While he showers, I throw on one of his shirts and crawl back into bed with my phone. Because I’m determined to make today a maybe one day, and this call requires some semblance of clothing.

Stretched out, I prop up on my elbows, waiting for my favorite smile in the world to appear on my screen. Then it does, and something instantly eases inside me.

“Remington Sinner.” Roman’s sitting in his car, his beanie pushed high on his forehead and jacket unzipped. “The hottest up-and-coming director of her time.”

I snort and remind him, “You said the same thing after watching the video I shot on my phone of you blowing out birthday candles.”

He considers it and nods. “You’re right. The real reason that video was such a masterpiece was the subject.”

I shake my head, my own smile spreading, and he chuckles.

“All right, catch me up, pretty girl,” he says. “What’s big enough to earn a call?”

My fingers twist in the bedsheet, lips tilting up even more. “I can’t check in just because I miss you?”

His face speaks for him, clearly stating, You can, but you ain’t.

And he’s right. About the just part, anyway.

Roman and I have talked a handful of times since I left New York, but we’ve mostly kept up in texts. Texts with words.

The emojis stopped after everything happened. We didn’t need them anymore, and they would have only served as a reminder of why we ever needed them in the first place.

Up until now, all of my updates have stayed documentary-related, or about Of Men and Wolves, or the tour itself. No mention of Foster—no mention of Adams in place of Foster.

Nothing between us fell into a category of things I would ever share with the man I consider a second father.

Until now.

“Do you remember…” I trail off and bite my lips together.

Very rarely am I the one to bring up anything related to my mom or our time at the lake house. Even the months after Roman was attacked, I avoid. He tests the waters now and then but never pushes too hard.

But right now, the safety in his dark eyes is enough I can push myself.

“One of the guys on tour with me is Foster.”

A crease forms in his forehead. “Foster…”

“He was the guy I cried over after Daniel killed my mom.”

The last part’s hushed and feels brutal, but I breathe through it. I’ve practiced. Out loud and alone.

Roman’s blink lasts too long when I say it, calmly and without tears. It’s his only tell other than a puff of air that leaves him before he looks at me again. “I remember who he is, Remi. I need you to let me know, am I happy or on a plane?”