckles on the door and the quiet creak as it opens diverts your attention from the segment broadcasted on the monitor, “Pri.”
You swallow the bite of the meatball marina sandwich you’ve been working on before slightly projecting your voice for direction in the spacious dressing room, “over here.”
On paper, Namina Baraz is the only child of your mother’s only sister. But ever since the summer your mother dropped you off at your aunt Yvette’s and never looked back, you’ve never seen her as anything less than your sister. Neither one of you, in good faith, could ever say you weathered a storm alone. Not the loss of Yvette after her short battle with cancer a few years ago, not the subsequent deep bout of depression Namina fell into, not the trials and tribulations of managing your inheritance of your aunt’s small surf shack by the shore.
When she calls, you answer.
When you call, she answers.
And call, you did.
Ever since Roman found out you were pregnant, he’d stripped his schedule so bare that even classifying him as ‘part-time’ is giving him too much credit— but this short string of appearances that conclude with tonight’s Madison Square Garden show, he is contractually bound to. Apparently, the string is far too long for you to go unsupervised despite only being in the tail end of your first trimester. Which is why he’s essentially forced you to fly out here.
And precisely why you’re so agitated. Because to you, he’s just using your pregnancy as an excuse to excerise control over you.
If you’re honest, you have no one to blame but yourself. You have never been more resolute about him as you were after he’d ruined that opportunity for you. After you broke it off for good. It was over.
Then you’d heard about them. About her. Around four months after the split, after four months of radio silence on your end despite the millions of messages that were left on read and phone calls that were declined, he’d starting seeing someone else. Mia.
It was the first time you’d called him since everything went down, and you let him know about himself. That he’s a liar. That if he was so quick to move on with her of all people, then they surely had something going on behind your back while you two were together regardless of what he told you when you got back from Italy. That he isn’t worth the fuck that made him.
All of which he silently took with a grin on his face on the other line, because all that passion meant you still cared. It wasn’t over.
Still, he maintained that he’s never stepped out on you not once, and that he and Mia are casual so she’s not his girl.
The phone call that broke that seal of no contact for the first time in four months tore the floodgates open again. Armed with the knowledge that you’d never even look at him again if you truly believed he cheated on you, he’d started stopping by Sunburnt to bring you lunch on a daily basis. Just looking for a sliver of time to speak to you. You’d dub him, busying yourself with a customer and leaving him for Namina to deal with.
One time, he happened to catch you while you were closing. It was a rainy memorial weekend and the shop’s hours of operations ended at noon, the time of day he always stopped by. Your car was at the mechanic and Namina, who was supposed to give you a ride, double-booked her schedule after forgetting the holiday hours.
He followed you for three blocks in his car. His window rolled down and his foot barely on the gas to match your steps on foot, he tried to coax you into his car against your silent defiance. But the universe was on his side, because three blocks in, it started to pour. The type of rain you can’t see through.
His voice booms to outweigh the heavy pitter patter hitting the concrete sidewalk, “get in the fucking car before I come grab you and someone calls the cops on me, Capri. You’re gonna get pneumonia.”
In the passenger seat with your arms crossed and your head turned to the window, he didn’t give you any choice but to hear him out. He parked the car in a desolate spot near the ocean and dismantled the belief that he was unfaithful for two hours. And you only believed him once he swore it on the baby you two lost, which you were inclined to do because it was the first time he’d mentioned the sensitive subject since you lost her.
The relapse happened only once, six months into he and Mia’s situationship.
One night, you were feeling particularly bothered. You’d were missing him more than usual. What was he doing? Was he with her? Was he thinking of you? You two had been in casual communication ever since that clarifying conversation in the car so to quell the ache in your chest, you found yourself going through you and his’ recent messages.
The decision to send him a picture of you from your gallery was quick and impulsive. Two selfies from one batch, nothing too crazy. The casual finger on your parted lip in the second one, though, was flirty enough for him to bite.
Capri. 7:10PM
wrong person. sorry.
Roman. 7:14PM
Why’d you send me that?
Capri. 7:16PM
it was an accident.
Roman. 7:16PM
Right. Well. I miss you too.
Capri. 7:18PM
lmao no you don’t.
Roman. 7:18PM
Send me another one.
