Lass Ride: Crossroads - The Messages

4. Roman

It might have looked like politeness, offering the phone to everyone else first, but Roman saw it for what it truly was: delaying the inevitable. He suspected that Becky's coldness was calculated, a way to keep some semblance of control in a place where she was powerless, at Hunter's whim. At least he hoped so. If she really felt that way, if she truly believed all those things, he was an even worse friend than he imagined.

He paced the hallway for a few minutes, carefully tossing the phone from hand to hand as he thought about what to say. If he broke the phone, it might get him out of leaving a message, but he would take away their one potential connection to Becky from everyone else. "Such a fucking hypocrite," he muttered to himself. There he was, telling everyone else to be positive and keep it quick while he was a bumbling mess. Everything he needed to say to her, everything he needed her to hear, was tinged with sadness and regret, but if he didn't say it now and never got another chance, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. I doubt Bayley and Sasha were all sunshine and rainbows, he told himself, finally ducking into his bedroom and shutting the door.

Roman eyed his bed, but he ended up sitting on the floor instead, just below the window. He had left it open just a crack, and the gentle breeze made the curtain brush against the top of his head. The crackling roar of Sasha's bike had already faded, and part of him wanted to do the same, just take off on his motorcycle and clear his head. But if he kept delaying it, he'd lose his nerve and if Becky got a message from everyone but him, it would only make her words ring true.

"Hey, Becks," he said once he heard the beep. "I'm sorry. If I don't get to anything else, I need to say that. If I'd listened more and . . . not been so controlling, things would be so different. You'd still be here and. . . ." No, he couldn't continue on like that. But if he couldn't talk about his mistakes and he couldn't be over-the-top positive, it didn't leave much ground to tread.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "If things change and you can come back to us, I'll do better, I swear. I'll be better. Or . . . or if you can't forgive me, at least don't take it out on the others. That's not your style, I know, but I just feel bad for messing everything up. While the rest of us were just scrambling from day to day, you were actually trying to look at the bigger picture and make things happen. You're way smarter than you ever give yourself credit for, you know. So much smarter. And brave. And strong. I'm glad my daughter looks up to someone like you."

Roman felt silent for so long he was surprised the messaging service didn't cut him off. "You've got this. There's nothing Hunter or the McMahons can throw at you that you can't handle. I truly believe that, I do. I believe in you. I'm sorry I never said that more or showed that enough. I hope I have the chance to someday." Then he switched to Samoan, knowing she wouldn't be able to understand; maybe she would ask his cousins to translate for her. It was part apology and part blessing, and by the time he switched back to English, he was blinking back tears. "You're doing great. I'm glad you're getting the chance to shine. You deserve every chance you've gotten and then some, and I hope you run with them all. Get that gold, Irish. Love you."

He lingered in his room for a few minutes, in the dark and the quiet, and by the time he returned to the living room, the collective mood had changed, anger slowly giving way to introspection. Until Becky was back with them, though, they would need to keep changing; they had a long way to go, and the messages—and the hard truths they were facing—were just the beginning.