by J. R. Rogue
After that task was completed, I opened my balcony door and plopped onto my bed to think. The rain outside caressed my ears and nearly lulled me back to sleep. The dusty room was cozy, and my down comforter surrounded me. Back in New York, I often played storm sounds through a small speaker attached to my iPhone at night, but nothing compared to the melody playing on the green tin roof above me now.
On stormy writing days in New York, I always found myself weaving the rain into the story, as if it had infected my soul, and then slowly dripped through my fingertips. The scent of the moist grass slowly filled my room, an aroma I had missed in the City.
As a child, I loved and hated rainy days on this land. I would wake with a sense of adventure, having already planned the night before where I would escape to the next day, only to wake to rain. We always occupied ourselves with fun and meaningful activities indoors but I would pout at my ruined plans and the suffocation I felt.
On one particular Saturday in spring, I snuck out into the rain. I thought it would be fun to climb up the barn and play in the downpour atop the metal roof. I was able to enjoy my fun for nearly ten minutes before my mother caught on. I’ll never forget how mad she was at me. She scolded me about how I could have been struck by lightning. I retreated to my room, head towards the ground, and remained there for the rest of the day. I was grounded from the fun plans my mother had made for the four of us. She brought me my favorite lunch, peanut butter and jelly, extra jelly, though. Therefore, I knew she still loved me.
I wrote a story that day. I was in my phase of being fascinated with the Greek and Roman gods. But I wanted to make up my own god. So I created a story about one of Zeus’s sons. He, of course, had many, but I wanted to create one entirely of my own. He had many of the same elemental powers as his father, but shared none of the promiscuity. He loved one human woman, often watching from his home in the sky. She knew he was there, waiting for her to commit to life with a god. She would stare up at the sky for long hours, communicating silently with him.
Then, one rainy night, she climbed the tallest building in the City during a violent storm. She wanted him to finally take her, to take her away from the monotony of day-to-day life without him. She longed for more. But Zeus’s son hesitated. He worried he would ruin her life, taking her away from all of her friends and family.
It pained him that she had been distancing herself from them for months, preparing for this day. His love would be nothing more than a selfish cruel thing if he took her. It would benefit only him. He stared at her tear stained face as she knelt on that rooftop, crying out, wondering where he was. Why would he abandon her? Had she imagined him creeping into her dreams?
He wanted her to have a child, to love a man who could be there for her day in and day out in her human world. That man was not him. He could not be his father, Zeus, taking what and who ever he wanted on a whim. He resented him for the lonely life he gave his mother. After impregnating her, he left to raise a son that never fit in. He tried to make it up to him, bringing him into the sky after the death of his mother, to live with the gods.
I wrote poetry again that morning. The previous night fueled me. I typed furiously at my vanity on the typewriter. Everything seemed normal at breakfast, but there was a charge. I hoped Andrew didn’t notice.
After another hour of writing, I changed clothes and headed down to brave the tension. I found Chace in the kitchen mopping. A long list of cleaning chores sat on the counter. Without saying anything, I picked a chore and set out to do it. We continued like that for the next two hours; wordlessly walking by one another. When he saw my finger grazing “mop living room” he retreated to bring me the mop. I thanked him with a small smile. I didn’t know what we would say when the chores were done. I wondered what was being said now in our silence.
He walked by me once, a bottle of Windex in his hand, the other slightly grazed my arm. A burn was left behind. I kept my eyes on the ground, my face a deep crimson. When I finished my last task, I headed to the kitchen and found Chace crossing out his last chore.
Was I foolish to believe this would not have happened? Two young, available people, with a mutual attraction, living under one roof. There were no real obstacles in the way of hooking up.
Finally he spoke. “Do you want to watch some T.V.? I’m not ready to write.”
I nodded, not yet able to speak. I followed him to the living room and took a seat on the opposite side of the couch. Every sound felt so loud. The hush of his breathing, the rain on the roof, the sound of the television powering on.
I heard his final words from the night before over and over. I tried to silence them as he turned something on. He began flipping through the DVR recordings. He landed on Friday’s Tonight Show episode.
“Good choice,” I said.
“I love Jimmy Fallon. He just seems like he would be a nice guy.”
“He is.” I baited him, relieved we would have something interesting to talk about and hopefully break the tension.
He turned to me, not yet pressing play. “What do you mean ‘he is’? You’ve met him?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. I was on his show.”
“No way!” Chace set the remote on the coffee table and swung his leg onto the couch, facing me full on.
I laughed. “Way.”
Chace shook his head; I glanced at him and smiled. “I’ve seen every one of his Tonight Show episodes. I would have remembered you.”
I settled back into the couch, reached for the throw blanket, and wrapped it around me. “Well I was on his Late Night show. It was right when the first movie adaptation of my books was releasing.”
“You have no idea how jealous I am right now.”
“You must not be that huge of a fan if you didn’t see all of his shows,” I teased.
“That must have been before I got a DVR. I work late, and when I don’t, I just pass out.”
“Well I’m sorry you missed it.” I glanced at him again, and then back to the silent television.
“Did he have you play a game with him?” He asked.
“Yes,” I blushed.
“What was it?” His voice told me he noticed my skin turning.
I sighed. “Well, he had the Roots read dialog from the first book. Some of the steamy scenes, and they did it very comically. I had to keep a straight face during it!” I laughed loudly at the memory. “Oh, I failed miserably. It was so funny.”