Capri. 7:18PM
You haven’t texted me in three days.🙄
Capri. 7:19PM
no. come see it in person.
That night three months ago, you two had the nastiest, most disrespectful sex you’ve ever had and you regretted it all in the morning.
You knew you were pregnant before you took the test. It was just intuitive. Every day that went by without your period was a day you pushed to the back of your mind simply because you just did not want to confront it. Then the relentless morning sickness kicked in, and left you no choice.
He’s stoic, “you’re pregnant.”
You blink down at the seven different brands of pregnancy tests laid out on the bathroom counter, your arms across your chest. “Yes.”
His eyes peer from the stick in his hand, to your eyes, and back. Then, he chuckles.
You whine and drop your arms from your chest to snatch the test from him, “this isn’t funny Roman! Why are you laughing?”
He follows you into the bedroom and leans on the doorframe, trying to hide his lax grin while you pace back and forth, “nah. It’s not funny. But I’m not about to act like I’m upset. I’m not. And you can’t be either. If I recall correctly, I gave you what you wanted. You’re the one that was begging me to nut ins—”
“Quit it. I’m being serious. I can’t be pregnant. This isn’t something you bring a baby into, Roman. Jesus Christ.”
A long pause. “What does that mean?”
“If this environment is already unhealthy for the both of us, what would it be for a baby? I mean, we’re not even together.”
His eyes are drawn onto a spot on the carpet as he reads between the lines of what you’re saying, “…you don’t think we’d be good parents?”
You’re wallowing in self-resentment. You’d freed yourself from his shackles for good and all but crawled on your knees to pick up the rusted steel off the floor and restrain your wrists back in them by your own will. You scoff and speak before thinking, “Roman you’re barely a good man.”
He blinks, “so I’d be a bad father.”
You stop pacing and stare at him with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Shit.
Under that thin veil of irritability that comes with the natural reshaping of pregnancy hormones, self-resentment has followed you like the trailing stench of cheap perfume throughout the entirety of your first trimester, souring nearly every interaction you’ve had with him ever since. Every doctor’s appointment. Every phone call. Every text message.
“Damn near got lost trying to find this room. Jesus.” Namina places her purse down on the coffee table when she gets close enough and reclines on the sofa beside you.
“Here.” You turn to grab the Firehouse Subs bag from the corner table behind you and place it on the sofa between the both of you.
You’ve only been without her for eight days now, but that’s also eight consistent days you’ve spent with Roman. The most you’ve spent with him since the break up, and the strain is starting to show— which is precisely why he’s flown her out this weekend. Perhaps some time with someone who isn’t him will offset the tension lining your shoulders.
“Heard me?”
“That you almost got lost? Yeah.”
She snorts at the view of you finishing off your sandwich and opens up the bag to inspect the contents Roman picked up before the show to satisfy the craving you’d mustered the courage to admit.
She grabs the Snapple and twists the top off before taking a cold sip, her eyes glued on her cousin. “Mia’s here.”
You turn away from the monitor and blink, your eyes gravitating towards the dressing room door. “You saw her?”
“On my way here, yeah.”
“She saw you?”
“Shit. I hope so. Otherwise it’d be a waste of an outfit.”
Typically, you’d laugh at that. It’d get a chuckle out of you at the least. Tonight, you do neither. You can’t, because you’re distracted by the gradual boiling of your blood. It starts off with a slight heat that increases incrementally until there’s a blazing fire in your chest.
You already can’t stand being here as it is, but for him to invite her on top of everything? You’re pissed off.
In all honesty, you pity the woman. Once you found out that nothing truly happened between them during the duration of the relationship like you believed when he started seeing her of all people, it became abundantly clear that he started seeing her so quickly to get a rise out of you. To hurt you like you hurt him.
But you vowed to never give him the satisfaction of a reaction over her pathetic ass again, and you don’t make empty promises.
Namina’s elbow rests on top of the sofa, her forehead pressed against her fist as low chatter emits from the broadcast on the screen. “How’s that going though? Him and her?”
You shrug carelessly and take a sip of your bottled water. “He’s barely anywhere else other than with me so I know it’s terrible for her. And I can’t for the life of me seem to care because that’s the type of pain she wanted for me.”
“You accept her follow request?”
“Nope.”
