by Monica James
When it’s just us, I exhale loudly. “Your daddy is something else.” Freud yaps in harmony.
I stand, thankful I’m steady on my feet. After last night, I didn’t know what to expect.
I peer around the doorjamb, not sure which direction the kitchen is. Freud barks once and pads down the carpeted hallway. With nothing to lose, I follow. As he takes a right, I see that up ahead is the kitchen. Clever dog.
The small but well-stocked kitchen is bright and homey. Two high-backed wooden barstools are lined up beneath the marble counter. A fruit bowl with one banana and a freshly brewed pot of coffee sits close by.
I practically run toward the coffee, my sense of smell doing a somersault in excitement. Once I’ve poured myself a cup, I cradle it, basking in the bitter yet rich aroma.
I wonder how long Roman has lived here, wherever here is. With that thought in mind, I take a tour. Freud leads the way. The first stop is the living room, where a large black leather sofa curves around an oval glass coffee table. A tall lamp sits off to the right, but the centerpiece of the room is the bookcases lining every wall. Volumes upon volumes of books are stacked high, without a spare shelf in sight. A plasma is mounted on the wall above a fireplace.
Next on the list is Roman’s office. It looks very similar to the one at work. There is also a spare room, but it’s rather sparse with only an old leather couch and some stacked boxes. I quickly close the door, feeling like I’m encroaching on a space that isn’t meant to be seen.
I reenter the kitchen, ready for my second cup of coffee.
Roman’s house is humble, but it contains all the things he needs. One major thing is missing, though—photographs. Even in my loveless home, Camille had pictures on display. They were there just for show, but regardless, they were there. This home lacks a personal touch. Has Roman done this on purpose? Or maybe he just doesn’t like photographs. That’s not a crime, but I can’t help but think there’s a reason behind the impersonal feel.
Once I finish my coffee, I wash my cup and place it in the dishwasher. The clock on the wall reveals it’s just past seven a.m. I really would love a shower, but I have no clean clothes. I’m sure Roman wouldn’t mind if I borrowed some of his. The thought of rummaging through his drawers seems like a total invasion of his privacy, however.
But so does parading around naked.
Before hunting through his drawers, I make his bed. I fist pump when I find an old Yankees tee and sweats. I strip on the way to the en suite, leaving a trail of clothes.
The scorching droplets of water feel heavenly against my skin as the showerhead spurts out a downpour of heavy rain. I stand under the spray for twenty minutes, my mind calm.
Once I step out, I reach for a clean towel from a long rectangular shelf. I draw the fluffy material to my nose and take a big whiff. It smells fresh, like laundry detergent, but there is an undertone of Roman’s trademark cologne.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Granted, I haven’t really been around the opposite sex, but I have a feeling even if I were, they would all pale compared to Roman. I’ve fooled around and kissed a few guys, but I’m still a virgin. Getting sick in my prime hardly made me dateable material.
Dressing in Roman’s attire, I chuckle at my appearance in the mirror because his clothes hang off my gaunt frame. Picking at the hem of this well-loved shirt, I wonder what the story is behind it. If not for this T-shirt and the baseball in his office, I would have never known about his love for the Yankees.
That has me wondering about the lack of personal effects in not only his office but also his home.
The boxes in the spare room may be filled with his most prized possessions. Photographs of loved ones. Maybe he’s moving, and he’s packed everything away.
Deciding to take a walk, I slip into my Chucks and make my way toward the kitchen. The moment I reach for Freud’s lead off the hook near the door, he comes charging down the hallway, tongue and tail flailing. Just as I’m about to open the door, the phone rings, startling me half to death. I peer at it on the counter, wondering if Roman’s calling to ensure I haven’t burned his house down.
The caller reveals who they are a second later when the machine clicks over.
“Hi, you know what to do.” Roman’s machine voice still has the power to give me goose bumps.
“Hey, man, it’s Teddy. I tried your cell, but you’re probably already at work. I wanted to let you know all is set for…September first. I have no idea why that date is so imperative, but I’ve known you long enough to know not to ask any questions. Hit me up when you’re free. Let’s grab a beer.”
The continuous beeps announcing the end of the call resonate against my hammering heart. What’s so special about that date? But more importantly, what’s happening on that day? A thousand different scenarios flick through my mind, and my pulse suddenly spikes.
Why does a net of trepidation loom over me?
Freud barks, shaking me from my head. “I’m just paranoid,” I mumble under my breath to no one in particular. “He could be doing a thousand things, like fumigating his house for bugs or getting a haircut.”
However, my reasons fall flat, and I frown.
I wake to a big sloppy lick being delivered to my right cheek. With a yelp, I pop my eyes open, which only encourages Freud to continue lapping at my face. “You’re such a goofball.”
“But a lovable goofball.” I jolt upward, almost winding myself. Roman chuckles, the sound warming my insides.
“When did you get here?” I ask. After my walk, I came back here and collapsed on Roman’s couch.
“About an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” The blush creeps up my neck.
He clucks his tongue. “And interrupt the resonance of nature? I think not. I never knew there were so many sounds a human nose could produce.”
