Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

  Teddy nervously runs a hand through his thick brown hair. “I better get going. I have rounds to do.”

  He attempts to brush past me, but I quickly sidestep him, blocking his exit. He’s clearly confused as to why I’m standing in his way.

  I can’t let this go because it’s the closest I’ve been to uncovering Roman’s secrets. “What’s the hurry?”

  Teddy exhales and scratches over his full beard. “I know you’re trying to be nice. Roman told me he’s helping you out, but trust me, just let this go.”

  “Let what go?” I press, not giving up. “A friend can’t do something nice for a friend?”

  Teddy has every right to push me aside and leave; he owes me nothing, but it’s quite clear that something plagues him. The secret Roman has asked him to keep is one that burdens him. A secret like that is life-changing.

  Teddy sighs before stepping in close as if he’s about to divulge something so great he needs to say it in a whisper. “Roman…” I hold my breath. This is it—the mystery is about to be solved. “Roman is—”

  But my question is never answered. “Roman is wondering why you’re still here? Aren’t you late for work?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

  I redden, embarrassed to be caught.

  Teddy instantly recoils, clearing his throat and turning around calmly. “Speaking in the third person now? What would Freud say about that?” He’s trying to lighten the sudden sour mood.

  However, Roman doesn’t appreciate the humor. “He would probably say I need to find better friends.”

  This is my fault. If I hadn’t been so nosy, Teddy wouldn’t have to be dealing with Mr. Grumpy Guts. “Thank you for today. I really appreciate everything.”

  Roman focuses his eyes my way.

  Teddy is the meat in this very uncomfortable sandwich, so I don’t blame him when he excuses himself and practically runs out the door.

  We continue glaring at one another long after the door slams shut.

  I can’t read the look on Roman’s face. It’s a mixture of amusement and annoyance. His bad mood is ticking me off. He probably has the birthday blues. It’s his party, and he can cry if he wants to. But I will not stand by and let him bring me down.

  “What are you doing? Right now?” His question throws me, and it shows. He lets out a deep rumble, amused by my stunned silence.

  “I…” Why is he asking me this?

  “Do you want to come to the baseball game with me?”

  “The baseball game?” I question, thankful to have found my voice.

  “Yes.” His reply is resolute, and so is his unwavering stare. He’s making me nervous. So much is going on behind those soulful eyes.

  But I pull my shoulders back, hoping my brave façade sticks. “Wouldn’t you prefer to take someone else? Someone a little more knowledgeable about what actually happens?” I leave the unspoken lurking.

  “No, I want to go with you.” He slips a hand into his pressed pants pocket, watching me closely.

  I’m seconds away from combusting under his heated stare, but I pull it together.

  Shrugging, hoping to seem aloof, I say, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “So that’s a yes?” He appears hopeful I’ll agree.

  “Yes.”

  My response pleases him, which makes me wonder about the sudden change in mood. Earlier, he couldn’t wait to put ten feet between us, and now he’s asking me to the game…on his birthday nonetheless.

  “So are you ready?”

  “Oh, you meant right now?”

  My naïvety thoroughly entertains him. “Are you done for the day?

  “Yes. I was scheduled for this morning’s activities only. I just need to swing past my room and change.”

  “I’ll wait for you out front.”

  I’m surprised by his response. “Out front? You don’t want to meet someplace a little less…public?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  Something is bugging him, but it appears whatever it is, it has nothing, or everything to do with me. “Sure, out front it is. I’ll be down in about twenty minutes.”

  He’s keeping his cards close to his chest, which isn’t anything new. But the undercurrent of apathy is something I’ve not seen before.

  I brush past him, ensuring we don’t touch, as I have no idea how he’s going to respond. I escape unscathed and dash to my room, taking deep breaths to calm down. I have no idea what to wear, so I decide on jean shorts, a slouchy T-shirt, and a sweatshirt just in case the weather cools.

  Grabbing a cap, I place it low on my head and adjust the bill, attempting to hide beneath it.