Two weeks ago, you logged onto your second instagram account. The private one meant for your close friends and family with eighty two followers. On it, you had a follower request from Mia’s public, verified profile.
She shakes her head, “good. I would’ve let it collect dust too. Slick trying to be on that kumbaya shit. Get the fuck on.” Namina, as is one of the only people who knows about what happened when you went to Italy on that July 4th, treats both Anastasia and Mia like they did it to her personally.
Just as you’re about to respond, the door creaks open.
Shirtless, breathless, and sweaty, Roman appears at the threshold— his hand ripping the velcro of the black glove off his other hand as he walks in.
His tone as diplomatic and matter-of-fact as always, his eyes land on your cousin. “Namina.”
She smirks at the deep contraction of his diaphragm in an attempt to regulate his breathing. “Mm. He tore your ass up, ain’t he?” she tsk’s and shakes her head in disappointment, “just as I was getting used to the sight.”
He breathes out a chuckle through his nose and looks at you. You’re looking back at him, but you aren’t laughing. Instead, you’ve just got that thousand yard stare in your eye.
After a beat, she clears her throat and grabs the bag you gave her and her purse off the coffee table. “I’m gonna head back to the Airbnb. I wanna beat the traffic. I’ll text you in the morning, ‘kay? Rita’s opens at noon.” You nod and let her hug you before she bids Roman goodbye and leaves the dressing room.
He sizes you up when a hush falls over the room, “you finish your sandwich?”
To clue him in without verbally responding to him, you ball up the empty paper your sandwich was packed into and place it in the plastic bag it came in before taking a swig of ice cold water as you maintain eye contact with him.
He exhales, “Capri.”
“I didn’t need to be here.”
“Yes you did.”
“I’m twelve weeks along. I don’t need supervision.”
He turns his back to you and slips his glove off, tossing it onto the shelf underneath the monitor— ignoring you in hopes that it’ll dead this conversation that he won’t entertain.
It’s the last sliver of disrespect from him you can take, “you’re such a fucking asshole.”
He props one foot up at a time onto the surface of a steel chair and bends at the hip to undo the laces of his sneakers and prepare for his shower, his eyes locked onto his pristine Jordans. Lowly, “yeah? And what else?”
“And I wish I never met you.”
His jaw tightens as he slips out of the shoe and switches to his other foot.
“And I hate that I’m tied to you forever now.”
The venom in your voice stops him in his tracks. He looks over at you, “because I want you with me instead of that house on your own while I’m away?”
“Because—”
No. He’s not getting the satisfaction.
“This is the first time I’ve made you fly out and I told you it won’t have to happen again since tonight is the last show before my schedule lightens up. Stop fussing with me, Pri. This is for your own good. There’s nothing I can do for you if I’m not with—”
“I want to go to the hotel. Now.” You untuck your feet from underneath your legs on the sofa and slip them back into your abandoned sandals on the carpet.
He stares at you for a moment when you divert your attention to your phone. In the five years that he has known you, you have never been this short tempered with him. It took some getting used to in the first few weeks, and sometimes he knows just how to pacify you, but sometimes you just wear him out. Right down to the white bone.
If a lesson is significant enough, he’s always been the type of man that only needs to learn it once. And nothing has ever been quite as significant as the violent sound of blaring horns, screeching brakes, your panicked gasp, and shattering glass on the other end of a phone call while there’s thousands of miles separating the two of you.
That night was just as traumatic for him as it was for you. So you can be as disgruntled as you want at the lengths his preventative measures go to. Leaving you by your lonesome is not a risk he’s willing to take.
His shower is cold and languid, just as he likes. The cool stream regulates his respiratory system, relaxing his muscles and lolling his heart rate to a steady gallop. He has half a mind to call for you and tell you to get in to reap the same benefits, a subtle smirk growing on his face under the shower head at the memory of you and him showering together and him twisting the temperature handle to frigid while your eyes were closed just to watch you shriek.
Once he gets out the shower, gets dressed, and neatly scoops his hair in his classic updo, he makes his way back out to the dressing room. He grabs your plastic bag as you grab your purse and mutters for you to come on.
