Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘It wasn't made for love, the house.'
'Any place is made for love,' she protested.
'Not this place and not us. You look back two, three generations, as far as you can. You won't find love. We are incapable of such a thing.’
( Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia)

-What have you got in your fucking hand?
-What have I got? I don’t know, fucking … love?
(3.09, “All the Bells Say”)

Gerri decides to refinish a dresser.

She hasn’t got anything better to do, and all of the sagely preachy podcasts her daughters have recommended seem to mention the importance of doing things with your hands.

She’s been tucked up in her vacation home in Southampton for a few weeks now, long enough that all this relaxation is starting to make her crazy. She misses her work like a limb, like her husband. No matter how thankful she is that she got out of Waystar when she did, she hadn’t been fully prepared for the existential uselessness. It isn’t worse than losing Baird, but it eats her up more. Her brain begs for stress, for problems. All her South of France retirement plans stay frozen. She’ll go when she’s ready, she tells herself. She just can’t figure out what ready is.

And so one day, soon after she and Roman start sleeping together, she goes to an antique shop and picks out a wobbly old dresser, deciding to transform it somehow. Paint it orange. Burn it in the backyard.

The antique shop does delivery. They leave it for her in the driveway. She’s home to meet the delivery man and hand him a tip. That in and of itself feels like mockery from the universe. She hasn’t been home to meet a delivery man in thirty years.

Roman comes out into the driveway in sweatpants and a puffy jacket, tossing a plum between his hands. He gives the old dresser a frown. Pokes it warily with one slippered foot.

“You’re fucking with me,” he says. “That thing? That? We’re supposed to touch it? I can– yep, I can feel the scabies radiating off it.”

“It’s got good bones,” Gerri says.

“Don’t get me wrong. Home Reno Gerri sounds hot. She can sand me down anytime in her little fucking overalls. But I’m not really made for hard labor.”

“Tough shit, cupcake. You’re helping me.”

“Just because I live in your house and eat your food and sleep in your bed doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”

“Yes it does.”

“Yes it does,” he agrees with a petulant sigh. “Bossy fucking bitch. Fine. Time to lose all my fingers in a freak sanding accident. Time to die from inhaling toxic paint fumes.”

“Do you even know what a sander is?”

“Fuck no. Do you?”

Gerri bites her lip. “I have a general idea,” she says at last.

“Ha!” Roman barks, tossing the plum at her. She catches it cleanly and throws it after him as he saunters away. (Apparently, to Roman, dressers move themselves.) The plum just misses him.

“Weak!” he calls to her. “So very weak.”

“Little fucker,” she grumbles.

She couldn’t cut him out completely, not after Logan’s funeral. Not after everything with Kendall. They’d texted for a while, met up for coffee a few times. He’d visited for a weekend, on an invitation she’d issued as a joke and hoped he’d take seriously. Since then, he’s stayed.

She keeps waiting for him to get sick of it. She and Baird bought the place back in the 90s, envisioning quaint family vacations that seldom happened and a retirement second honeymoon that never did, and next to anywhere Roman’s ever lived, it’s – well, at least a cottage, if not a hovel. Four bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms. Forgotten most of the time, and left untouched over the hectic past few years. He must feel like he’s in a zoo exhibit with slightly out-of-style throw pillows. But he sticks around, like he wants nothing more from life than spending winter in the Hamptons with the woman who wouldn’t hold him when his father died.

And maybe that’s true.

***

The worst thing is that it’s fun, actually. Life with Roman usually is, when it isn’t awful.

They look up dresser renovation videos on YouTube and drive impractically long distances to stores to buy supplies and look at paint colors. Roman wears a baseball cap with ironic aplomb and merrily greets all the employees. He thinks he’s making fun of them, or maybe himself, but Gerri suspects he might just be having a nice time.

“Get a load of all these simple souls,” he mutters to her in the glow of the paint swatches aisle. “They think we’re just like them.”

“We are,” she mutters back.

“Never,” Roman says. “No way. We’re far too hot and interesting. We smack of tragedy and impeccable breeding.”

“It’s a wonder you’re not more popular.” She points at the wall of paint swatches. “Now, which?”

He stares at them for a long time, his brow furrowed in what might be actual thought. It makes her remember him on the other side of her desk, trying to prove himself.

“I’m kind of feeling this one. A sort of pumpkin shit mahogany? Is that hot right now?”