  Once I’m satisfied I look semi-inconspicuous, I make my way downstairs. Roman is waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. His back is turned. If this were a fairy tale, I would make a grand entrance, looking regal and beautiful and all princess-like. But the fact I’m in Chucks and my hair is swept beneath a cap ruins that fantasy before it can even begin.

  I hold the banister as I descend each step carefully, afraid I’ll face plant if I rush it. Halfway down, Roman turns, and I almost do trip because he is remarkable. Black Ray-Bans hide his eyes, but the hard set of his jawline reveals he’s still irritated. The pissed-off look suits him. He’s arrogant, almost conceited as a lopsided smirk tugs at his lips. He knows the influence he has over me, and if that smile is anything to go by, he’s enjoying every minute.

  When I reach the second step above him, his gaze flicks to the hat resting on my head. “The Cubs? Really?”

  I descend one more step so I’m hovering above him. “Yeah, it was a gift from my dad. He got it for me when he was traveling for work. The little bear is adorable. I think it’s some animal conservation thing.” When he does a poor job of concealing his smirk, I place a hand on my hip. “What, you got a thing against bears?”

  “No, not at all.” His grin reveals otherwise.

  “Good, ’cause you sure as hell have acted like one with a sore head this week.” I slap my hand over my mouth, mortified. Roman erupts into laughter while I curse my wicked tongue. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  But he cuts me off, bracing one foot against the step I’m on. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  His apology surprises me. “It’s fine. I hope you’re okay?” That’s me offering an olive branch, hopeful he’ll share why he’s been MIA.

  He doesn’t, but what he does is almost give me a heart attack. He reaches forward and adjusts the bill of my hat. “I am now.”

  “I’m glad,” I croak out, wetting my dry lips.

  “For the record, the Cubs are a baseball team from Chicago, and they’re playing the Yankees tonight.”

  My mouth forms an O. “Well, looks like we’re on opposing teams then.”

  “Looks that way,” he replies with a grin. He brushes a stray piece of hair behind my ear before running the back of his pointer along my jawline. I stand motionless, too afraid to breathe. “We better get going before we hit traffic.”

  All I can do is nod.

  When he finally releases me from his invisible spell, I exhale and take a moment to find my feet. He turns and makes his way toward the parking lot. Once I feel confident to move without falling on my face, I follow, a surge of excitement flowing through me.

  This is not a date by any means, but I’m excited nonetheless.

  We walk to his Jeep in silence, and that silence continues as we leave the gates of Strawberry Fields and head down I-90. A soft rock ballad plays over the speakers, but we both seem too preoccupied to pay attention to the song.

  “How’d it go with Teddy?” Roman asks, breaking the stillness.

  I shrug, picking at my nail polish. “Fine. He said he’d give you the results.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t there…I had something to take care of.” I wait for him to elaborate, but of course that’s just wishful thinking. “I’ll go over the results as soon as we get back.”

  “No hurry,” I reply.

 
“You’re not curious?” His eyes are focused straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel loosely, but he tightens his hold and breaks his concentration to snap his head my way when he hears my reply.

  “It is what it is. Curious or not, that won’t change the outcome. Either the trials will work or they won’t. I can’t change that.”

  “That sounds like the speech of someone who’s given up.”

  “On the contrary, it’s a speech of someone who is finally accepting that what will be, will be. I have thrown myself into this trial harder than I did the first time around. If it doesn’t…work”—I swallow—“then at least I can say I did everything I could. I was ready to give up, but I was given a chance at hope thanks to you. Even if that hope is in vain, it’s more than I had before I met you.”

  Roman blinks once, obviously stunned by my honesty. I am too.

  He returns his attention to the road, but his white knuckles on the steering wheel give me insight into what’s currently going on inside his head.

  “This will work,” he affirms. “It has to.”

  “Has to?” I question, sitting taller, never taking my eyes off him. He shifts in his seat.