Accustom to the cozy dimness of the dressing room for the past several hours, the corporate fluorescent lights of the arena halls are much harsher than you expect. In the few seconds it takes your pupils to readjust to the paleness, Trinity turns the corner and finds two figures stepping out of a dressing room in her natural line of sight. When she processes exactly who it is, a huge smile grows on her face and she starts beelining it towards you.
She can barely contain herself as she gets within earshot, “say it ain’t so.” Her excitement is as infectious as confetti and sprinkles.
You nod with a tight-lipped grin before she shrieks and pulls you into a tight hug, “oh my god. You know Jimmy’s mouth is the size of the great barrier reef and he still can’t manage to hold water. Congratulations! How do you feel?”
You tug a wisp of hair from out your face and tuck it behind your ear as she shoves Roman on his upper arm in jest, “thank you. Um, I’m good. Surprisingly. Really bad insomnia and I’m averse to certain scents, but that’s far and few in between. I’m thugging it out for the most part.”
As they chit chat, something urges Roman to look up.
In the distance past Trinity’s shoulders, who’s stood in front of them both, is Mia. She’s on the other side of the hall, leaning against the cinderblock wall as she talks to someone he can’t make out of. Her mouth stops moving when she too spots him, and then you, and then Trinity’s palm on your barely discernible stomach.
His brows furrow. Considering the origin of their little rendezvous, finding Mia backstage isn’t necessarily surprising. But it’s been a long time since the last time she made an appearance he didn’t know about ahead of time.
His lips rolled into his mouth, his sight flits back to you but you must already feel the heat of her gaze because your eyes happen to naturally travel to the other side of the hall for a second. Yet, despite the fact that you also spot her, your conversation with Trinity doesn’t miss a beat. You don’t seem to be caught off guard by her presence at all.
“Huh? Um. Yeah… Yeah, I’ll tell him.” Her eyes glued to your flat belly once Trinity removes her hand, Mia’s mouth is on autopilot, just absentmindedly rattling off whatever Irene needs to hear in the moment in hopes that it’ll conclude the conversation about the details she wants Mia to relay to her father for his upcoming Hall of Fame induction.
Irene doesn’t seem to get the hint, her voice distantly droning off more specifics as Mia’s heart slowly slips into a free fall on the tile she’s standing on, the violent pounding of her pulse blocking out any information from penetrating her eardrums.
You can’t be…
Are you?
When it came to you, she was only really aware of the fact that you and him were no longer together. The current state of the relationship, whether you two were still in contact or if you were on good terms, was always a big fat question mark. Due to the lax nature of his relationship with Mia, he’s never felt the need to divulge that type of intel no matter how many times her insecurities implied that she was curious.
It’s not her business. Letting her know would imply that she’s entitled to.
Which makes this all that much worse.
She knew something was off.
He’s been even colder than usual. Dodging calls and texts. Postponing one link up after another. Even becoming shorter with her when they speak.
The first sign of snowfall after the warmest summer in history is much more is jarring when it follows a million years of winter, which is why she’d shown up tonight. She’d probably hold the grudge that she was forming against him for a little longer before folding, but she’s become even more tender since they’ve started sleeping together.
Now, she just feels like a fucking idiot.
Irene says something that Mia quickly nods to before she finally walks away, and when Irene exits, Mia’s eyelids start getting warm. She exhales a shaky breath. She feels so fucking stupid. Of course. Of-fucking-course. She doesn’t even know why she tries sometimes.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. I just had to say something. I’ll let you go. I’ll call you later.” Trinity gives you a look that communicate that there’s a lot to be discussed as she backs away before turning around and leaving.
Your smile gradually shrinking, you turn and walk the opposite way until you’re past the premise of the arena and into the lot. You’re some steps ahead of him, which isn’t easy to do considering his frame, and it’s how he knows you aren’t happy. “Slow down. You don’t even know where I’m parked.”
“I’ll find it.”
Five minutes into the ride, some song by Miguel begins to waft through his Escalade.
One hand combing through his beard as his other steers the wheel,the ease in which you glossed over Mia’s presence when you saw her comes back to him.
The fact that you weren’t caught off guard makes him wonder whether or not you might've already been privy to the fact that she was there. You’d been backstage for hours, you might’ve even ran into her prior if you ventured outside the threshold of his dressing room like you had the freedom to while he was in the ring. It would explain why you seemed so upset with him when he returned, especially since your issue with traveling had been been laid to rest days prior.
