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Tom has never considered what the height of his life could be, really, until Shiv came along and pulled him in his little office in the deep belly of Waystar. He wanted to kiss and tell desperately, but who would believe him?
It wasn't supposed to be much of anything — I mean, what does a guy from St. Paul have to do with a news heiress? — and then he was being questioned and investigated by her dad's lackeys: a Roy third base. Suddenly, they were going steady and though he was no poet, Tom was literate enough to read between those lines.
Which is why he knew that lest he wanted to make a fool of himself, he'd have to act as if he belonged in her world. At first, it was only temporary, a thing that wasn't a thing, it barely happened. Though he glowed, he couldn't dispel the concern that he would only ever figure out his relationship was in some other level via other people; so, he should take the reins and predict her cues. That was the reason why he invited her to his Thanksgiving and in true Shiv fashion, ever so cool, she replied in kind— and by christmas, he was mingling at the Roy's, nursing eggnogg like his life depended on it.
Tom felt as if he was dipping his toes in an ocean, rather than a pool, a shark infested patch of sea where no one would think to search for him. (It was all too far, too grand, too much; even for Thomas J. Wambsgans, the little bastard wouldn't dare.)
(of course, Tom was ever the surprising fellow.)
Despite his table manners, he was taking a fancy for bigger bites than he could chew and loving it. When it came down to it, he would much rather die than not at least attempt to embark on the great enterprise of trying to woo Shiv Roy. (Okay, so he loved a hyperbole. What's life without a little drama?) Which, in turn, did involve woo-ing the Roys as an unit. Passing that proverbial test, the first big hurdle in every relationship. From there on out every problem came down to communication. He could talk good, sure. So the family was his greatest issue to overcome, not only because they were rich and pretentious, even if they pretended not to be, but also because they were blue-blooded and everything he dreamed of being.
Self-made, fucking rich bastards. Behemoths. Un-fuck-withable.
God, isn't that the american dream?
*
The feast had come and passed in a blur of pleasant taste and tasteful wine and the kids were getting rowdy, Roman and Shiv getting nasty at the expansive living room from where the glass wall looked down into the white tundra. The snow had managed to cover everything inches deep in a deathful and gorgeous white tapestry; a masterful, sleek trap.
They were all stuck there together, he realized, a small panic settling deep and cold in his nice new designer house shoes.
He pressed his palm on Shiv's shoulder from behind, an unintentional act of reassurance that she reacted to immediately, leaning into his hand, her hair brushing his pulse where his blood picked up speed at the sense of her perfume, her certainty, the way they were picture perfect right then and there.
Her, cutting with her words without a drop of blood rushing to her cheeks; glacial and mean. Him, her supporting rock. He tried so hard not to break the fantasy, not to smile or give himself away, that he almost looked impassive when Roman switched victims to gift him a complimentary taste of the family joshing.
Of course, Tom looking down at him it was too comical for Roman's taste and he soon moved on to other, uncaring people in his family until his father shot him down with a glance. Nothing overt enough to spark interest, really, but Tom was as curious as they come and it made him wonder.
Are those the holidays that chiseled Shiv from marble to woman? Marcia swept the room into tasteful conversation easily and they all grasped for it like a lifeline, a breath of fresh air in an otherwise metallic environment. Not too long after that, as if she had realized only then the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, Shiv shrugged him off casually, not even glancing at him until she was all the way across the room.
Despite the heating being flawless in there, Tom couldn’t help but shiver at the chill that lingered in the room.
*
THE ROY COMMANDMENTS
The Roys don’t eat because they’re hungry, they do it for a flair. Tom realized he was the only one plowing at Marcia’s feasts with any gusto and felt very exposed, malnourished even, as if eating at dinnertime was a most mundane of choices. Very passé (they don’t say that either). He watched curiously as Roman popped a strawberry in his mouth at the end of a sentence, a smile curling the end of his lips as he left the room misshapen in the upheaval of his statement, Logan chewing silently, looking directly at Kendall while he stumbled his way through an answer. It wasn’t nourishment, it was a power move; and if he were completely honest, those moves are their most honest language. He learns, adopts and adapts.
