Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

June made it clear Roman wants to save the world, but I’m beyond saving.

  Tapping my pen against the desk, I wonder if this is how every author feels before penning their most treasured thoughts. These words are not for anyone’s eyes but mine, but still, I feel an incredible sense of pressure to get it right.

  I’ve never kept a diary or journal, as I didn’t see the point in rereading a past I never want to relive. Life is short. I don’t know how long I have left, so maybe leaving a legacy behind isn’t so bad. But the legacy I leave is a tribute to my friend, who I refuse to forget. I want her memory to live on long after I’m gone.

  So, I let go.

  I’ve met some nice people—Zoe is great. I think you’d like her. I also have met someone else…he’s a doctor. I know for a fact that you’d like him. He certainly has tested me.

  He thinks I can be cured.

  I pause, pressing the pen to the paper, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to document my fears because seeing them on paper will confirm what a big ole scaredy-cat I am.

  He is infuriatingly stubborn, but I find myself drawn to him, and I don’t know why. He has secrets, and I want to uncover each one because, underneath them, I think, lies the reason he wants to help me.

  I wish you were here because you would tell me what to do.

  A soft knock sounds at my door. “Lola? It’s me, Zoe.”

  I instantly shove the journal into the desk drawer, shutting it abruptly.

  “Coming,” I reply, brushing the hair from my brow and attempting to still my racing heart.

  “Hey!” My overzealous greeting makes it obvious something is askew, but thankfully, she doesn’t comment and enters.

  She sits on the edge of my bed, while I eye my desk drawer, wishing my secrets weren’t inches away from her. “So, what’s been happening?”

  “Happening? With what?” I’m quick to reply as I press my back to the wall, needing something to lean on.

  “You know, life in general. How’s Dr. Archibald?” She wiggles her eyebrows up and down.

  Calming down, I take a breather. “I had an interesting run-in with him today.”

  “What happened?” she asks, sitting forward, intrigued.

  Unable to evade her questioning, I decide to be honest because maybe the saying rings true: the truth might set me free.

  “He read over my file.” I leave out the part why. “He says new drugs are available that may help me.” I nervously pick at the nail polish on my thumb, averting my gaze. When she doesn’t comment, I clarify. “Help…cure me.”

  Silence.

  I risk looking up, afraid of what I’ll see.

  Zoe sits frozen, her mouth agape. There is no guessing what she’s thinking, but it’s not that simple. This was a bad idea, and I really wish I’d kept quiet. “You have to try them,” she whispers, breaking the silence.

  “Zoe…”

  She shakes her head resolutely. “No, this is a no-brainer. Why are you still here?” She jumps off the bed as though it’s on fire and charges over to where I stand, still pressed to the wall. “Where is your suitcase?” When I remain mute, she dashes over to my wardrobe, hunting for my luggage.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  She stops searching, spinning so quickly I cringe. “What do you mean you’re not leaving? You have to. This is a simple decision to make.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ve tried this before. It doesn’t work.”

  “But Dr. Archibald says these new drugs will help cure you,” she presses.

  I shake my head, pushing back from the wall. “Maybe, not definite.”

  My answer doesn’t placate her, however. “Maybe is better than no. Maybe means there is a chance. I wish my sister had a maybe.”

  I wrap my arms around my middle, feeling ungrateful. “I lost someone, and that someone was my best friend who died while on the trial drugs. I can’t go through that again. I’ve accepted my fate and made peace with it.”

  Zoe meets me halfway, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m so sorry about your best friend, I truly am, but that’s bullshit. You’ve been given an opportunity…why won’t you take it?”

  I blink. “Because…” I’m scared, I silently reply. “Because…” But I come up short.

  “Because you’re afraid of living?” Zoe offers with a bite, attempting to piece together a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit.

  “No, because I’m afraid of living with hope!” I confess, hating how weak I sound. “I can’t live another day with false hope. Georgia was the most optimistic person I knew, but regardless, she still died. Life is cruel, and I don’t expect it to make an exception for me.”

  I hate that I’m shaking. This topic is one that will always end this way—in tears. My lower lip trembles, and I succumb to my fears.

  Zoe wraps her arms around me, hugging me as I weep. “I’m sorry. I just…I want you to live.”

  Her affirmation is so much like what Georgia would say. “Thank you, Zoe.”

  We stand hugging for minutes, both needing the comfort as I’m sure this conversation has brought up memories of her sister.

  Her insistence has me wondering if maybe I should reconsider. Everyone seems so intent on saving me, while I just want to forget.

  It’s late out, but I can’t sleep, so I decide to take a walk.

  With no real destination in mind, I roam the hallway, taking the long way to venture outside. It’s a god’s honest unintentional mistake, but when I come to Roman’s office, I curse my infernal subconscious.

  I should keep walking, but I don’t.

  Adrenaline surges through my body, causing my heart to race. After ensuring I’m alone, I tiptoe toward the ajar doorway. Counting to three, I spur myself on because it’s too late to back out now. I inhale two short breaths, then push open the door.