He knows you like the back of his hand. If you believed for a second that he had a part to play in her attendance tonight on top of your irritation at the two of you’s forced proximity, you’d be livid right now. And you’re livid right now.
A couple months ago, he would’ve reveled in it. Shit, even if it wasn’t true he’d let you believe it if it meant you’d feel the fury he felt when you broke it off with him for reacting to finding out you’d been letting Lucian in on you and his’ relationship troubles.
It was unfair.
While you two were together, when you found out Mia had been trying to move in on him while you were in Italy, he let you express it openly, whatever that looked like even though he hadn’t had an active hand in anything she did. He didn’t punish you for feeling violated. He didn’t leave you when you felt violated.
The same cannot be said for you.
So when you called it quits, he went tit for tat.
But shit’s different now. You’re carrying his baby, and under no condition does he need you in any unnecessary distress right now. You’re as vulnerable and sensitive as you’ve ever been, and his concern for your wellbeing trumps all that other shit. Fuck all that.
He’s never internalized anything in his life as much as he did what you said to him once you found out you were pregnant.
You don’t think we’d be good parents?
Roman you’re barely a good man.
… So I’d be a bad father.
He didn’t give you much of a chance to elaborate. He left your apartment soon after you’d said it. He doesn’t know if you’d walk it back or double down, but it wouldn’t neutralize the bullet wound anyways.
Still, the fact that your faith in his ability to be a good father was in question shook his foundation like wobbly tectonic plates. If he let his projection talk, it’d say that all but confirms you hadn’t forgiven him for the car accident and he can’t even say he blames you for that because, in all honesty, he hasn’t either.
He looks over at you in the passenger seat. Underneath the hand mindlessly toying with the anti-nausea band wrapped around your wrist just below your sleeve, the crop of your corset jacket exposes the skin of your lower belly. You look barely bloated to the naked eye, partly due to the optical illusion of the vintage top’s deep swooping hemline.
He looks back at the landscape of Manhattan at night, “I didn’t know she was going to be here tonight.”
You roll your lips into your mouth, raise and then drop your eyebrows as you hum in bored acknowledgement. “Hm.”
“I’m serious, Pri. I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t even know. She shows up whenever she wants to these things.”
You find a sudden interest in the buildings that look like they’re moving in time lapse through the passenger side window and lie through your teeth, “I couldn’t care less about your little sorry ass puppy, Roman. Just take me to the hotel.”
You care. Immensely.
In fact, with your emotions all out of wack, you can’t remember a time you ever cared as much.
.
The water from the bath faucet pelts the pool of water beside you as your arms reach behind you to unclip your bra, sighing in relief when you taste that first second of liberty. Jesus Christ. You make a mental note to stop by Victoria Secret in the morning with Namina to pick up new ones.
In front of the well-lit bathroom mirror of the penthouse suite, you peel your panties down your legs and blow a raspberry as you look at your body. The weight gain is moderate but you see the difference most in your face. It’s fuller, lightly rounder. You tug the towel off the rack. Just as you wrap it around your body, the door opens.
You gasp sharply and hold the fabric to your chest, “oh my g— can’t you knock?!”
He pauses to eye the clutch you have on the towel, his expression unamused. “There isn’t a square inch under there I haven’t seen. Relax. Here.” He hands you what appears to be a dark blue bottle. This must be what he was getting from the trunk as you went on into the hotel without him.
“What’s this?” You read the bottle label. Dr. Teal’s melatonin infused lavender foam.
“Pour it in the water. The lady said it’s infused with melatonin and smells like that shit you’re always talking about. It’ll help with the insomnia.”
You blink at the spot he was standing at once the door closes.
He navigates his way into the living area and lounges on the sectional before leaning forward to pick up the cold Corona on the coffee table and taking a swig, his eyes on the cream curtains draping over the floor to ceiling windows.
Your one stipulation to coming on the road with him for these two shows, once you reluctantly agreed to after fighting tooth and nail, was the hotel arrangement. You didn’t care if it was already booked, if you didn’t have a bed of your own, you would be taking your ass back to Florida— no questions asked.