The blush transforms into an inferno, and I cover my face, mortified.
Roman chuckles once again.
His touch is warm as his fingers clasp my wrist, drawing my hands downward.
Meeting his eyes, I feel a tad better when a lopsided smirk tugs at his lips.
“So I snore? I’ve never slept beside anyone before, so I wouldn’t know.” My attempt to be sassy has me closing my mouth and pressing my lips together.
Roman reads my discomfort, and in true Roman fashion, he eases the blow. “You also drool…but who’s keeping score?”
A laugh escapes me, and this time, instead of hiding, I lash out and playfully slap his arm.
“How was work?”
“It was okay. I was at St. Mary’s hospital, not Strawberry Fields.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“About four years.”
“Between that and Strawberry Fields, when do you get any downtime?”
“I don’t,” he replies evenly. When my lips dip into a frown, he shakes his head. “I’ve chosen this life. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I know, it just sounds so…”
“Boring?”
I avert my gaze. “No, I was going to say lonely.”
Silence fills the space between us, and I worry I’ve overstepped a line.
“Knowing I’ve helped so many people is all the company I need. And besides, who wants to be tied to someone like me?”
I can’t believe my ears.
“I brought over your pills and a change of clothes. But I see you’ve made other arrangements.” Gingerly meeting his eyes, I breathe a sigh of relief when he doesn’t appear angry that I raided his room.
“Your pills are in the bathroom.”
I nod and make my way down the hall.
Hunting through the bottles, I tap out two pills and toss them down my throat. Turning on the faucet, I cup a handful of water and drink it down. The sting is still there, but I know that’s all in my head.
Just as I pad down the hallway, I hear Roman speaking to someone in a hushed tone.
I pause, midstri
de, and lean against the wall. I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but the temptation is too great, especially when I hear who is at the door.
“Tamara, now isn’t a good time.”
“Why not? I know you have the afternoon off.”
“That I do, which is precisely the reason now isn’t a good time. I have errands to run.”
“Maybe I could help?” I almost feel sorry for her. The heart wants what the heart wants, and Tamara can’t help that, regardless of the brush-offs, she wants Roman.
“Thank you, but I’d rather do it alone.”
“Have I done something wrong?” The hurt is clear in her tone.
“No, of course not.” The annoyance is clear in his.
“Then why are you giving me the cold shoulder? I understand you’re emotionally unavailable, you have been for years, but I thought things would change. You’ve erected this wall around yourself and won’t let anyone in.”
“Tamara—”
“No, not this time. It’s my turn to talk. I like you. I have for some time. You know this. What more can I do to prove my feelings for you are real?”
Wow, I really am encroaching on a private moment. I should give them the privacy they deserve, but I don’t.
“I’m doing this for you. I’m not someone you want to date. Just trust me on this.”
“How can you say that? You’re incredible. Not only to look at but on the inside too. Roman, you’re a great guy. You’re the perfect man.”
“There’s no such thing.” The bitterness makes me recoil. “I’m not telling you this because I want you to tell me what a great catch I am, or for you to inflate my ego. I’m telling you this because it’s how I feel. It’s also the truth. That won’t change anytime soon, so for the sake of never having this conversation again, please, just drop it.”
Ouch. What a slap to her ego.
Her sniffles reveal his harsh words have sunk in. “Fine, have it your way then. You’re going to die a lonely old man.”
“One can only hope.”
I cock a brow, unsure what he means.
A sniff follows Tamara’s exasperated sigh. “Goodbye, Roman.” Her heels pound against the front porch and down the wooden stairs.
I don’t even know how to process what I just heard. I wanted to get a better insight into Roman’s personal life, and now that I have, I’m even more confused. I believe him when he says he’s telling her this for her own good. He truly believes he’s no good for her, or anyone, in fact. But the thing is, he’s not telling her this because he has low self-esteem or needs an ego boost. He’s telling her because he’s burdened with something he believes makes him an undesirable partner.
What is it?
“You can come out now.”
It doesn’t surprise me that I’m completely busted. You’d think I’d care, but I don’t. I can now address the issues scratching at the surface.
Roman stands in the center of the living room, arms crossed. He waits for me to speak. “So…”
“So…”
“You’ve got the afternoon off. That’s a nice change.” I need some warmup time before I endeavor to ask him to unburden his soul. He’s obviously not expecting my response because he suddenly bursts into a husky fit of laughter.
I could pester him and ask him to decode what the entire conversation meant, but although he’s wedged his way into my life and made me face things I haven’t wanted to face, he’s always done so within my limits. I have an inkling this is a touchy subject for Roman, and I know what it feels like when someone pushes when you don’t want to be pushed.
He has, in a roundabout way, respected my wishes, so I’ll do the same. If he wants to tell me about his past, then I want it to be because he wants to share it, not because I asked.
“Seeing as you’re free, how about we get some lunch?” Furrow lines gather between his brow. He thinks there’s a catch, but there isn’t.
When my stance radiates nothing but sincerity, his posture loosens, and his arms drop to his side. “Sure. I know how much you loved riding my bike,” he muses. “So lucky for you, I have another means of transportation with four wheels.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I defiantly challenge, “Where’s the fun in that?”