She stares at his fingertip on the orange rectangle called Desert Mirage. Again, as always, she feels that illogical string tugging taut between them.

“Pumpkin shit mahogany it is,” she says.

“Aw, yes!” Roman high-fives a befuddled passing employee in an apron.

***

They do a puzzle that her daughters sent her as a happy retirement joke gift. Five hundred pieces, a picture of a garden, now that she can stop and smell the roses. (Ha ha.) When it’s done, they dump the pieces directly into the kitchen trash can. She likes that part best.

They catch up on movies, discovering that neither of them have the attention span for movies anymore, and scroll the internet for pointless hours. Roman likes to check TikTok for new joke edits of him crying at the funeral, because you can’t teach an old dog not to kick itself. Gerri listens to audiobooks while Roman tunes them out. They go for a lot of walks, and she forces herself to notice plants and birds and water while the voice in the back of her head asks, Who gives a shit?

On Thanksgiving she tries to teach him to cook, an undertaking made even more hellishly impossible by the fact that she hasn’t done it seriously in years. It ends in mutual screaming along to the cries of the smoke detector and irreparably charred cookware. They ignore each other for a sullen forty-five minutes and then make out furiously against the refrigerator. The still-smoking turkey breast goes into the trash with the puzzle pieces.

Meanwhile, the dresser comes along pretty nicely. When the opportunity’s actually there in front of him, Roman wants to try out the sander.

***

Neither of them can sleep for shit. She’s used to surviving on a few hours, and though she’d used to joke with Frank and Karolina and the others about longing for a more restful life, she hadn’t really meant it. She’d been so smug hanging around them at Logan’s funeral, like the cool kid trying to lure the others into smoking under the bleachers. Look how great it is, being free. Way better in theory, it turns out.

She still wakes up before five every morning, ready to go. Roman’s usually up too. They’ll turn on the TV: flip between news channels, watching the world go on without them, or get inconveniently mesmerized by bad infomercials. Roman always threatens to order the products.

When he’s not awake, she likes to stay in bed with him, even though they say you should get up when you can’t sleep.

***

“This isn’t enough, is it?” Roman asks her one night after they’ve spent an hour on the couch staring at an episode of NOVA about the perils of climate change. “Nothing’s ever gonna be enough. Nothing’s ever going to fill that …” He puts a hand to his chest, like an actor playing Hamlet. 

She’s used to pepping him up. She can’t just now. She would kill a man for a good legal quagmire. An all-consuming PR disaster sounds better than chocolate cake.

“What’s the alternative?” she asks.

Roman mimes shooting himself in the head, complete with zestful sound effects, then grins.

She pretends to ponder it. “Check with me again in six months.”

“You know, I’m kinda looking forward to all this climate shit kicking into gear. The sooner the better. Point of no return? Fuck yeah; bring it on.” 

“Finally,” Gerri agrees, “something interesting.”

“You and me, we’re gonna be fortifying our underground bunker penthouse. Shooting down any motherfuckers who try to break in and steal our supplies or swim in our pool.” Giving her those cartoon bedroom eyes of his, he adds, “You can eat me if you have to.”

She tilts her head, ingenue-ish. “I thought that went without saying.”

***

But of course, it’s all different for him. She misses the work. To him, it wasn’t work. It was his family. His whole world, instead of only most of it.

Once she would have tried to whip him into shape, but the thing is, she understands. When he spends hours in bed, staring at nothing, or disappears without a word to her first, she takes it in stride. He always comes back, and that’s enough. That’s plenty.

He talks to Connor on the phone sometimes, but never Shiv. Whenever they’re out in public and they spot a stocky, bearded old man at a distance, he brightens, like the world comes temporarily to life around him again. So glad to see a ghost.

“He was a fucking asshole,” he tells her one night, out of nowhere. “It wasn't right, how he treated us.”

She isn’t sure who ‘us’ is. The two of them? The kids? There are too many possible contenders. In any context, it’s true.

But she still catches him sometimes, playing old interviews on his phone, closing his eyes to the rumble of his father’s voice.

Logan must have seen what he had in Roman, towards the end. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent him to fire her, an act that had been pitifully territorial more than anything, she’s since decided. He’s mine, not yours. Don’t you forget it.

But Roman doesn’t know that, and Gerri doesn’t have the heart to tell him. Not after Kendall. Better to be the eternal fuck-up than beloved to a monster.

