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She’s “looking at the china”, this time alone, when he bursts in. “Wow! Hey, didn’t know you were here.”
It’s a lie, of course. Gerri seriously doubts Roman has ever put a foot in this part of the house—but maybe he has, jittery feet leading him to this place full of trinkets his hands can fiddle with, hiding from his father after some particularly nasty outburst.
Her first impulse is to walk away—“the room’s all yours”—; she’s not sure if she wants to see him right now, but in the end chooses not to move because she thinks she’s already given in enough for the day—“but I'm not gonna push it”. Also, he’s strategically blocking the exit with his compact frame, the little jerk.
So she shrugs and looks down back at her phone, pretending this is nothing. The silence is charged and only interrupted by Roman fidgeting; Gerri knows he’s looking at her, he’s been doing it throughout the whole day when he thought she wasn’t aware. It’s a feeling she knows well, a feeling she was used to, a feeling that deep down she enjoyed.
Then Italy happened.
“So,” Roman says, in fake nonchalance. “No congratulations?”
There’s a pause, where Gerri actually opens one of the emails in her inbox and reads the first two lines. “Don’t worry, I'll make sure to congratulate Stewy when I see him. He did the heavy lifting, after all.”
She knows he’s nodding, in that particular way he does when a remark hits the target but he pretends he doesn’t give a damn. She’s halfway through the email when Roman talks again, “Did—Did you know Karolina proposed to shit on dad? Fuck dad's image so people… I don’t know, have fucking pity and accept us more? ‘Oh, the poor things, daddy made them dirty so let’s give them a chance’, like what? A fucking… consolation prize? It’s bullshit.”
“I believe it’s Karolina’s job as PR to put all the options on the table and make you aware.”
“Well it’s fucking rude.”
“It’s her job.”
“Can you just—fucking look at me, Gerri?”
She does, and she should have been prepared for the big puppy eyes and miserable face but somehow she hasn’t. He’s not crying, but his eyes are wet and his jaw is clenched and Gerri wish she could be in any other place except in this confined space so close to Roman Roy, but to get out of the room she would literally need to push him and there’s no way she’s going to touch him—she’s not going to cross that line, she's not going to risk what little she has left, she’s not going to be the butt of dick pic jokes or old age or…
Logan is gone, so why she still feels so constrained?
“What do you want, Roman?”
“It’s my family’s company,” he says; Gerri's entire body tenses at the words and she braces herself for another verbal blow aimed at undermining her, except he still looks so fucking miserable that she’s at a lost for what to expect. “It’s not that… fuck,” he starts roaming, going from one side to the other, one hand messing the back of his hair. It’s her opening to leave the room, to pretend this never happened. She stays where she is. “It’s just… it’s not that I think you aren’t capable of… you know? Because you are…” he waves his hands in front of her and looks down at her mouth, then at her chest for one second or two because, apparently, old habits die hard even when your father’s body has been cold for barely more than 24 hours. “This is dad’s—was dad’s—Shit! Uh… This is the only thing left of him—the only thing he probably actually fucking l-loved. And he would have liked… He would have wanted… right?”
There is truth in his words, there are also flaws, but she is not up to the task of making him understand. Gerri is tired.
She’s about to reply when the roaming halts and suddenly he is approaching her; Gerri can feel her heart do a somersault when he stops in front of her and leans over to rest his forehead on her left shoulder. No other part of his body is touching her, but she’s practically caged between him and the countertop and anyone could enter at any moment and see them. This is bad—how did she not calculate this outcome? How does Roman always manage to be predictable and unexpected all at once? Why this keeps happening to her? Why she keeps finding herself entangled with him?
“Roman.”
“Gerri.”
They talk at the same time, then fall silent. She can feel his short hair brushing against her cheek, the warmth of his body so close to hers, the woody fragrance of his perfume enveloping her. There’s a wall clock somewhere ticking and she tries to focus on it but it’s too distracted by Roman’s breathing—it’s not erratic, it’s not calm either; it’s like he’s trying to pull himself together.
Roman’s voice is quiet and small when he speaks, “Just a moment. Let’s just… stay like this for a little moment—let me have this, please.”
It’s such a selfish request. Any slip, the wrong person opening that door and she will be screwed all over again—Jesus, there are presidential candidates and senators out there; influential men that with only one look at this scene would stop seeing her as the qualified, successful, cold-hearted businesswoman that she is and only … What? Logan Roy’s younger son’s quasi-maternal figure? Soft little old lady consoling her goddaughter’s brother? A family friend?
She almost wishes he would be on his knees, jerking off at her harsh words and begging for more instead. If they find them that way at least it would suggest she was in control, it would mean she had the power—two things that people truly respect in this world.
Then it’s over.
Roman takes a step back, rubbing his eyes. He seems more composed, still miserable, but composed—Gerri wonders for a fleeting moment if he is also able to pinpoint that part of her that displays her own misery; she would rather never know. They share a look, one of those they usually do in rooms full of people where they can’t say out loud what they’re thinking, except they’re now alone and yet don’t say a word because both know, if they want to come out unscathed, there are things that should remain unsaid—maybe forever. So she’s the first one to look away, clear her throat, and finally walk past him to the door.
Her hand is against the wood when she turns around, not surprised to find him staring at her, his eyes wide open and full of feelings that even now she has the urge to remind him to conceal if he doesn't want to end up someone's lunch—but maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, not now that the biggest shark is dead. “See you in the office, Roman,” Gerri says with a nod, in perhaps the softest tone she's used with him in months—not that she would ever acknowledge it.
Then back to the shitshow she goes.