Chapter 17 - A Different Kind of Choice
The deed was not what we feared.
For once, a secret brought relief instead of destruction.
Marianne arrived the following morning carrying a folder.
Roman, Elena, and I sat at my mother's kitchen table.
It felt like every major revelation in my life happened at a kitchen table.
Elena examined the deed.
Then laughed.
I stared.
"What?"
"This doesn't give Arthur ownership."
Roman leaned forward.
"Then what does it do?"
"It shows he tried to buy the property."
My stomach tightened.
"When?"
"1999."
I was fourteen.
My mother was alive.
My father had recently become involved in a legal dispute with Arthur Carter over a development project.
Marianne explained.
"Arthur wanted the land along this block."
I looked around.
"This house?"
"The whole lakefront parcel."
"My father refused?"
"Repeatedly."
Roman almost smiled.
"That sounds like Hart."
"Your father hated him for it," Marianne said.
Elena flipped through pages.
"Arthur apparently created an option agreement."
"Without my parents?"
"Not valid. Your father challenged it and won."
I exhaled.
"So this house was never Arthur's."
"No."
"Why keep the deed?"
Marianne looked at Roman.
"Because Arthur kept records of every battle he lost."
Roman laughed.
"That also sounds like him."
Marianne smiled faintly.
"I found it in a storage box after he died. I didn't understand why it mattered until Roman told me where Savannah lived."
I touched the worn tabletop.
My mother had cooked here.
My father had fought to keep the house.
Years later, it became the place I escaped to.
"Your father protected this house from mine," Roman said.
I looked at him.
"Apparently."
He shook his head.
"Your family has been saving us from mine for decades."
"Let's not make it a competition."
"I'd lose."
"Growth."
Elena rolled her eyes.
After Marianne left, Roman and I walked toward the lake.
December wind cut through our coats.
He put his hands in his pockets.
"I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Constant therapy humor. Very supportive."
"Continue."
"I don't want to get remarried."
I stopped.
Roman walked two steps before noticing.
He turned.
My chest tightened.
"Okay."
His eyes widened.
"That came out wrong."
I almost laughed.
"Spectacularly."
"I mean not now."
"Still listening."
Roman returned.
"I don't want the solution to our divorce to be another wedding."
Relief came.
"What do you want?"
"To date you."
I smiled.
"Very radical."
"Badly."
"That's less appealing."
He laughed.
"I want to pick you up. Take you somewhere. Have you go home afterward if you want."
"Scandalous."
"I want to learn who you are when you're not trying to be Mrs. Carter."
The joke disappeared.
"And I want you to learn who I am when I'm not trying to be Roman Carter."
My eyes burned.
"Who are you?"
"No idea."
"Good."
He smiled.
"I knew you'd say that."
We began dating.
Actually dating.
It was absurd.
Our first marriage had begun with intensity.
Private jets.
Flowers.
Hotels.
Roman made decisions and I loved how effortless life became around him.
The second time, I insisted on effort.
He planned a picnic.
It rained.
We ate sandwiches in his car.
He cooked dinner.
Burned salmon.
We went bowling.
I beat him.
He demanded a rematch.
Then caught himself.
"I'm being my father."
"No, you're being competitive."
"Difference?"
"You're allowed to want to win. You're not allowed to buy the bowling alley when you lose."
He laughed so hard he nearly dropped the ball.
We learned distinctions.
Control versus care.
Privacy versus secrecy.
Dependence versus partnership.
Disagreement versus abandonment.
Roman sometimes failed.
So did I.
Once, he canceled dinner for a Northline emergency and I immediately assumed I had become unimportant again.
Instead of silently punishing him, I said, "This scares me."
Roman rescheduled the meeting.
I said, "You didn't need to do that."
He replied, "I know. I chose to."
Another time, I made a major foundation decision without telling him, then became angry when he felt excluded.
Dr. Brooks pointed out I had started using independence as armor.