***

One morning she stays in bed with a headache and a cup of tea, and comes out in her pajamas at eleven to find that Roman’s painted the dresser. The color looks better than she’d imagined. He’s covered in orange smudges. She feels particularly smitten.

“Ta-da,” he says lamely, spreading his arms out.

“Mmhmm,” she says, to cover up the sudden lump in her throat. “It’s good.”

“You like?”

“I always told you we’d do great things together, didn’t I?” she jokes bitterly.

“Oh yeah,” he says, coming over and pulling her into a gangly hug. “We are killing it.”

He still doesn’t quite have the hang of it. It’s fine. She’s never been a hugger. She appreciates the effort.

Chapter Text

Gerri sends a picture of the dresser to her girls. Proof of life. To her surprise, her phone rings a few minutes later. Her daughters don’t usually have time to call during the day. They’re a texting family, fitting moments of affection in between meetings and deadlines and busy social calendars.

“Mom,” Petunia says, “why is Roman Roy in the living room?”

Gerri balks. “Where in the world did you get that idea?” It’s always unsettling to hear her own mother’s tone sneak into her voice.

“In the picture you just sent me. Where he’s in the living room.”

Gerri pulls up the photo and examines it. Sure enough, there’s Roman in the background, lounging on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. She’s gotten so used to him that she hadn’t noticed.

Fuck.

“He’s a friend,” she says mildly. “He’s visiting.”

“A friend who hangs out in your living room barefoot? Oh, Mom. Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Are you, like … ?”

“No!”

“So you’re just being the supportive mother figure he never had in this trying time because Caroline’s a nightmare?”

“Sure,” Gerri says lightly.

“And you’ve never known him carnally?”

She huffs. “Don’t be horrible.”

***

If things had gone according to plan, and they’d made it to running the company, nothing ever would have happened. Gerri’s sure of that. Back when Roman was wooing her the most aggressively, she’d always known he would turn and run if she ever said yes. It was a relief, even if it also made her a little sad for both of them.

She’d thought about having sex with Roman back then, of course. It was hard not to, with him panting in her ear all the time. (And, in all honesty, the logistical issues that had driven away Grace and Tabitha piqued her interest; she’s always relished a challenge. She’s always liked to win.) But she’d thought about murdering Logan with a stapler too. She was a functional adult, and could therefore keep her thoughts inside her head, tucked tidily next to her feelings.

Now that they’ve got nothing but hours and boredom and the lingering ache of their time apart, it’s different.

She’d been so worried and so careful before. Clocking every pair of eyes that might be watching through the glass walls, making sure not to stand together too long at events. Now she barely keeps track of what day it is. The idea of getting caught is so removed from her brain that the cleaner walks in on them one afternoon, screeches an apology, and runs out. Gerri finds herself doubled over in painful laughter while Roman does a silent scream of horror and buries his face in her thighs.

He has a field day quipping to Gerri about the incident afterward and turns bright red every time he sees the cleaner again, leaving extra stacks of hundred dollar bills for her everywhere.

***

They don’t go out much, but occasionally they’ll grab a bite when ordering in again feels too depressing. A photo of them walking out of a bistro with Roman’s hand on the small of her back pops up online alongside a scathing article about the latest depraved scandal of the Roy family. (‘MY SISTER’S GODMOTHER, MY LOVER,’ boasts the headline.) It’s the sort of thing that would have been apocalyptic to Gerri once. Which is a shame, since it’s actually pretty funny.

Connor texts the link to Roman, along with:

The new lovebirds made the papers! I sure didn’t see this one coming. But Willa says there was always a vibe. I’ll take her word for it. She knows her stuff. Felicitations to you and GK! xoxo Con

“This is cute,” Roman decides, staring at the article like it’s their engagement photo. “We should print this out and frame it.”

***

Gerri’s girls wind up coming out to the house a few weekends later, desperate to bear witness to their mother’s mental deterioration. They’ve both got plans with their partners’ families for Christmas, used to the old routine of Gerri working most holidays, so it doubles as an early celebration.

She can tell that Roman is nervous. It must be a nightmare for him, too: forced to sit at the dinner table with two of the kids he hung out with on and off throughout his childhood, having to tell them he’s auditioning to be their new stepdaddy.

It’s more of a nightmare for her, though. Obviously.

