Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

  My body trembles in a mental reaction to what I just did.

  “Well…” Roman’s voice is full of pride. “I was going to offer you a glass of water, but it appears you’ve got it covered.”

  A laugh catches in my throat.

  For the second dose, I take him up on his offer and gulp down a bottle of water.

  “So what happens now?” I ask, looking at the bottles in front of me as Roman places them in a white paper bag.

  “Now”—he stands, buttoning his navy blazer—“you go enjoy the sunshine with the kids. Go, have fun.”

  His comment has me wondering when he has the time to do just that. He’s always here, attending to someone’s problems. Who attends to his?

  He rounds the desk, ready to start his day, but an urge overcomes me, and I don’t fight it. With the door sealed shut, it’s nobody but us. What’s one moment, one forbidden touch between two friends?

  He stops, cocking an eyebrow, unsure why I’m unmoving. I answer his query when I step forward, almost breast to breast, and peer up into his eyes. His mouth parts, and a breathy exhale leaves his lips. My entire body is a bundle of nerves, but I persevere. I stand on tippy toes and wrap my arms around him.

  I press my ear to his chest, his heart beating with a strong but faltering rhythm. At first, he stands still, frozen to the spot, as my forwardness has caught him off guard. But with a sweet surrender, he yields. He wraps his strong arms around me, crushing me to his firm torso. I can scarcely breathe, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  His heartbeat is a sound I want to bottle and keep forever. I snuggle closer, closing my eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” The profound sound resonates through my body. I nod against him, unable to stop myself from rubbing my cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. “For what?”

  “For not giving up on me and believing in my life, even when I didn’t.”

  He inhales deeply. “You just needed a reminder.”

  He’s not taking any credit for his involvement, playing it off, but if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here, standing in his office, hugging. The moment the thought crosses my mind, I realize that I’m still clinging to him like a baby koala. But what leaves me speechless is that he’s holding me just as strongly.

  We appear to both need the comfort. But eventually, he loosens his hold, and my body protests the disconnection. I regrettably let go.

  I’m not repentant for the hug, but his poker face has me wondering what he’s thinking. I suddenly get nervous.

  “Sorry for invading your personal bubble. I’m pretty sure I left my shoe inside it,” I add, hoping to lighten the mood.

  He smiles, but something hides beneath it, making me even jumpier.

  I clear my throat, grabbing the bag of pills. “Thank you, Dr. Archibald.” I suddenly feel out of sorts calling him Roman.

  An exit has never looked more appealing as I move toward it. However, I’m stopped in my tracks. “You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t?” It’s the only word I squeeze out.

  “You didn’t invade my space,” he clarifies while I lick my suddenly dry lips.

  “Good to know,” I reply flippantly, playing off his response.

  Inside, I’m squirming, but I try my best to keep cool. My back is turned, so I can’t see his face, but his deep voice alerts me to his sincerity.

  “Yeah. Just for future reference,” he adds.

  “Okay, duly noted.” I yank open the door. I’m afraid if I stay a second longer, I’ll say something I might regret.

  The cool breeze feels wonderful on my flushed skin as I zip down the hallway, seeking the safety of my room. Once inside, I lean against the door, taking three deep breaths. My heart is racing, the adrenaline punch shooting live currents all the way to my toes.

  The bag of pills is the furthest thing from my mind, which is a miracle. I just took my first step toward the unknown, and I don’t feel frightened—I feel alive, the reason being Roman. The thought makes me happier than I care to admit.

  Pushing off the door, I walk over to my laptop and embrace life with both hands. Waiting for it to fire up, I pull out the bottle of pills and line them up neatly. Turning each label, I examine the medical names, which would leave most people tongue-tied.

  Pulling out a notepad and pencil, I begin with the red tablet. Typing it into the search engine, I poise my pencil, ready to learn.