"Not needing someone can become another kind of fear," she said.
Annoying woman.
Correct woman.
By Christmas Eve, one year after the night I left, Roman and I were not remarried.
We weren't living together.
We were not pretending betrayal never happened.
We were something harder to explain.
Choosing.
Evelyn turned one on December 26.
Margaret insisted that combining birthday and Christmas gifts was "cheap behavior" and threatened everyone.
The house filled with decorations.
Marianne flew in from Oregon.
Julia came with her sons.
Elena brought wine.
Even Dr. Levin sent Roman a card that read:
Congratulations on one year without attempting to control the universe.
I framed it.
At five o'clock Christmas Eve, Roman arrived.
Exactly the time he'd come home dressed to leave the year before.
This time he wore a sweater.
Carried groceries.
And held a tiny red coat for Evelyn.
I opened the door.
Roman smiled.
"Merry Christmas."
My throat tightened.
"Merry Christmas."
For one second, memory overlaid the present.
Charcoal suit.
Cologne.
Claire's message.
His watch.
Then Evelyn shouted from behind me.
"Dada!"
Roman's face transformed.
She toddled toward him.
He dropped everything except the coat and caught her.
"Hey, Evie."
He kissed her hair.
I watched.
A year.
So much life.
Roman looked at me over our daughter's head.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Sure?"
I nodded.
"Just remembering."
His smile faded.
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"No, I mean—"
I stepped closer.
"You don't have to apologize every Christmas Eve forever."
He swallowed.
"I probably will."
"Then I'll probably tell you to stop."
"Fair."
He entered.
Dinner was loud.
Messy.
Normal.
Roman washed dishes.
Margaret complained he loaded the dishwasher incorrectly.
Marianne cried when Evelyn opened a gift.
At nine, snow began.
By ten, everyone had gone to bed or gone home.
Roman stood near the Christmas tree.
I found him holding something.
A velvet box.
My heart stopped.
"Roman."
He looked up quickly.
"It's not what you think."
"That phrase has history."
He laughed.
"Right."
He opened the box.
My old wedding ring.
The ring I'd left beneath another tree exactly one year ago.
My chest tightened.
"I thought you sold it."
"It's yours."
"I know."
"I kept it in a safe."
"Of course you did."
Roman removed the ring from the box.
He did not kneel.
Good.
"I don't want you to wear this again."
I stared.
"Then what—"
"I want to ask what you want done with it."
I looked at the diamond.
It had once represented everything.
Then nothing.
Now?
History.
"Sell it."
Roman blinked.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"What should we do with the money?"
I smiled.
"Buy diapers."
He laughed.
"That's a lot of diapers."
"Foundation."
His expression softened.
"Good."
He closed the box.
Then I reached under the tree.
"I have something for you."
Roman looked surprised.
I handed him a small package.
Inside was a key.
He stared.
"What is this?"
"A key."
"Thank you, Savannah. Therapy has improved your ability to identify objects."
"To this house."
Roman's smile vanished.
He looked at me.
"You're asking me to move in?"
"No."
He looked confused.
"I'm telling you that you don't have to wait outside if you're early."
His eyes filled.
"It's a key, Roman. Not ownership."
He nodded.
"Trust."
"Some."
His hand closed around it.
"I'll earn the rest."
"No."
He looked at me.
"Don't earn it."
I touched his face.
"Build it with me."
Roman kissed me.
Softly.
The Christmas tree glowed behind us.
Snow fell outside.
And for the first time, Christmas Eve did not feel like the anniversary of something ending.
It felt like the beginning of something neither of us could control.
Which, finally, was exactly why it was beautiful.
But our story wasn't finished.
Because three months later, I stood in my bathroom staring at two pink lines.
And when Roman knocked on the door asking whether I was okay, I realized life had handed us the one test neither of us had expected so soon.
May you like
I was pregnant again.
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