They have too much wine with dinner and talk too politely about Petunia’s upcoming wedding and the case Katie’s working on. Roman doesn’t make a single lewd joke. The girls must wonder if he’s been lobotomized. He just keeps offering to get everyone more of everything, holding out the serving bowls like some sort of reverse Oliver Twist.

Afterwards, she and the girls sit out by the pool around the portable fire pit, finishing off another bottle while Roman does the dishes. Gerri likes him enough not to point out in front of them what a freakish anomaly that is.

She’s tipsy, nicely fuzzy, and the full moon and the glow of the fire make her feel like she’s caught in a dream.

“What do you think your dad would’ve thought?” she muses.

“He would think it was hilarious,” Petunia says.

“He would laugh,” Katie agrees. She’s always a bit less effusive than her sister, a bit more serious. But she’s not one to lie to smooth over a situation. “I don’t think he would be mad at you or anything.”

“Well, that’s something.” Gerri grimaces. Maybe that’s her type. Men with a deranged sense of humor. “What do you think?”

“Oh, when have you ever cared what we think?” says Petunia.

It’s an old source of conflict. Her progressive daughters, so bothered by all the blood on their mother’s hands. Never mind that it was her hard-earned money that got them their Ivy League educations and virtuous careers.

“Good point,” Gerri says dryly.

“How in the hell did it even start?” Petunia asks. “Did you just look at him one day and go, ‘Ooh, Roman Roy’?”

“I was mentoring him a little bit,” Gerri says, “so we talked on the phone pretty often. One night it just escalated, that’s all.”

“Escalated?”

“Escalated.”

“Escalated into what, exactly?”

“Him jerking off while I told him what a dirty pervert he was.”

Petunia puts her hands over her face. “Jesus, Mother!”

Katie lifts her eyebrows in amused alarm, an expression that’s so one hundred percent her father.

“You asked,” Gerri says with a tiny shrug. “We’re all adults here.”

“Is he your boyfriend, then?” Katie asks.

Gerri allows herself a satisfied smile. Mostly to bother Peti. She thinks she’s been a decent parent, and a fairly happy one, but there’s still something in her that bristles against being someone’s mother. Just someone’s old mother, to worry about and pity. It stings even more now that the best, fiercest part of her is done.

“I have a good time with him,” she says luxuriously. “He’s obsessed with me.”

“It’s not really practical, is it?” says Katie. “In the long run?”

Her little double. Always thinking about the future.

Gerri waves her glass. “Oh, who gives a shit? The world’s ending, isn’t it? We’re going to be global warming bunker buddies. It’ll be fun. Like eternal summer camp.”

Her daughters groan in unison. Gerri sips her wine and admires the moon.

Chapter Text

“It’s Iverson’s birthday next week,” Roman tells her, drumming his fingers on the kitchen counter.

“Oh?” she asks distractedly. She’s texting with Karolina, determined to stay in touch, even if it feels absurd and a little hollow. Like going bowling once a year with a battlefield comrade.

“So, do I … what? Send him a card? You know Rava doesn’t want anything to do with any of us. And what am I to those kids, anyway? I haven’t seen them in forever. It’s not like we’re doing holidays like in the good old days. Giving him the old Ocean Spray one-two.”

“Send him a card,” Gerri says. “It’s the least you can do.”

“Right. Okay.” Roman goes to the fridge, stares inside, slams it shut. “What’s a little bit more than the least I can do?”

***

They go to a toy store with a quaint shopfront. Gerri thinks of her girls, still little, and how they would have ooh’d and ahh’d over it. She thinks of them the last time she saw them, exchanging ‘Mom’s losing it’ looks.

Inside, Roman grabs boxes of all the most expensive Lego sets, stacking them on top of each other; once the pile in his arms begins to teeter, he starts pointing at others for Gerri to grab. Then he insists on a gift for Sophie, so that’s how they wind up with a sorry-it’s-not-your-birthday beading kit.

At the card rack, he goes for one with jungle animals in party hats first.

“Mm-mm,” Gerri says, shaking her head. “Too young.”

“Right. Fuck. The spaceships?”

“The spaceships are okay. On theme.”

“You know Legos aren’t from space, right? God, you’re so old.”

They wait for ages while the clerk wraps the boxes, one by one.

***

Gerri peeks at the card that night, left open on the coffee table.