  “Yes, it has to.” He stares vacantly ahead. “I won’t accept a world where you don’t exist.”

  “Roman,” I gasp, touched by his declaration.

  A cloud of sadness suddenly shadows him, and all I want to do is hold is hand. “All of this…it isn’t for nothing. It can’t be. It has to amount to something because what’s the point if it doesn’t?”

  Listening to my heart, I grab his hand, which sits bunched in a fist against his thigh. “Sadie told me something, which now makes complete sense. Better I die fighting than die without a fight.” I coax him to unclasp his hold and allow me in. When he finally gives in, the victory leaves me hopeful. “So we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, let’s just enjoy today before we worry about tomorrow.”

  During the entire drive, Roman never releases my hand, and not a word is spoken further. But we don’t need words because it’s the unspoken that means so much. I allow my mind to wander, getting carried away in a future where I live healthy and grow old. It’s something I don’t think about too often, not wanting to torture myself with something out of reach. But now hope is lapping at the surface, thanks to the man beside me.

  As we pull into a crowded parking lot, a sea of team colors greets us. Roman parks and reaches for a Yankees cap off the back seat. He adjusts it on to his head smugly, while I roll my eyes.

  His husky chuckles disband the seriousness because now, it’s time to play ball. “Shall we?”

  “We shall.” I jump from the passenger seat, overwhelmed by what I see as I stand by the open door in awe.

  Loyal Yankee and Cub enthusiasts walk toward the stadium, laughing and appearing to forgive their friends for rooting for the opposing team. The vibe is vivacious, each spectator amped and ready for their team to win.

  Roman locks the car, smiling from ear to ear. “This place is something else.”

  He rounds the hood, stopping in front of me. “Regretting your decision?”

  I know he’s not only referring to the baseball game but also to every decision I’ve made since coming here. He waits, each second filled with trepidation.

  Thinking about all I’ve achieved, learned, and felt while at Strawberry Fields, I shake my head resolutely. “I don’t regret a thing.” And I mean it.

  Roman doesn’t hide his relief. I don’t know if it’s my honesty or getting lost in the moment, but he offers his hand. Peering down at it, and then at the swarms of people surrounding us, I hesitate for an instant before slipping my palm into his.

  The connection sends a tingle through me, and it’s not just the physical union, but rather, I become giddy at what it represents. I thought Roman didn’t care, that his detachment this week was due to him regretting showing his vulnerability, but I was wrong. He wants to hold my hand in front of all these people, representing we’re something a little more than friends.

  “What are you smiling about?” he asks as we begin our trek toward the stadium.

  “Nothing. I just like…holding your hand.” I cringe, realizing how stupid that sounded.

  “I like holding yours too,” he confesses without pause, making me melt.

  This is my cue, my opportunity to fish for something more. “Friends who hold hands.” That sounded even more ridiculous aloud than it did in my head. I really need to shut up.

  As I’m cursing my inability to talk to men, he draws me to his torso so we’re touching shoulders. “We were never friends, Lola,” he declares in a confident whisper.

  Although the indistinct sounds around us are penetrating, I hear him clearly. I’m glad he’s holding me; otherwise, I’d have tripped over my feet. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything as I allow Roman to guide me through the throngs of people.

  He releases me to hunt through his pocket for the tickets. Once we’re scanned through, he reaches for my hand once again. The action is so natural, highlighting his earlier comment.

  We enter through the steel gates, and if I thought outside was nuts, that’s nothing compared to what’s going on inside. It’s raucous; the excited hollering from fans is humming throughout the air.

  Something else thrumming through the air is the smell of pure wickedness.

  Roman laughs when I smack my lips together unintentionally. “What is that greasy but completely intoxicating smell?” I snap my head from left to right, hoping to find the source.

  “You have a lot to learn.” Tugging on my hand, he leads me toward the concessions.