  Side effects include:

  Nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite

  Headache, memory problems, fatigue

  Dizziness, weakness, loss of coordination

  Reaching for the yellow tablets I took this morning, I do a search on that also.

  The side effects are similar, but may include:

  Itchiness, difficulty breathing, swelling of the mouth, cold sweats.

  I instantly feel parched, but I know my mind is just playing tricks on me. All in all, I will be in a medicated hell for the next few weeks. But these side effects aren’t any different than I’ve experienced before. The sickness comes with the territory.

  I can do this.

  A soft knock on the door interrupts my research.

  Sweeping the evidence into my drawer, I slam the laptop closed and dash for the door. Hoping my face doesn’t betray my guilt, I open the door, surprised when I see Sadie. Her usually rosy cheeks are now a deathly white, and her eyes are sunken in.

  “Sadie? Are you all right?” My high-pitched voice betrays my fears.

  “Yes, I’m okay.” She bites her dry lip. This is a blatant lie, but I don’t press. “I’m just tired. Would it be okay if I stayed here?” She tugs her long sleeves over her tiny hands, toying with the ends nervously.

  “Of course.” I open the door wider, inviting her in. As she ambles in, it almost appears an effort for her to move.

  “Want to have a slumber party?” I ask when she stands timidly near the doorway.

  “But it’s daytime.” She cocks her head in confusion.

  “Who says?” I slide the heavy blinds closed, shrouding us in darkness. Her happiness is palpable, which warms my heart.

  We both bounce into bed, and five minutes later, Sadie is snoring softly beside me. A contented sigh leaves her when I wrap my arm around her.

  It appears we all crave human contact. Sometimes, a single touch is all the medicine we need.

  That has my thoughts wandering to Roman and our interaction earlier. He’s been there for me even when I didn’t want him to be. I want to do the same for him. I suddenly remember the Yankees baseball I saw in his office.

  He’s stuck here twenty-four seven, so I doubt he’s even seen a game this season.

  As gently as I can, I reach for my phone off the dresser, not wanting to disturb Sadie. I pull up the Yankees homepage and click on the tickets tab. As I read carefully over the schedule, one date stands out. It’s Roman’s birthday. It’s a home game, and it’s also on a Saturday night.

  He can stay overnight if he doesn’t want to make the commute back here after the game. Or he could make a night of it with a friend. Or someone special.

  I grit my teeth at the thought. But I can’t be selfish and presume he’ll go alone. It’s his birthday, for god’s sake. No one should spend their birthday alone; regardless of how opposed they are to celebrating it.

  Decision made, I allow the webpage to choose the best seats available and enter my credit card details. Two tickets are emailed to my inbox minutes later.

  I feel good about my spontaneity and hope Roman does too.

  When Sadie woke, we spent the entire afternoon laughing, taking stupid selfies, and watching movie after movie. It was the best afternoon I’ve had in a long time. But now, the pain twisting my stomach into knots has me wanting to curl into a ball and die. It’s been roughly two hours since Sadie left, and Roman texted me, reminding me to take my next dose. I did, and now I’m feeling the effects tenfold.

  It started with sudden dizziness, followed by nausea.

/>   I stand, needing to move as I’m getting motion sickness sitting down. The moment I rise, however, I collapse onto the floor, muting my groan behind my palm. It feels like a thousand knives are marching a circle around my stomach, not satisfied until I’m bled dry.

  Curling into a ball, I tuck my arms around myself. A fierce pain tears through my body, and I taste blood as I bite down on my tongue to mute my cries.

  I can do this, I repeat endless times. I’ve lived through worse. That may be true, but my mind has purposely forgotten this level of agony, never wanting to relive such torture.

  Sweat coats my body, but I feel like I’m caught naked in a snowstorm. The nausea comes in violent waves, so brutal I almost black out from the pain. I almost wish I would.

  Silently dragging myself along the floor, I reach overhead, hoping my fingers will pass over my cell sitting on my dresser. When they do, I squeak in relief.