Iverson–

Happy birthday, bud! Hope it’s cool. Best wishes for your next year.

Love,

Uncle Rome

“Is it super obvious I can’t remember how old he is?” Roman asks. His forehead is lined with worry.

“No,” Gerri lies mercifully.

***

A week later Rava texts Roman a video of Iverson surrounded by the boxes of Legos, thanking Uncle Rome for the awesome gifts. He’s already put two of the sets together, and he lifts them carefully to show them off, explaining their intricacies in response to Rava’s gentle questions. Roman watches it three times in a row.

“Okay, cool,” he says. “He liked them. Shit.” His voice goes thick with emotion, and he springs off the sofa. “Don’t look at me.”

“I’m not looking at you,” Gerri says calmly, her eyes on her iPad.

After pacing around the room for a minute, he sits down next to her again. She rests her head on his shoulder and keeps scrolling.

Chapter Text

In the car to the hospital, after hours and hours of fretful waiting and text message updates from Connor, Roman is vibrating with nerves. The gigantic ‘IT’S A GIRL!’ balloon in the seat between them keeps bopping him in the head. A pink teddy bear stares skeptically at him with its safety-conscious cloth eyes.

“Hey, Ger. Might I ask your advice on this delicate social occasion?” He drums his fingers on the car door, clearly uncomfortable confined to the backseat. It’s the first time they’ve hired a car instead of driving since they got together.

“Go ahead,” Gerri says.

“So, when Shiv told us she was preggers, it was the day of Dad’s funeral and I was a little, uh, jumpy. So I might have responded to the news by asking if the baby was mine.”

Gerri nods. “Sure.”

“And I think there might have been something about hot breast feeding. Just, ya know, your standard brother-sister ‘You nurse, I jack off, hubba hubba’ affectionate banter. Real Brady Bunch stuff.”

“Naturally.”

“So my question is: do I keep running with that now that the little squirt’s here? The whole Uncle Daddy schtick? I feel like yes, right? I mean, it’s comedy gold. She just pushed a human out of her snatch a week early; she’s going to be in the mood for my antics.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Gerri says. “She’ll love that.”

Roman taps on his temple. “I thought so.”

“Just go with your instincts. They’ve never steered you wrong before.”

“Thank you. You get me.”

“In unrelated news,” she says, “I think the driver might be detouring to the police station.”

“Whatever.” Toward the front of the car, he bellows, “Sorry you don’t have a hot pregnant sister to fuck.”

“Don’t worry,” Gerri adds in the same direction. “I’m having him institutionalized.”

The driver doesn’t say anything. Roman giggles. Gerri bites back a laugh. It must only be funny because of the worry and sleep deprivation. When Roman reaches for her hand, she squeezes his fingers fondly.

***

“Shhhh,” Connor says when they reach the hospital room. “Shhh, Mama’s sleeping, baby’s sleeping.”

“Tough shit,” whispers Roman, balloon in hand. “Because I came to party.”

“You jest now,” says Connor. “But wait until you see her. It’ll knock your socks off.”

Roman looks at Gerri. There’s a tender sort of nervousness in his eyes. He shrugs. She shrugs back and rubs his shoulder briefly with the hand that isn’t clutching the teddy bear.

They follow Connor into the hospital room, which is resplendent with dozens of flower arrangements. Willa’s sitting in a chair in the corner with a drowsy smile. At the sight of them, she gets up and hugs Roman, then Gerri too after a moment’s pause.

“I guess you’re one of us now,” she murmurs.

Gerri laughs shortly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You are. Believe me. I know all the signs.”

While Willa takes the teddy bear and adds it to the baby shrine, Gerri tries not to dwell on that disturbing information.

“And a balloon,” Willa says to Roman, taking it. “Nice touch. Very sweet.”

“What, you’re surprised? I’m a fucking sweetheart 24/7. Just ask this one.”

Gerri shakes her head lightly. Willa smirks. As far as in-laws go, Gerri decides, it could be worse than Willa.

“Hey, she’s awake! Look at those eyes. Here’s Uncle Romey,” Connor coos to the tiny bundle in the bassinet beside Shiv’s bed. Shiv is still asleep, her breathing even and peaceful. “Uncle Romey and Grandma Gerri.”

“Grandma?” Roman repeats. “Seriously, dude. Fuck off.”

“No offense meant,” Connor adds, turning to Gerri. “You just have sort of a grandmotherly air.”

