Beyond The Roses

by Monica James

  As I’m untangling my earbuds, I hear a near muted voice. It’s coming from the direction I’m headed. Softening my footsteps, I turn my ear when I hear a voice I’d recognize underwater.

  “I just…I just wish you’d reconsider.”

  “There is nothing to reconsider. It’s done. You knew what my decision was from the very beginning.”

  “I know, Roman, I just…why?” June whispers, her voice saddened.

  What are they talking about? And why does June sound like she’s seconds away from bursting into tears?

  “Can we talk in my office? Please,” she almost begs when he remains silent.

  After a pregnant pause, he sighs. “Okay, fine.”

  Their footsteps advance down the plush carpet and away from where I stand, hidden and almost breathless. I don’t understand what I just overheard, but it sounded dreadfully grave. What has left June almost in tears?

  I want to run after them, press my ear to the door, and finally uncover the skeletons in Roman’s closet, but I won’t.

  Once the coast is clear, I amble down the hallway, unable to clear my mind from June’s heartache.

  The fitness center is empty, while I’m ready to tackle the treadmill and run myself into fatigue. Powering up my iPod, I select my workout music and press play. The moment the rock music blares through the earbuds, I do some light stretches, not wanting to hurt myself before I’ve even begun.

  Five minutes in, my lungs are screaming at me to slow down, but I don’t. All I can focus on is the weight settled in my stomach; the heavy sensation a premonition of what’s to come. I try to shake the feeling, but I can’t. Something big is about to happen, I just don’t know what.

  I continue running, increasing the speed, hoping to run away from my fears. But I doubt I’ll ever be able to sprint that fast. The clock reads twenty-two minutes, which is a record for my out-of-shape form.

  Once I turn off the treadmill, I guzzle down my water, taking a moment to catch my breath. The red punching bag hangs innocently to my left. The memory of Roman driving into it with feral force is anything but innocent. It was here I saw his tattoo, and the mystery surrounding him began and has only grown.

  Deciding to blow off some of my own steam, I make my way over to the bag, marveling at the firm texture as I run my palm across the center. Roman didn’t show this bag an ounce of mercy, delivering blows that looked so effortless. But actually standing in front of it and feeling its density, I appreciate just how strong Roman is. I doubt my scrawny arms could make this thing move, but I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

  Remembering Roman’s stance, I place one foot in front of the other and bend my knees. I have no idea how to punch, so I throw all my strength behind it and just hit the thing and hope for the best. Focusing on the center, I curve my arm outward and connect with a brick wall.

  “Holy shit!” I cradle my throbbing hand to my chest.

  Against my better judgment, I eye the bag, challenging me with its immobile state. Although my hand is aching, it felt mighty good to hit something. Imagine what I could achieve if I threw everything I am behind the next punch, hoping to expunge the years of fury that won’t disappear.

  This is suddenly the best idea I’ve had all day.

  Every single negative, raw memory, and emotion I can remember comes charging to the surface, armed and ready to explode. I feel like a warrior prepared for battle, but unlike those fighters, my enemies are within. I bend low, engage my core, and just as I’m about to punch the bejesus out of the bag, something, someone stops me.

  I don’t have time to turn to see who it is because that person is suddenly pressed up against my back, his firm grip secured tightly around my poised wrist. His essence is the first thing I notice, and I know without looking who it is.

  I attempt to turn around, but Roman doesn’t let me.

  “Where’s the fire, Rocky?”

  “No fire. The thing is, this bag looks a little like my mother’s head.”

  He chuckles behind me. “Glad to hear I’m not making a guest appearance in your vision of violence.”

  “No, you’re good. For now.”

  He releases the hold he has on me, moving his hands low on my hips. A gasp escapes my parted lips. “W-what are you doing?” He’s exceptionally close, closer than he’s ever been.

  “I’m going to teach you how to expend that anger without hurting yourself,” he replies into my ear.

  “I’m not angry,” I pathetically argue, holding back my shiver as his warm breath trickles down the length of my neck.