Roman shakes his head. “You’re full of surprises.” My bold response catches him off guard.
Deciding this will be the only acknowledgment I’ll make about what I just witnessed, I affirm, “We both are.”
After lunch, Roman stopped into the grocery store because that one lonely banana in his fruit bowl was the only speck of food in his home.
The distraction of stocking Roman’s fridge has taken my mind off things. It’s been nice to worry about someone other than me.
“Are you hungry?” His question is simple, but I stand, mute. “Seeing as I have all this food, how about we cook some of it?”
“You want to eat? Here?” I question, ensuring I heard him correctly.
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Unless you have something against food and my house and want to go back?”
“No!” I reply, a little louder than I anticipated. I cringe as I quickly backtrack. “Sure, I could eat. What’s on the menu?”
“Do you like pasta?”
“I love pasta,” I reply with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Pasta, it is then.” A bubble of excitement swells in my belly. I’m overjoyed to be spending the evening here.
Roman brushes past me while I quickly sidestep to get out of the way. However, when he opens a drawer and stands back, scratching his head, I know he has no idea what he’s looking for.
“Move out of the way.” I bustle in, playfully shoving him to the side with my hip. He goes willingly.
I collect everything I need to make an easy spaghetti Bolognese. Roman takes a seat on a barstool, watching my every move. I’m suddenly nervous, but I try to conceal my nerves.
“So who taught you how to cook? Your mom?”
I can’t help but snigger. “Are you kidding me? My mom wouldn’t know a spoon from a spatula. I learned early on how to fend for myself.”
“She sounds like she won’t be in the running for mother of the year anytime soon.”
“You got that right.”
“How old were you…?”
“When I got sick?” I fill in the blanks as I look up from peeling the garlic. Roman nods. “Twenty-one.”
His compassion shines as he shakes his head. “Life really is unfair. Sorry, Lola.”
I raise my shoulders. “It is what it is. I still get bitter, but then in some ways, I really have lived the most extraordinary life. Only now am I coming to realize that.” I not only surprise Roman with my confession but I also surprise myself.
He runs his fingers over his scruff, appearing to ponder what I just said.
“How about you?” I ask, turning around to reach for a knife from the wooden block.
“How about me what?” He’s evasive for a reason, but this time, I don’t let it slide.
“Did your mom do all the cooking?” The room drops to an arctic degree as I turn and watch him shift uncomfortably in his seat.
“She”—he clears his throat—“she used to.”
I slice the tomatoes, not pressing him to divulge anything he’s not comfortable sharing.
“Things changed. My parents divorced when I was fourteen. I bounced from home to home, but I lived with my dad mostly. My mom had depression, so it was easier if I stayed with him. It took the strain off her. My dad remarried, so I liked living with him anyway. My stepmom had four kids of her own. We were a big, happy family.”
“And you weren’t when your mom and dad were together?”
The room is still. The only sound is the knife slicing through ripened flesh.
“We were once, but things change.” He abruptly stands and makes his way over to the fridge.
I refocus my attention on the tomatoes, not wanting to smother him with questions.
Th
e unmistakable sound of a beer bottle being opened alerts me to Roman’s actions. His mom had depression. Could her son suffer the same ailment? It explains what I saw in his office.
Lost in tomatoes and conspiracies, I don’t feel Roman until the hair at the back of my neck pricks in heightened awareness. He’s standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. The act is innocent enough, but I still feel my legs grow weak and my mouth parched.
“Is that why you don’t have any photographs around your home?”
Why my mouth filter malfunctioned at this certain point in time, I’ll never know, but now that it’s out there, I can’t take it back.
“Nothing slips past you.” My skin breaks out into tiny goose bumps, his breath warm against my neck. “I don’t have any photographs because all the memories I have are in here.” He places two fingers against my temple while I stop breathing. “And in here.” He then lowers his hand and places a fist over my heart.
His touch is between my breasts, but it isn’t at all sordid. It actually brings a tear to my eye.
“I don’t need a visual reminder of the good times I’ve shared because those memories will always remain with me. A photograph can never capture what your mind stows away or what your heart feels. Those moments are priceless, and I’ll never forget them.”
His words ring true because my memories of Georgia are far better than looking at her photographs and remembering who she was. My memories of her are a moving picture and allow me to remember who she is. In my head and heart, she’ll never be gone.
My chest rises and falls, a tear tracing down my cheek.
Roman splays out his fingers and lightly presses the heel of his hand against my thundering heart. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“You didn’t. My memories did.” There’s no need to explain.
Roman clears his throat before returning to his seat.
Once my hands stop shaking, I continue preparing dinner. I wonder if what just happened will be a memory my mind takes a photograph of.
Sitting at the small dinner table, I pick at my hardly touched meal while Roman devours every last morsel left in his bowl.
Over the course of an hour, that familiar nausea is beginning to rear its ugly head. I haven’t said anything to Roman because I’ll be damned if I let my sickness rain on my parade. Once he’s done, however, I shoot up and collect his plate. I need an excuse to move, hoping it’ll help with the nausea.