“Stop talking, Connor,” Gerri advises.

“What are you talking about, you ancient prick? You’re like if Jolly Old Saint Nick fucked the Crypt Keeper and they both died of old age in the middle. You’re deteriorating before our very eyes.”

“I’m younger than Gerri,” Connor says. “But she’s certainly prettier.”

“Wow,” Gerri says. “Thank you.”

“He’s distinguished,” Willa contributes, looping her arm through Connor’s.

“Uh, Gerri is also distinguished,” Roman says, “with the added bonus of being hot as shit.”

“Can you please stop fighting about your old-ass partners?” groans Shiv.

Roman’s face goes gentle. He turns to his sister.

“Hey,” she says with a sleepy smile. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” Roman replies, his voice soft. “What am I, some asshole?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Yeah. Walked right into that one.” He gives Shiv an awkward hug, kissing her forehead. “This is her, huh? The little Roy-Wambsgans.”

“That’s her.”

“She’s great.”

“That’s it? That’s all?”

“What else is there to say? She’s great. She’s really great. She has your … head.”

Shiv’s eyes glitter. “Thanks, Rome.”

“So, uh. What’s her name?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Ah.”

“If she was a boy, you know, there would be some obvious contenders, but–” Shiv swallows. The two of them stare at each other, looking lost.

“How about Pussy Galore?” Roman says then.

“How about–” Shiv flips him off with both hands.

“What? It’s a real name! It’s a real name, and an homage to a fine feature film.”

“I hate you. You want to hold her?”

“Oh, shit no. I’ll probably give her insta-SIDS.”

“You won’t. It’ll be fine.” Off Roman’s terrified look, Shiv turns to Gerri. “Help him out, would you, Great Godmother?”

Gerri goes over to Roman and lifts Shiv’s baby out of the bassinet. For a moment, she feels herself hurled back to those first moments holding her daughters. She considers the tiny face, the bleary eyes staring up at her. Such a little life. Mostly untouched, so far, by everything she’s got to inherit.

She turns to Roman, who looks scared as shit. But determined, too. He won’t fuck it up.

Gerri passes the baby over into his waiting arms. “There you go, honey. Support her head.”

“Really? Are you supposed to support the head? Because I was gonna just leave it hanging. Let it snap off.”

“It would be so easy for me to leave you. Just walk out and never see you again.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m trash. You can spank me later.”

“This is fun,” Shiv says. “This is going to be fun for all of us.”

“So fun,” Willa agrees.

The baby bursts into tears.

“Right,” Roman declares, “I broke her. Someone take her. I broke her.”

“No, it’s good,” says Connor wisely. “It’s the screaming that tells you you’re alive.”

Chapter Text

A few months later, Roman gets invited to Tabitha’s engagement party. She’s marrying some actor whose IMDb boasts a bunch of artsy shit that Roman would only watch under threat of death. He and Gerri have been feeling like a trip, so they decide to spend a few days in California. Practice for the South of France voyage that Gerri’s finally turning her attention toward. Roman doesn’t know if he’s invited, but he’s definitely going.

As they walk out of her house, dressed way sharper than they have in months, he marvels, “I think that’s the longest I’ve stayed in one place in– yep, in my entire adult life.”

“You’re free.” She does some teasing little jazz hands. Fuck, she’s cute.

He doesn’t tell her that he would’ve stayed locked up with her forever. He’s trying to play this relationship cool.

“Will I even remember how to get my PJ on?” he asks tragically instead.

“Sure you will.” She pats his back. “They say it’s just like riding a bike.”

***

On the day of the party, Gerri decides to hang back at the hotel, reasoning that showing up as Roman’s date might be too awkward. Roman disagrees, but it’s not like he can force her to do anything. He suspects part of it is that she wants him to disentangle himself from her a tad, step out into the world alone and see what happens.

The party’s outside at a vineyard, full of beautiful people and fine vintages and the usual bullshit. It feels weird, being in a crowd. He never used to notice crowds, but now it sets him on edge like being in a room with his dad used to. He likes his life being small.

“Roman Roy!” Tabitha comes over to him, tall and gorgeous and insane-of-hair as ever. “I wasn’t sure you’d show that handsome face.”

“Yeah, well, congratulations,” he says as they air kiss. “On me being here, I mean. Not the whole – nuptials.”