  “I’m sure your bruised hand begs to differ.” To accentuate his point, he removes his palm from my waist and runs his thumb along the crease of my pulsating wrist.

  “Fine then, show me what you’ve got.”

  It’s a challenge, one he happily accepts. He tightens the hold around my waist, the heat from his fingers warming the flesh beneath my thin cotton tank. He coaxes me to pivot my body, rotating my hips so I bow backward, leaning into his chest. At the same time, he draws the arm he holds back, so my body is angled and pressed against his.

  His heart gallops strongly against my back, the uneven rhythm hinting he’s as anxious as I am. My breathing accelerates, and a tremor passes through me.

  “Okay”—he squeezes his fingers around my wrist—“you’re going to keep your balance and ground your feet when you punch. When you punch, put your entire body behind it. Keep your arm level with your shoulders. Your thumb needs to be on the outside of your fist. Otherwise, you will break it.” I automatically adjust my fist and do as he instructs. “Make a tight fist and aim to punch with your first two knuckles, so you don’t break your hand.”

  “Keep my balance. Ground my feet. Make a fist. Don’t break anything. Anything else?” I ask, clenching and unclenching my hand to get a feel of my new stance.

  “Yes.” He leans in close, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. I hold my breath. “Imagine every single thing you loathe, absolutely detest, and all the wrongdoings that have been thrown your way over the years and use that as your ammunition to deliver a punch that will chip away at that anger. That bag is your enemy, and it’s your turn to show it who’s boss.”

  His amped-up speech has a fire burning in my belly, and a course of adrenaline sears through me. I begin to shake but for an entirely different reason. My eyes narrow on their own accord as Roman’s words invoke a fierce need to drive out this malevolence inside me. The bag suddenly becomes my worst enemy, and all I can see, hear, and taste are bitter memories, ones which fester within and plague me every day.

  I see my mom and her apathy toward me. The countless times I was ridiculed for being different. I see the brain tumor eating away at my years. But at the forefront, I see Georgia, lying in her casket, her young life ripped out from under her because life just isn’t fair.

  I shake in rage as a war cry comes bubbling up from my belly, exploding out of me in a gut-wrenching scream. I barely feel Roman release me as I pull my arm back, ground my feet, and force everything behind my movement and hit the bag. I’m expecting to hear bones break, followed by a blinding pain, but I don’t. All I feel is a release so great that tears sting my eyes.

  I pause for a moment before the need to do that again overcomes me, and I give in to my primeval instincts. This time I hold back, afraid that it was a stroke of luck I actually connected with the bag. I also feel stupid, knowing I probably look like a stark raving lunatic.

  “C’mon, you’re not even trying.” Roman appears disappointed by my effort, which infuriates me.

  “I am too!” I hit the bag but forget his advice about the positioning of my thumb and wince in pain when I almost break it.

  “Seriously? My grandma can hit harder than that…and she’s dead. Put some muscle into it, Van Allen!” He’s baiting me, and it’s working. I scream and punch the bag again, harder this time, but still not hard enough for Roman. “I thought you were a fighter, but maybe I was wrong.”
/>   His reverse psychology kick-starts my anger, and I detonate.

  I don’t know how many times I hit that bag, envisioning all the atrocities that led me here. Tears blind my vision, but I work on impulse and let my bottled-up anger lead me. I wonder how often I have to hit the bag before I feel normal again?

  Sweat coats my skin. I’m breathless, and my arms ache, but I continue punching, screaming as I deliver each blow. I don’t care that Roman is here, witnessing my meltdown, because didn’t I do the same to him? He knows what it feels like to be behind the bag because he’s carrying a secret so great, he needs to release it with sheer ferocity, too.

  The injustices are no longer sitting so heavily on my chest, and even though I am gasping for breath, I feel like I can breathe. With one last punch, I let go of the regret that led me here and weep in relief. My arms and legs collapse, and I tumble to the ground, exhausted and on the verge of hysteria.