  This is Roman’s most treasured space. A place where he can be himself behind closed doors. I wonder just who that person is. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, yet I can’t help but think that buried beneath that hard exterior lies a wounded soul. I remember his tattoo. Whoever she is, I believe she’s the reason he bears his scars so close to his heart.

  Besides the desk, a bookcase, and a bunch of filing cabinets, nothing in the office shows just who Roman is. I know who Dr. Archibald is, but Roman? I saw that determined, hungry, passionate being in the diner.

  Just the thought of him, of his hands on me, has me heating in ways that are most inappropriate. His rugged scent lingers lightly in the air, drawing back all the memories of when I caught a sniff firsthand.

  Running my fingertips over the cool leather back of his chair, I imagine him sitting ever so seriously as he contemplates saving the world. Can he save me?

  However, all thoughts of being saved are literally put to the test when I hear sharp footsteps headed this way. Squeaking in panic, I frantically look from left to right. I need a hiding place. Unless I’m gifted in the contortionist department, then the closet will have to do.

  I yank open the slatted door, thankful nothing is inside except a few coat hangers and an ironing board. Shutting the door, I seal the gasp from my lips when Roman charges into his office, appearing to run away from something.

  The slats on the door allow me to see out, but I can only hope he can’t see in. He paces the office, visibly distressed. What’s left him so breathless and flustered?

  When he yanks open the desk drawer, I crane my neck to see which drawer it is. The contents get swiped from side to side as he’s obviously hunting for something.

  He reveals what a moment later.

  The light reflects off an orange medicine bottle as he raises it to his lips and tosses his head back, swallowing deeply. The sight shocks me for so many reasons. At the forefront is that I didn’t realize he was on any medication. I wonder what it is and what it’s for. He slams the bottle onto the desk, bracing his hands on the edge and bowing his head, obviously attempting to calm down.

  His wide bac
k rises and falls, becoming steady as the seconds tick by. When he appears composed, he stands tall, brushing the fallen hair from his brow. He leaves his hand threaded through his snarled locks as he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes heavily through his nose.

  His navy tie sits askew, the two top buttons of his shirt undone. What has happened for him to lose his cool this way?

  He looks defenseless and poignant, and the sight breaks my heart.

  When a set of light footsteps patter down the hall, Roman’s eyes pop open. He quickly brushes the pills into his drawer. He adjusts his tie and runs a hand down his face.

  “Roman?” The partly open door slowly swings, revealing Tamara as Roman’s pursuer. When she sees him standing by his desk, she smiles and shuts the door behind her, sealing us all inside.

  He coolly places his hands into his pants pockets, waiting for her to speak. His demeanor differs greatly from what I just witnessed a minute ago.

  “Is everything all right? One minute, we were talking about your birthday, and the next, you were running away from me as if I had just asked you to sell me your soul.”

  He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound genuine. “Sorry, Tamara. I just forgot to do something very important.”

  Stepping forward, she says, “That’s okay. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding talking about your thirtieth. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed. I just don’t like celebrating my birthday. You know this,” he counters, taking a step backward to every step she advances forward.

  She knows this? Do they have a past then?

  “I know, and I wish you’d tell me why.” Why is his birthday such a touchy topic for him?

  She stalks him until he rounds the desk, and his knees hit the chair. He’s trapped, yet he stands tall while she slinks over like a tigress hunting her prey. She runs her fingertip along the collar of his shirt.

  Instead of covering my eyes, I step forward, intrigued.

  “Tamara, I told you I can’t give you what you want.”

  “You are what I want,” she says, winding her fingers around the back of his neck.

  My heart accelerates when I witness her stand on tippy toes and kiss the corner of his curved lips. She moves to the other side, kissing the crease while he remains still.

  I should look away, but I can’t. The sight is too sinful, and I…I’m hooked. Watching Roman this way does something I have never felt before. A small fire builds within.

  “Tamara, no, we can’t,” he says as she lunges forward, desperately trying to entice him to kiss her. Her hands are everywhere as she tries to hold something solid before he disappears. But he slips from her fingers as he recoils.

  She pauses, the hurt evident on her face. “Roman?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  Her chest rises and falls. “Can’t do what?”

  “You know what. My feelings haven’t changed since the last time this happened.”

  She turns her cheek, appearing as if he slapped her with the truth.

  His knuckles are white as he grips the desk, waiting for her to speak. She does a moment later.

  Pulling her shoulders back, she straightens out her clothes. “Okay, then. So…” She’s clearly upset but trying to act brave.

  “So…” he repeats, running a hand through his hair. “I better get going.”

  She sighs, her façade sullied by his obvious need to get away from her.

  She yanks open the door, leaving dust in her wake. Roman sighs, lifting his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Once he switches off the light and closes the door, I exhale, my lungs thankful for the reprieve. I wait a few minutes before bravely cracking open the door and joining the land of the non-Peeping Toms. The desk lamp is the only light source, but it’s bright enough to highlight my exit.

  Just as I creep toward the door, I remember what happened seconds before Tamara entered and played the aggressor. I should just leave and forget what I saw, but I can’t.

  Tiptoeing to his desk, I open the drawer and reach for the lone medicine bottle, which is half full. Turning it in my fingers, I expect to see anything else than what I actually do. The pills rattle against the sides as my hand trembles in confusion.