“Of course,” she says with that warm laugh he remembers. “How are you? What have you been up to?”

“Oh, nothing.” 

“Nothing?”

“Complete nothing. It turns out when you’re rich, you can do that. Just nothingness. For months on end.”

“Well, I’m glad,” she says, “what with ATN trying to call the election wrong and plummet America into hell. Probably best that you let all that go.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ancient history. You got your hippie presidente instead of a dapper-as-fuck Nazi. Quit whining.”

“I know this isn’t a concern for you, for obvious no-fucking reasons, but that whole stripping-women’s-rights-to-bodily-autonomy thing was going to be a real drag.”

“You ladies and your abobos and your scented candles and your Target runs.”

“Basic bitch stuff.”

“Exactly. Hey, I do have some pretty cool news.” He takes his phone out of his pocket.

“Are you finally going to make good on the dick pic requests? Because Rome, it’s okay, I don’t need them anymore–”

“Look. New niece.”

“Oh my gosh,” Tabitha sing-songs, leaning down to admire the pictures over his shoulder.

Roman feels a dorky swell of pride. “Shiv’s little nugget. Portia.”

“Big name.”

“I know. Isn’t it hideous? But she’s an extremely cool itty-bitty blob of nothing. And she gets less itty-bitty and less nothing every day. Still pretty blobby, though.”

“She’s amazing. A beautiful blob.”

Roman swipes through a few more pictures, various family members posing with Portia, who looks gloriously unimpressed to be with them. He waits to be asked where Kendall is.

“Gerri’s still around?” Tabitha says instead. “Wow. I thought she would’ve been sick of all of you Roys by now.”

“What can I say?” Roman says, disoriented. “She’s a glutton for punishment. And Shiv’s godmother, so.”

“Right. Did I know that?”

“Probably not. Nobody remembers unless funky, dire shit is happening. So, uh, happy times. How are–”

“Hey. Wait. What’s that?” Tabitha asks as he exits his photos and turns his screen off.

“What? Nothing.”

She taps his phone with her finger, revealing the lockscreen pic of Gerri on a walk at the beach.

Tabitha’s eyes are Disney princess huge and alarming. “Roman.”

“Oh yeah,” he says awkwardly. “That.”

“You and Gerri? No fucking way. No way.”

“I’m just stalking her,” Roman says. “She didn’t know I was there. I was rocking a ghillie suit in the bushes.”

Tabitha just keeps staring at him. He wonders if he’ll melt into the ground under the force of those giddy eyeballs.

“Okay, yes,” he admits.

Tabitha lets out a screech that draws the attention of all the guests standing nearby.

“Get yourself together, ya freak,” Roman scolds.

“No!” she says, unbothered. “This is too good.”

“It’s old news. You didn’t see the My Sister’s Godmother, My Lover article? That pinnacle of groundbreaking journalism?”

“This might be a shock, but I don’t spend all my time Googling you. What happened??”

Shit, it’s uncomfortable, staring into her thrilled face. He’s not used to someone being this happy for him. He’s not sure if anyone ever has been.

“Oh, uh, it’s a beautiful story. Full disclosure: she and I were phone sexing on the reg when I was doing that management training back in the day. Eesh. Sorry. Should’ve … mentioned that to you, probably. And I did jerk off in her bathroom that one time. I don’t know why nobody took me seriously. I was being very honest.”

“Holy fuck,” Tabitha says delightedly. “So this has been going on for, like, a long time.”

“Ehh, on and off.” Even now, he hates thinking about the off. “But yeah, since we both left the company, we’ve been … you know, whatever, it’s good. Whatever the fuck.”

“You really like her,” Tabitha observes, beaming.

“Ohhhh. Blech.”

“You do. You’re glowing.”

“She’s a terrifying super-bitch. She’s the best. I’m fucking besotted. So what?”

“And you’re like … doing better?” She stares very pointedly at his crotch.

“Hey. What’s wrong with you? That’s very personal, you nosy asshole. But, you know. It’s going okay.”

Tabitha’s expression softens. “I’m happy for you.”

“Hey,” Roman says, “I’m happy for you. You’ve got your age-appropriate stud over there. She’s going to die like twenty years before me. The plan is a swift suicide once she croaks, though, so who says happily ever after isn’t real?”

“You’ve always been pretty feeble,” Tabitha says fairly. “You might die in her arms.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.” Roman does a little chef’s kiss.