  When in line, I openly look at him, unashamed to show him how I feel. He looks down at me, perplexed, but a glimmer of something flashes before his eyes. This moment is beyond words; it is one I will cherish for the rest of my life. The thought gives me an idea.

  Regardless of Roman’s beliefs, I reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone. Our gaze never wavers, caught in a deadlock, and it’s perfect. Positioning my arm above us, I snap a photo, wanting to capture this moment forever.

  We don’t break eye contact, and I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to kiss him. The internal war behind his eyes is apparent. He wants to kiss me too, but he knows things will never be the same if he does.

  “Next!” The jolting demand shatters my trance-like state.

  Roman sighs, nestling the tip of his tongue in the crease of his lips. Frustration palls him, but he also looks to be on cloud nine. Clearing his throat, we step up to the attendant, and Roman orders our food.

  I’m embarrassed, but I don’t regret a single thing. What I do regret, however, is ordering all this food. The clerk places our mountain of goodies on a tray, sending us away with a look of good luck. I grab the Coke and beer and follow Roman as he maneuvers through the crowd on the hunt to find our seats.

  Roman gives directions, allowing me to guide him, which is a nice change. Once we arrive at the elevator, we ride it to our level. Roman takes over as leader and guides us to our seats.

  “Some view.” I’m impressed that I managed to get such great seats.

  “You did good,” he replies, passing me my nacho hat. I accept with a teasing sigh. It’s going to take me all day to make a dent. As I’m strategizing ways to tackle this mountain of madness, Roman raises his Budweiser. “Let’s make a toast.”

  “To what?” I could suggest the perfect occasion to toast, but I don’t. I don’t want to ruin a perfect day with birthday talks.

  Raising my Coke, I wait for him to speak. “To you.”

  “To me?” I don’t hide my surprise.

  “Yes. May a flock of blessings light upon thy back.” Shakespeare. He knows the way to my heart.

  “Cheers.” We clink, both taking long sips from our drinks.

  As we get settled and the game commences, I think about Roman’s toast and how in spite of what’s to come, I am already blessed…thanks to him.


  Who would have thought I’d be a baseball fan? Nearing the end of the game, I was standing and screaming with all the other enthusiasts, desperate for “my” team to win.

  Roman explained the logistics, but all I cared about was the roar when a player hit the ball. The excitement was contagious; so much so that after the fourth inning, I was running to the merchandise store to purchase my foam finger in the Cubs colors.

  The game is over and the Cubs won, much to Roman’s distaste. “They got lucky,” he says, my hand locked in his as we wait for the hordes of people to pass. I bite back my smirk, finding his loyalty toward the Yankees adorable.

  The night has turned surprisingly bitter, and a summer storm dallies on the horizon. When the crowd clears, I step out into the aisle, but a huge buffoon across from me charges out at the same time. The beer he’s holding splashes all over me, and I yelp, jumping backward. I wipe down my shirt in vain; it’s drenched.

  “Watch it!” Roman roars from behind me, instantly shoving the guy from over my shoulder. He’s unsteady on his feet and almost falls over.

  Testosterone swiftly suffocates me, and I sense a fight is brewing. “She’ll live,” he slurs, half sitting, half standing, his arm draped over the back of a chair. I flinch at his choice of words.

  “You spilled your beer all over her!”

  “Roman, it’s fine.” I try to settle him down, but he won’t hear it.

  “No, it’s not fine! Apologize.”

  “Fuck you!” the guy barks back, finally finding his balance.

  He stampedes toward Roman, and Roman does the same to him, but I’m the meat in the sandwich and have no desire to be squished. I’ve seen Roman pack a punch. This will end ugly.

  Thrusting my arms out, I stop the other from moving an inch. “Stop it, you jackass!”

  The guy looks down at my scrawny arms and laughs. His humor is short-lived when I smell the distinguishable scent of pot wafting through the air. “Back off, or I’m sure those security guards would love to know what you’re hiding in your pockets.”

  On cue, three guards come dashing up the stairs.