  Roman immediately falls to his knees, brushing the hair from my sticky brow. He searches my face, scanning every inch to ensure I didn’t break. He’s become my anchor, my tether to this place, and I instantly take in air again.

  I meet his eyes, those blue depths dragging me under and drowning me in a welcome abyss. We stare at one another, unguarded and raw. The walls he’s erected so resolutely around himself unexpectedly come down, and I gasp. A fervent inferno engulfs his irises and burns me from head to toe.

  Neither of us dares to say a word. The air is crackling, and I struggle to breathe. Heavy exhalations leave him before he wets his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. The movement is absolutely intoxicating, and I let out a small whimper. My whimper is matched with a low hum, and it takes me a second to realize the sound is coming from Roman.

  Before I know what’s happening, he’s inching forward, his hand pressed to my cheek, using the touch as guidance to draw my face to his. All thoughts of bottling his perfume are put on hold when his lips are a hairsbreadth away from touching mine.

  “Roman…” My lips are trembling, the anticipation soaring through me.

  “Tell me this is a bad idea,” he whispers, his eyes dropping to my mouth.

  “This is bad…” But I falter, unable to continue.

  This is a bad idea for so many reasons, but none of them seem to matter. The only thing that matters is closing this distance between us and forgetting the world exists.

  I close my eyes, charged and ready for him, but I feel nothing. The room suddenly fills with a beeping, tearing through my bubble and bringing home the reality of what I was about to do.

  Slowly opening my eyes, I see the regret marring Roman. I avert my eyes, embarrassed. “Saved by the bell,” I say softly.

  “Lola…” I don’t want to hear what he has to say because I don’t know whether that regret is there because we were interrupted, or because of what we were about to do. The buzzing continues, and with a sigh, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pager.

  It takes a second, but when he sees who it is, his face turns to stone. His impenetrable mask sends a chill through me. “Roman?” My voice is small, afraid.

  “I—” He pauses, his mouth parted as he seems to search for the right words. Roman is never at a loss for words. I wrap my arms around my body, suddenly chilled. “I have to go,” he finally says, composing himself.

  Before I can ask if everything is okay, he places his palm on my cheek. Searching my face, he beseeches, “Stay here. Promise me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Lola, promise me,” he begs, dipping low and pinning me with his stare.

  But I can’t. I can see it in his eyes. This heartbreak is close to home. My chest begins to ache, and I rub over it, hoping to stop my heart from bleeding from its cage. But nothing can stop that ache.

  My feet act before my brain can draw near, and I’m running toward the door, my instinct leading me down the hall. Roman calls my name out behind me, but there’s no stopping me. I’m running on pure adrenaline, new and old, as my sneakers pound against the carpet, drawn to the unknown.

  Doors open, bystanders curious about the commotion, but I ignore them, powering on until I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks. The first thing I see is Zoe, just a few feet away from the living room. She’s leaning against the wall, hands cupped over her mouth, eyes wide. She appears to be in shock. The next thing I see is June dashing down the hallway, a cell pressed to her ear, her silk dressing gown flailing behind her.

  I try to call out to Zoe, but my mouth has gone dry. But she seems in sync with me and turns in slow motion. Her movements may not be quick, but nothing seems real anymore as the walls begin closing in on me. I find the strength to say the only word that matters—the only word which will make everything all right again.

  “Sadie?”

  She just bursts into tears.

  “No. No.” A surge electrocutes me, and I charge forward, desperate to uncover the lie she tells. I don’t get far because determined arms wrap around my middle and press me into the safety net of his chest. “Let me go!” I kick my legs out, but he doesn’t budge.

  “Please, don’t look. Don’t remember her like this.” His words are filled with loss and sadness.

  “No!” I sob, a rattle vibrating within my chest. “Let me go, please. I have to go. She needs me.” Roman tightens his hold, a column of strength as I crumple around him.

  “I’m sorry. Oh god, I’m so sorry.” Those words confirm what I knew to be true the moment he tried to protect me from our reality. Our unforgiving, cruel reality that takes and takes, forgetting how to give.