Tabitha just keeps staring at him. He starts to feel her stare burrowing into him, buglike and itchy.

“Roman.”

“What?”

“I’m really glad.”

“Oh,” he says lamely. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t always think you were going to make it.”

He scratches his neck and stares at his shoes. “Maybe I won’t.”

“You are,” Tabitha says, resting her hand on his arm. “You are, right now.”

***

“How was it?” Gerri asks. She’s in a bubble bath in the palatial hotel bathroom, a book in her hands.

“Horrible,” Roman reports, swooping down to kiss her hello. “She wants to get brunch with us before we leave town. Real sick shit. I think she might be trying to lure us into a fourway.”

“Maybe if she plays her cards right.”

“You’re going to have to do all the work,” he informs her, rolling up his pant legs, “while I just stand in the corner and masturbate furiously.”

“What a huge departure from our normal routine,” Gerri deadpans.

He sits on the edge of the tub, dipping his feet into the water. “I missed you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Whenever I’m in a crowd of people without you, I feel the overwhelming urge to … kill them for not being you, and therefore a fundamental waste of my precious time?”

“Rome,” she says calmly, “I think you might need to self-actualize.”

“You’re really telling me you haven’t been sitting in all these nice, slippery bubbles thinking of me and touching yourself? I see right through you, you beautiful slut. Your book’s upside down.”

“It’s not. But that’s an easy mistake to make when you haven’t learned your letters yet.”

“Ugh, Mean Teacher Gerri.” He slaps a hand to his heart. “One of my faves of all the Gerris. Give me detention.”

“No.”

In a split-second decision, he sinks down into the bath with her, his clothes turning instantly heavy as they get soaked. She rolls her eyes – her charmed-by-his-nonsense eye-roll, though; he can tell them all apart – and puts the book down on the floor.

“This water’s tepid,” he declares.

“Is it? I didn’t notice.”

“How could you not notice? It’s literally all I’m noticing right now. And you’re naked.”

“My book’s good. I was distracted.”

“No way. This must have to do with your ice bitch powers. I’m gonna freeze to death. Titanic style.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“I can’t hear you, I’m dead.”

“If only there was some way you could’ve avoided this tragic situation.”

He turns on the hot water. “Ahhhh. That’s more like it.”

“You seem perky,” she observes, raising her voice a little over the sound of the water.

“I’m always perky. Is that not my signature brand?”

“I’m glad you got to see your friend.”

“Ehh, me too, I guess.” He pauses. “She thinks I’m gonna make it.”

“She’s a smart girl.” Gerri gives him a slight smile. He feels it in his chest, filling him up. Then she makes a little tsk-tsk noise. “How she got mixed up with you …”

“You’re a smart girl, and you can’t get enough of me. So you’re one to talk, you hypocrite. And she got mixed up with me because she spat Tom’s jizz back into his own mouth and made him swallow it, which is something we can never forget. If we forget that, the terrorists win.”

“By the transitive property,” she observes, “you’ve had Tom’s jizz in your mouth.”

“And so have you. So fuck us all, I guess. We kill ourselves at dawn.” Then, out of chivalry, he adds, “Actually, she and I never kissed that much. You’re probably safe.”

She reaches for her book. “Be quiet. I’m reading.”

“Oh, okay. Fuckin’ nerd.”

She sighs. “To think I was having such a nice time.”

He turns off the hot water, then pantomimes zipping his lips. Leaning back against the tub, he watches her: her hair slipping from its sloppy bun, her glasses fogged up around the edges, her eyes moving across the page.

“Are you going to go?” she asks, not looking up.

“I am not,” he says, very matter-of-fact. “I live here now.”

She gets that pleased look on her face that’s not quite a smile and kicks her foot, splashing bubbles into his face.

He sputters, tasting soap as he wipes his eyes.

“Money shot,” she says primly.

“God, I love it when you spew filth.” He rests his chin on his hands and fawns at her. “Are you sure you won’t marry me?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Aw, come on. Pwetty pwease? You complete me. You had me at ‘They just lost a couple of thumbs.’”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so.”

“That’s so funny, because you had me at shutting up so I can read.”

They make faces at each other for a second, happy to be pains in each other’s asses, before she goes back to her book. She rests her feet in his lap. He sinks down lower into the water, pressing his neck against the cold porcelain and closing his eyes. Settling in for the long haul.