The Roys don’t touch one another — unless there’s a purpose behind it. At first he didn’t understand why Shiv felt so unnerved at his small affections, specially near them, but time taught him that affection in their world was a move in a game, not the objective in itself. Tom, ever the survivalist, adapted with a heavy heart, despite how often he felt like dragging his fingertips against the softness of his sweetheart’s peachy skin.
The Roys don’t say I love you when they mean it. He couldn’t help himself, but he did learn how to disguise the words in other statements. Shiv, in turn, learned to read between his sappy lines. They don’t get sick, they don’t look bad, they don’t get comfortable. The home and the office are the same as long as they were together, or not even that.
The Roys don’t care about principles (Shiv is the outlier here), they care about winning (and here’s where she’s not).
Thou must not get fucked, that was the main adage of their religion, that was their greatest ruling and commandment. Fuck everybody else but never us, they’d mumble; never me, they’d think.
He watched Shiv turn her mantra in her mouth, silently, behind tight lipped smiles enough times to know she was trying to convince herself of it more than she was actually living by those words. Shiv Roy is never caught off guard, was her commandment, and Athenian in disposition as she was, she kept her mantra on loop, preparing herself for her war call.
*
“You know, back in St. Paul, at this time of the year, I’d probably have snuck out from my bedroom to skate on whatever lake was thick enough to hold us with my friends.” he offers from the bed, his feet dangling off the edge while she applies her nightly routine of products methodically, an almost-meditative look in her face while she did it. “I think I told you about them, Mark, Gilbert and—”
“Malcolm? Yeah.” she surprised him, shooting him a side glance. “We have a pier but it never gets cold enough to freeze it. One time Roman and Kendall tried to skate on it, before Ken went to rehab, and the ice broke. He fell into the water and almost died, but Roman managed to pull him out. Connor and I ran to the house for towels and when we came back, Ken was skating again, shaking like a leaf and smiling, somehow. High as a kite, of course. Rome hates this story.”
She put her hair up in a towel crown and sat at the bed, right beside him, while she spoke, slowly as if she was trying to remember only the good stuff, slice the moment perfectly, clean of the fat that makes stories long and stupid like his often were.
“Did you guys get grounded or anything?” he reached for her slick hand and started toying with her fingers.
“They didn’t catch us! Ken came down with an awful cold and we swore to never tell.” he was being let in on a secret of the highest order, then. It hadn’t occurred to him yet how many secrets they kept, the foursome, but when she smiled at him he felt almost conspiratorial, as if she had granted him hold of a most important gem and he was to keep it safe and sound.
“Oh, I’m really in it now, huh?” he joked, a goofy smile taking hold of his lips despite his wishes, pulling her to lay at his side, her head nestled on top of his shoulder.
“Yes, Wambsgans. You know too much, you can’t get out now.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
*
“I’ve got a crazy idea.” she mumbles into his shoulder sometime past the witching hour, many conversations deep into the night, his eyes jerking open at the possibility of an adventure all their own.
“I’m in— just say the word.”
“Let’s run away.”
“Siobhan Roy, I thought you’d never ask.”
*
Come the 25th’s morning light, they’re not at the Roy dinner table looking presentably well slept but rather find themselves in an off the road mom and pop’s diner, eating pancakes and perusing a paper map they bought off some gas station, bickering about locations where they could hide out until the new year’s like vagabonds.
The smell of perpetually hot coffee Tom had almost forgotten after years of deliberately skipping those spaces almost strike him as nostalgic, then, and he looks at Shiv under the window’s sunlight block, golden and copper and insanely precious (and as expensive as they come). Maybe this is it, he supposes in his head, maybe this is the day we’ll tell everyone about in years to come.
Maybe she’s it.
*
Maybe.