  My outburst has caused a scene, cluing fellow volunteers into what’s going on. The entire time, Roman doesn’t let me go. He is my strength, my champion as I sag against him, sobbing a cry so guttural my throat feels raw. He stands behind me, never letting me go, and if I were thinking straight, I would grieve elsewhere. Anyone looking can see our connection stems far past professional. But I don’t care because I need him. I’m afraid I’ll never crawl back from yet another loss without him.

  June watches us from just outside the doorway. Her face shows no emotion, but I know she sees it. A doctor in a white coat pushes past us, suspending June from dissecting what’s happening between Roman and me any further. He stops by her side, and she gestures to the bedroom, shaking her head with a blank stare.

  He nods before entering.

  I want to go in with him, but I know I can’t—I can’t because I can’t move. All I can think about is Sadie’s last words to me. “I love you, too.”

  Did she know those whispered words would be the last she ever spoke?

  Roman never wavers from holding me. Back to chest is how we stand and how we stay when Tamara comes around the corner, stopping abruptly when she sees us. Her shock is evident, but she quickly composes herself.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” she says in a tender voice, approaching Zoe.

  Zoe appears to be in shock. She wears a vacant look as she nods.

  The somber-faced doctor emerges. He peruses the crowd before his laser stare focuses on Roman. Roman tenses behind me, but a moment later, he slowly loosens his hold. He leans over my shoulder, whispering, “I have to go in. I won’t be a minute.”

  “I-I want to go with you.” Before he has a chance to argue, as I know he’s bound to, I press, “Please, I have to say goodbye.” I can feel him weighing the pros and cons, but he eventually gives in. I slowly turn, facing him.

  Peering up into his plagued eyes, I nod, a silent gesture that I’ll be okay.

  He exhales heavily, still trying to protect me from seeing one of the hardest sights of my life. But he can’t protect me forever.

  The moment I set foot inside the room, I’m hit with many incredible memories of the time we spent together. We may not have known one another for years, but it felt like we did. We utilized every second, not knowing when it would be our last.

  Sadie looks as if she’s sleeping, but I’m not lucky enough for that lie
to stick. I know she’s gone.

  I stand frozen, stuck in the middle of the room as I wrap my arms around my middle, hoping to keep the cold at bay. Roman walks past me, touching my shoulder tenderly before making his way to where Sadie lays. I watch as he feels for a pulse. He tries in vain, and after three attempts, a pained sigh leaves him.

  He gently covers her lifeless body with the same blanket I tucked around her. The red bandana disappears from my view. In an inexplicable way, the sight comforts me, knowing Georgia will be there standing at the pearly gates to welcome Sadie home.

  “Lola?”

  Glancing up, Roman is standing before me, waiting for me to process what’s just happened.

  I nod, indicating that regardless of her state, I want to say goodbye. He simply skims his fingertips down my cheek before leaving me alone.

  Sniffing back my tears, I stagger to where she lies, taking my time because I don’t want to let her go. I stand motionless, my brain unable to process this horrifying truth.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should have been. I should have held your hand until the very end.” I wipe away my sadness with the back of my hand. “I hope that wherever you go, you’re happy, and there’s no more pain. Georgia will look after you now. I know she will. My two sisters together. That thought makes this a little easier to accept.”

  Reaching out, I gently lift the blanket from her cherub face as a torrent of tears blurs my vision. “Take care, k-kiddo. I’ll see you s-soon.” Bending forward, I lay a tender kiss to her forehead. A tear splashes onto her cheek, but I don’t wipe it away.

  Taking one last look at her, I replace the blanket, saying a final goodbye to both Sadie and Georgia. Is this what letting go feels like? Funny, I feel numb.

  Once I’m in the hallway, I innately seek out Roman. I don’t have far to look. He pushes off the wall, his lips turned downward. Everyone is staring at me, at us, but neither of us seems to care. “I’m going to my room.”

  He nods, the hands by his side restless, appearing as if he wants to console me. But he doesn’t. “Of course. If you need me, you know where to find me.”