  Squinting, hoping the action will help clear my blurry vision, I hold the phone out in front of me. The screen moves in and out of focus, but the moment it clears, I type the only word I can. The only word he’ll understand.

  Sunflower.

  The phone slips from my palm, and my head hits the carpet as I fold into a heap. It’s quiet here, the pain thrumming in the background. Everything is so cluttered—chunks of reality slipping from my palms. I don’t know where I am or who I am anymore. But I can’t help but think that maybe it’s where I was always destined to land.

  I don’t realize I’m throwing up until my throat screams at me, the burn almost rendering me unconscious once again.

  “Don’t you dare! Fight, Lola. Stay awake!”

  My eyes pop open, his voice the only anchor I need to slip back into the now. As I blink countless times, my murky brain attempts to decipher where I am. But my surroundings are unfamiliar. I know I’m face-first in a toilet bowl, but whose toilet bowl?

  “That’s it.” I would know that voice from any corner of the globe. Roman rubs my back, the motion surprisingly soothing.

  I will my breathing to slow and take a moment to dig through the fog. The last thing I remember is passing out on my bedroom floor.

  “Lola, can you hear me?” His troubled voice pulls me closer to this plane, and the fog begins to clear.

  I nod, too afraid to speak.

  “You’re in my house. Actually, you’re in my bathroom. I got your text message and found you passed out on your bedroom floor. Do you think you can lift your head? I assure you there are a lot nicer things to see in here.”

  His quip has me laughing, but groaning a second later when my head feels like it’s on the verge of exploding. “Ugh, screw you.”

  “Sorry.” He chuckles, rubbing between my shoulder blades.

  When I think I can face the land of the living, I wearily raise my head and almost celebrate when the room stops spinning. My hair hangs limply around my face, and my mouth feels drier than the Sahara Desert.

  “Here.” Roman passes me a glass of water, and I gulp it down. My stomach gurgles, but I clamp my lips shut, insistent on keeping it down. “Do you want to lie down?”

  I nod, positive I can move without throwing up.

  Roman gently cups my elbow and helps me stand. My legs feel like jelly, but I don’t allow that to discourage me.

  We take two small steps before I tremble. “I’ve got you, and I won’t let you go,” Roman assures, wrapping his arm around me. His strength pacifies my weakness, and I slouch against him, grateful for his support.

  We take baby steps, but eventually, we make it out into the living room.

  A thought suddenly occurs. “I am so sorry I dragged you from your b-bed to come rescue my sorry ass.” He’s in dark gray sweats and a white T-shirt. Odds are I interrupted his sleep.

  “Don’t even mention it,” he quickly replies, tightening his hold around me. “I didn’t have far to go.”

  We can tackle the matter of his address later because the room begins to spin again. “Please don’t throw up. I just had the carpets steam cleaned.” His humor has my sickness subsiding, and we make it through the room unscathed.

  He switches on the light, showcasing a striking bedroom. A huge bed draped with black silk sits dead center with a nightstand on each side. A colorful abstract painting sits above the wooden headboard, giving the elegant room a modern feel.

  We sway over to the bed where Roman pulls back the covers with one hand. “Here. Lie down.”

  I do as he says because those silk sheets look too inviting not to.

  I feel like I’m lying among clouds as I settle on the mattress with a sigh. Roman sits on the edge, watching me. I peer up at him, the reality of where I am sinking in—the material beneath me ingrained with his aroma. I instantly feel a blanket of sleep envelop me.

  “Thank you. For everything.” If I listed all the things I’m thankful for, we’d be here all night.

  Roman nods. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m sorry you fell ill.”

  “Not your fault. It’s all part of the d-deal.” I suppress a deep breath, wishing I purged up my stammer.

  “Get some rest.” Roman sweeps the hair from my brow.

  When he goes to stand, I latch on to his wrist. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to crash on the sofa.”

  Oh, right. Of course, he is. That’s what a gentleman does.

