Page 81 of Shattered Dreams
But fuck me, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
"Hey," he says, standing up as I approach. His voice is low, careful, like he's afraid speaking too loudly might shatter whatever temporary peace exists between us.
I nod, sliding into the seat across from him. The red dress clings when I sit, fabric shifting against leather upholstery. His gaze flickers to it for just a moment, recognition flashing in his eyes, then away.
"Thanks for coming," he remarks.
I lift a brow. "You said you had no expectations."
He smiles, but there's no cockiness in it. No trace of the arrogant athlete who always believed he could charm his way out of any situation. "I meant it."
Silence stretches between us. Not tense, exactly. Just heavy with all the things we've said to each other and all the things we haven't. With memories of who we used to be and uncertainty about who we are now. He orders water when the server approaches. I do the same, surprising myself. I'd expected to need alcohol to get through this.
"I've been going to therapy," he says after a minute, like he's reading from a script he's practiced. "Three times a week."
I nod. "I saw your videos."
He gives a small laugh that sounds more like a sigh. "Ouch. Never thought I'd be a man crying on social media for the world to see, but here we are."
"You're trying," I state, and I mean it. Because, despite the anger I still carry and the trust he's shattered, Icansee it. The effort. The genuine attempt to be different.
He nods slowly. "I’m trying not to be the man who ruins everything good just because he never learned how to hold it without crushing it."
That one cuts deep. Hits something tender I thought I'd armoured over.
I take a sip of water, using the moment to collect myself. "I got your letter."
He doesn't ask what I thought of it or push for forgiveness or any of the things the old Roman would have demanded. He just waits. After a minute, "I meant every word," he explains instead, his voice quiet. "You made me want to be someone better. Even if I never get to be yours again." This man. This fuckingcheatingyet beautifully broken manstilldoes something to me.
I breathe out slowly, feeling something crack open in my chest. "I still love you."
His head jerks up like I've slapped him.
"But I don't trust you," I continue, needing him to hear the whole truth.
He nods, swallowing hard. "I know."
"I don't know if I ever will again."
"I don't expect you to," he responds, and the resignation in his voice is new. The old Roman would have argued, would have made promises and grand gestures. This one just accepts the damage he's done. "I just needed you to know I'm not the same man who destroyed us. I couldn't be. Not after losing you."
The food comes—pasta for me, steak for him—but neither of us touches it. We're too busy navigating this minefield of honesty we've stumbled into.
"What made you change?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
He looks at me for a long time, like he's deciding how much truth he can stand to reveal. "Poppy. You. Me, on the floor of our kitchen, crying like a fucking child while you walked away with our daughter, and I realized I'd just lost everything that mattered."
The silence that follows is different. A slow burn spreads behind my ribs.
"I hated you," I whisper, the admission torn from somewhere deep, my words slipping out from my soul.
"I hated me too," he replies without hesitation.
We stare at one another and sit in it then. All of it.
The grief. The love that never died even when we wanted it to. The years we almost threw away because neither of us knew how to fight for what we had instead of against each other.
"You made me feel like nothing," I confess, tears suddenly stinging my eyes. "Like I was just...a placeholder while you chased your ego and whatever made you feel like a man."