He believed you, albeit unfortunately, because you delivered it with that pointed finger like you always use when you’re serious and you’re done negotiating. Unfortunately, because he’s sure a lot of the tension you’re carrying could be fixed in one night if you’d let him. He’d have you walking on air. Shit, you’re already pregnant. You don’t need to be walking around that fucking agitated anyway. It’s not good for you.
When his phone chimes, the glass rim of the bottle at his wet lips, he tips the Corona back and brings the screen to eye level.
MIA. 11:07PM.
lol.
MIA. 11:07PM.
you’re weird as fuck. hope you know that.
ROMAN. 11:12PM.
What?
MIA. 11:14PM.
you know exactly what i’m talking about.
MIA. 11:14PM.
here I am taking the initiative to come out and see you because you’ve been acting off just to find out exactly why lol.
MIA. 11:15PM.
congrats tho. hope that baby fixes the issues you and her have like you think it will. ✌🏽
A tick of irritation mars the fold between his brows at the exchange, his beer meeting the ceramic side table with a light clink.
This thing he and her have going on was always meant to be light and airy. Low commitment. Apart from the tit for tat shit, it was meant to make you sick enough to realize that you don’t want it to be over and you still do want him. Meant to be short; something to pass the time by since nothing seemed to emphasize your absence quite like the silence when he was on his own.
Still, he’s never given Mia the impression that this is any more serious than it is, nor that you were ever out the picture, so the grilling feels out of left field.
ROMAN. 11:20PM.
Why are you acting like that?
ROMAN. 11:20PM.
We’re aren’t exclusive. We aren’t even together.
MIA. 11:27PM.
so I’m just supposed to turn my feelings off when I find out she’s pregnant?
MIA. 11:27PM.
I’m a human being.
MIA. 11:29PM.
you say you care about me but never act like it Roman. you SAW me witness that entire thing knowing how I feel and didn’t do nothing. didn't say anything. didn’t even text me afterward.
ROMAN. 11:32PM.
She’s carrying my child. I’m not going to put her in distress for your sake. I’m sorry if that’s what you wanted.
ROMAN. 11:35PM.
I do care about you, but I told you what this was from the jump. If you’re expecting any more than that, and I think that you are, that’s on you Mia.
ROMAN. 11:37PM.
It’s not your place to speak on our kid. You’re outta line. Don’t do it again.
MIA. 11:39PM.
that’s not my intent. i just feel so fucking disrespected.
ROMAN. 11:40PM.
I wasn’t tryna do that. I’m doing what I gotta do as a man. and that’s take care of my responsibility as a father.
MIA. 11:55PM.
how far along is she?
ROMAN. 11:58PM.
12 weeks.
The pattering of feet against hardwood floors captures his attention. As soon as he cranes his head around, you walk past the sofa with the towel tied around your frame and stop in front of a small Miu Miu bag full of travel-sized toiletries.
He puts his phone down on the side table and picks up the Corona to take a sip as he watches you silently dig through the bag for your cherry blossom body lotion, “tired?”
“It’s not gonna work that fast.” You mumble.
“Shit. For $400, it better.”
You stop digging and look up at him, “that was $400?”
He grins to himself and takes a swig, picking up the remote and pointing it at the television.
You cut your eyes at him and grab your lotion.
Going back to your bed, your eyes search for the red shorts you forgot to bring to the bathroom when you went to shower. Feeling too tired to properly search for it, you grab two handfuls of the duvet and jerk it up into the air once to locate it faster. Instead, you hear the thump of an object much too heavy to be an article of clothing hit the floor.
Leaning over the bed, you find Roman’s wallet on the floor. When it fell, it must've landed on its spine because it opened on impact. You bend at the hip, picking it up to close it and place it on the nightstand but right as you close it, something catches your eye.
Curious, you open it back up.
Tucked inside but peeking out of one of the corner folds of black leather is what looks like a white piece of paper that’s been rolled and flattened due to the tight pressure of the stacks of cards inside.
Your lips rolled into your mouth, you looks up at the open door of the bedroom. The sound of the television is distant. After internally debating it, you roll your eyes and pull at the piece of paper in increments as not to damage it. When has he ever questioned you being in his wallet?
You unfurl it and your world stops spinning on its axis when it reveals an sonogram. For a few seconds, all you hear is blood rushing through your ears. You’re only able to take another breath again when your eyes dart around the print in a panic.