  I let him go, smiling bashfully. “Not only did I disturb your sleep, but now, I’ve stolen your bed too. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” I yawn, my eyes drooping shut.

  Caught between reality and the dream world, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. So when I hear Roman whisper, “You already have,” I can’t help but slip into a deeper slumber at total and complete peace.

  I only wake because my stiff muscles protest. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. The fact my eyes aren’t stinging is a sure sign I’ve slept more than three hours.

  The bathroom light creeps in through the sliver of the ajar doorway. It takes me a moment to adjust to the near dark, but when I do, I’m faced with a sight that reminds me where I am.

  Roman’s bare back greets me. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, about to slip on a white dress shirt. I’ve never seen a man dress before. Pressed black slacks sit low on his narrow waist, drawing attention to his rock-hard flank. The muscles in his body coil and curve as he works his arms into the garment.

  Once he’s tucked his shirt into his pants, he reaches for a tie on the tall dresser in front of him. A mirror is not needed as he loops it around his neck and ties it with precision. It’s a chore he’s done a thousand times before, but not for me—I can’t tear my eyes away. I presume cuff links are the next addition to his routine. Once he’s dressed, he opens a drawer and hunts for what I soon realize are socks.

  Who would have thought watching a man dress, as opposed to undressing, could be sexy as hell? Maybe my brain really is fried. Or it could be his musky cologne clouding my good judgment.

  “Morning.”

  I squeak in surprise, completely busted. I wonder how long he knew I was watching.

  “Morning,” I reply, my voice hoarse.

  “Sleep okay?”

  Shifting upright, I lean against the headboard, drawing the blanket over my chest. “Yes, I did, actually. Best sleep I’ve had in ages. Must be the silk sheets.”

  Roman chuckles before turning and almost giving me a near heart attack. His hair is damp, the longer strands tousled. On cue, he runs his fingers through it, combing it back. He hasn’t shaved, so his scruff is longer, more rugged.

  I remember to close my mouth when a dimple presses into his left cheek. “Do you want anything to eat?”

  The notion of food turns my stomach. “No, thanks.”

  He sits at the foot of the bed, slipping on his socks and shoes. Once he’s done, he glances over his shoulder. “I have to go to work.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” He wants me to leave, but he’s too polite to say. I attempt to
push back the blankets but then freeze when Roman places his hand over my lower leg.

  “No”—he grins—“I’m not kicking you out. I just meant I have to go, but you’re welcome to stay.”

  “Stay here?” I question in case I’m lost in translation. Today is my day off, so I suppose I could, but I’m torn.

  “Yes. You’re not confined to the room, however. This isn’t a Stephen King novel.” I shake my head, smirking. “I’ll be back around two thirty.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay to stay here?”

  “Of course. I’ve hidden all valuables and locked the liquor cabinet.” I burst into laughter, loving this easiness between us. He squeezes my leg before standing. “And besides, Freud will love having a playmate.” On cue, a loud, excited bark sounds at the door. “Make yourself at home. If you need me, just call my cell.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Reaching for his blazer off the back of a chair, he pockets his keys, wallet, and phone. “Ready?” he asks with a smile.

  “Ready?” I arch a brow.

  My question is answered a moment later.

  The moment he opens the door, a boisterous Golden Retriever comes charging into the bedroom, jumping onto the bed with one big leap. He has no problem invading my personal space as he falls into my lap, demanding belly rubs.

  “Hey, big fella,” I coo, scratching under his chin before going to town on his stomach.

  Roman hides his smile beneath his palm. “I think he likes you.”

  “Well, the feeling is most definitely mutual.” I continue scratching his belly with both hands, laughing when his big pink tongue droops from the side of his mouth. “Have a good day. Your fur baby is in good hands.”

  “I can see that. Lucky Freud.” He shrugs into his blazer while I feel my cheeks blister. He gives us one final look before he leaves, the front door closing a few seconds later.