  The name on the label indicates these belong to Roman. But the question is…why is he on an antidepressant? And why did he need it moments before Tamara charged through his door?

  There’s no denying I’m attracted to Roman, but after last night, that attraction has led to something…else.

  That something else has me desperate to uncover what secrets lay hidden in his past. There is something more, deeper, and I find myself being attracted to every side he presents, which is dangerous. It’s also highly inappropriate for so many reasons.

  I’m attempting to play football but failing miserably. “I’ll sit this one out.”

  “Aw, Lola. We will go easy on you,” says Hayden, a blued-eyed little devil.

  I laugh in response because they will do no such thing.

  Standing on the sidelines is a far better option. That is until I hear a voice that sends goose bumps from head to toe. “Not a football fan?”

  Shielding the sun from my eyes, I turn and see Roman standing to my left. “I’m not a fan of getting my ass whipped by eight-year-olds,” I reply with a nervous smile.

  He chuckles lightly. “So, how’s this weather?”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my sarcasm.

  He smirks at my quip. “I’m just making conversation.”

  “No offense, but the last time you ‘made conversation’”—I used air quotes—“you showed me what a downright asshole you can be.” I slap my hand over my mouth, mortified my mouth filter malfunctioned at the most inappropriate time ever.

  He doesn’t hide his surprise, but instead of reminding me of my manners, he bursts into a husky fit of laughter. He does that a lot when I’m around. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

  “Roman, I am so sorry. That was highly—”

  “Entertaining,” he interrupts, still laughing.

  I scrunch up my brow. “I’m not sure if you heard me correctly, but I just insulted you. To your face,” I add, just in case he’s had a lapse in hearing.

  His shoulders lift in a carefree shrug. “I’ve been called worse.”

  We’re silent for a few minutes, both staring ahead but not really watching the game.

  Although the lead-in was awfully rude, it was a lead-in nonetheless. “Why haven’t you mentioned what happened at the diner?”

  He raises his shoulders in a carefree manner. “I didn’t think you wanted to discuss it.”

  He’s right, I didn’t, but I do now. “That’s never stopped you in the past.”

  “Touché.” A smirk tugs at his lips.

  His coolness is infuriating. “Well, maybe I want to talk about it now.” Again, there is silence, indicating I have the floor. “I’ve been doing some research, and you’re right, the new trial drugs seem to have a better success rate than the previous ones I was on.” Getting those words out feels like gravel is caught in my throat.

  He still doesn’t face me but instead watches the game. I know he’s listening, though. The clenching of his jaw gives him away.

  “So, maybe, I…” I lick my lips nervously. “I want to do more research, but I’m not completely against rethinking my decision.”

  Roman’s holler makes me jolt, as I wasn’t expecting that response. Someone just scored a touchdown.

  “Are you even listening to me?” I try to keep the bite from my tone but can’t. “This is what you wanted, right?”

  With the slowest of movements, he turns to face me while I hold my breath. I have no idea what he’s thinking, which is nothing new. I wish he’d say something, anything really, because I suddenly feel stupid for putting my heart on the line.

  “No, Lola, this isn’t about what I want. It’s about what you should want.” His r
eply denotes he’s been listening all along. He knows how I react when backed into a corner, so this is his way of not smothering me with his beliefs. “Only you can make this decision. I can be here for you, but I can’t make a choice for you. That’s what free will is all about.”

  He’s right. I want someone to blame if things go wrong, but if I do this and things don’t change, then I have no one to blame but myself, and that’s scary beyond words.

  “Do you r-really think I’m brave?” I whisper, baring my vulnerability.

  I’ve caught him off guard. He blinks once before sighing. He appears to weigh his response, but the reply he gives has me mewling. A strand of hair, which is stuck to my lip gloss, is swept away by his gentle touch. I freeze, unable to mask my surprise and also, my yearning.

  Closing the distance between us, he bathes my cheeks with his warm, sweet breath. “I think you’re beyond brave. I think you’re a truly remarkable woman who has no idea what she’s capable of.”

  My lips tremble because his finger still rests at the crease of my mouth. If I move an inch, my lips will feel and taste that finger, but I can’t. I won’t. So instead, I remain motionless, amazed at how a single touch can produce an array of emotions.

  “I wish I had your strength,” he reveals in a hushed tone. He’s returning the favor by showing his vulnerability. It’s beautiful.

  Biting my lip, I hope I don’t overstep a line when I confess, “You’re th-the strongest person I know.” My words draw his finger deeper toward the cavern of my mouth, and my eyes widen when he brushes over the corner seam. The simple touch pulsates throughout my entire body.

  “Thank you. But if only that were true.” I instantly miss his touch when he drops his hand, disheartened.

  His comment reminds me of what I found hidden in his drawer. I want to tell him that it doesn’t imply weakness; it signifies strength that he sought out the help to better his situation. But I can’t without giving myself away.

  Roman clears his throat, and the moment is over.

  I want to say so many things to him like it’s okay to be vulnerable, but I don’t. I simply smile, hoping he can read between the lines.