PATIENT: RYDER, CAPRI.
DATE: 6/1/2021.
It’s yours.
You take a seat on the edge of the mattress with your palm pressed against your chest. Fuck. The more you look at the black and white image, the more it’s wear and tear make sense. It’s been in there for nearly three years.
Once the panic fizzles out and the hammering of your heart returns to a calm thrash, what you’re looking at starts to settle in.
June 1st, 2021 was the date of your very first sonogram from your first pregnancy. The tech was a nervous medical student in her second year of residency, supervised by Dr. Emerson. A revelation that Roman had ample issue with if the biceps of his arms crossed against his chest had anything to say about it. He received every one of your gasps at everything from the coolness of the gel to the new sensation as a blunder on behalf of the poor girl— his low, disgruntled interjection of ‘easy’ as she pointedly depressed the instrument deep onto your belly only intimidating her further.
You have no idea where he found this from.
You had gotten rid of everything in the nursery following the miscarriage. Two months after the car accident, when he left for work and it turned into his longest stint away from home ever, you purged it all. The toys, the clothes, the diapers, the sonograms. Everything.
Or so you thought.
You didn’t want to be reminded of it, and at the time; in the same way the brain represses certain memories of trauma to protect you, you thought pretending it never happened would be better.
A blank canvas is less violent than a black and blue one, after all.
Yet, when you look at it in a different light, perhaps this time around is your blank canvas.
Despite how upset you’ve been at yourself more than anyone for letting your heart lead you back to him, it’s not lost on you in this moment that you’ve never once entertained the alternatives Dr. Emerson discussed with you during your first appointment.
Deep down, you know it was never an option because you have what the past version of yourself mourned losing in the palm of your very hand. You’ve just been so preoccupied with resenting yourself that you’ve been tainting a perfectly healthy pregnancy all on your own. The realization makes your vision blurry.
You’ve been assuming the worst in every situation imaginable; that him wanting you with him here these past couple of days is just him using your pregnancy as an excuse to exercise that control he loves, that he invited her here tonight to get a rise out of you. If it was a negative thought, it had to be true.
But looking down at the weathered paper through glazed-over eyes, you can’t help but wonder if his intentions are truly as nefarious as you keep assuming.
sister….where is the rest of Key West?? i miss it!
hi boo!! i’ve been working on shorts for key west since the last actual part i posted but the one i’m posting tonight will be the last one for a little bit.
the priority was between the next part of twin peaks and key west, and the poll i posted was split 50/50, but i get an overwhelming amount of asks about key west than i do twin peaks.
so the very next update will be for kw. specifically the part after is it a crime. 💗
★ 𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬 𝑩𝑶𝑵𝑬.
lessons learned from the trials and tribulations of your miscarriage, roman is firm on ensuring he doesn't miss a beat during your early pregnancy with lorelei. but when he flies you out to lounge backstage at a show, you aren’t thrilled. you thought break ups entailed separation.
TUESDAY. | smau.
Wow, you've laid out the timeline perfectly. When it's put like that, i hate to say that I kind of see why mia is acting psychotic. He did not sleep with Capri at all during the 6 months, which means he was solely with Mia and Mia only. And after craving his attention and affection since the trip to Italy, she finally had him. Only for him to go running back to his ex girlfriend.
During Capri and Roman’s time apart. Did he miss her and try to get her back at all? He's so posessive when we are introduced to him. It'd strange that he was well behaved during the 6 month break. But I do recall they were texting on and off in the smau, so I don't think he was well behaved at all, actually.
mia’s turmoil is completely understandable. i just feel like, there’s a cap on how sympathetic you can really be when this is the man she was trying to sleep with knowing he was in a committed relationship with another woman. not to mention having her friend fly said woman out to a different state to make it easier for her to do so. laugh now cry later, you know?
he for sure missed her & pulled out all the stops before he realized capri was serious about the split. he only reverts to that knee jerk petty, spiteful shit when he feels like he’s losing control. choosing mia was spiteful.
he was blocked from feb-april. they didn’t get back onto good terms with one another until he popped up on her during closing @ sunburnt at the end of april and basically forced her to talk to him. after that, they were in communication on and off from april-november.