Chace laughed and punched his leg playfully. “I’m going to have to look that up.”
I pointed to his phone on the coffee table “It may be on YouTube. His show was by far the most fun I had promoting the film. I’d love to go on his new show.”
“There’s one more movie coming out, right?”
My laughter left me. I shuddered at the reminder that I had to promote again, alongside Tristan. I had to smile, laugh, and pretend. “Yeah.”
“Well, maybe you’ll get to.”
“Yeah maybe, they go for the stars of the movies and the directors before the author. I got lucky with that last one.”
“You never know. I hope you get to go back on.”
“Me too,” I offered.
My thoughts suddenly turned dark. I didn’t want to have Tristan, and our drama on my mind, but it was there. I had been living in a nice little bubble. A place where reporters, agents, and publishing companies didn’t exist
That life was not gone; it was waiting for me, like a scorned lover. It would be back once this tryst was over. I looked over at Chace, he had started the episode, and was smiling at the television.
He wasn’t some simple affair or some simple distraction. He was more. We had fought it last night, but I knew temptation was not gone. It would be back for us. It would rush back with a simple brush of fingers, a lingering look. He was the only lover I was concerned with. My past could wait a little longer.
After a couple hours of television, Chace said he needed to start writing. I agreed and headed up to my room to type. Before long,
I heard him on the balcony below, strumming his guitar, so I decided to join him. I grabbed a pad and a pen, not wanting to distract him with the loud noises of my typewriter. Chace stopped playing for a second as I joined him in the chair across from him.
He began again when I opened my notepad. We continued our silent conversation from the couch. I felt him glance at me as I wrote; when I looked up, he was looking down at his guitar. It felt like we were dancing again.
When he paused to write in his own notepad, I paused too. I listened to the scratching of his pen. I wondered what his lyrics said. I longed to go to one of Andrew’s shows. I needed to hear the words coming from the man before me. I didn’t want to deny my feelings anymore. I didn’t want to stay away. I couldn’t if I tried. If that was the only option, I would have to move back to New York.
I couldn’t continue to live in this house with him, feeling the tension day to day. It was more dominant than the demons living there. The consequences may eventually outweigh the passion I knew we had. I wondered what my mother would say. I had done plenty of things my mother would not approve of. Far from here, where she could not see it all play out. Surely, she will frown upon this. This man before me was as close to her as her own stepson. I was always going to be a selfish girl. I was always taking lovers, and running from consequences.
Fact: Chace was too good for me. I looked up to see him staring at me. His blue eyes were light in the gray light of the rainy day.
“What?” I whispered.
“You stopped writing.” He pointed to the pen dangling between my fingers.
“Yeah. Just thinking.” I set the pen down and stretched out on the reclining chair.
“How has the writing been going? I hear the typewriter upstairs a lot.” He relaxed too, putting his notebook to the side.
“I’ve been writing a lot actually. It’s crazy. I don’t know if I will be able to do anything with it. But I guess I’ll worry about that later.” I shrugged. I had been thinking more and more about organizing all of the poems. Maybe a book would come of it. Maybe not.
“What changed?” He asked, turning his head to the side.
I couldn’t give him the truth. You changed everything. You made me a poet again. No, not again. You reminded me that I am a poet.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
Chace laid his guitar to the side, perhaps pondering my answer. I wondered when we would discuss the night before. If we ever would. It was generally a “woman thing” to want to over talk every situation. Over analyze every situation. Dissect every situation. It was one of my traits.
It was my job, too. I would share a night with a man only to tear apart every bit of it the next day on a page. I always carried a notebook with me in my purse. They had been empty for too long. I felt sick at the thought of my past. I was a parasite. He had to know I was writing because of him. That I had written all morning about the night before. He was a smart guy. I could bullshit any man, but I felt Chace was immune to me. Honestly, I had no desire to bullshit him in the long run.
Still, I just couldn’t bring myself to confess. I saw Chace stand from the corner of my eye. “Go put your rain boots on,” he instructed. “Grab an umbrella or a jacket. I want to show you something. Bring your notebook.”
Once ready, he walked outside and I followed. He grabbed my hand, and started to run across the lawn, towards the woods. I knew where we were going. I smiled at the thought, at the feel of his hand in mine.
Our destination was not far into the woods. My rain boots were stiff and hard to run in. Chace didn’t run quickly, so that I could keep up. We reached my old tree house in no time. My grandfather had built it for me, many summers ago. One bright spot left behind. It was the perfect distance away from the house. I could escape there. I felt like I was in my own world, but I was close enough to hear them call me to come inside at dinnertime.
I was always losing track of time. Sometimes I fell asleep with a pencil in my hand. My grandmother would make her way all the way out there. She would sound her birdcall straight up the ladder, sending me ten feet into the air. She would laugh every time. I would scowl at her every time.
I loved writing out here. This guy, he knew me better than I knew myself, I feared.
Chace let me climb up first before he made his way half way up, and then handed me the guitar case so he could travel the rest of the way. I grabbed it and set it on the old wooden floor, then looked around.
The small space looked the same as it had so many years ago, though a bit smaller. My old futon still sat against the wall. Clean blankets covered it. A small end table was next to it. On the other side was an old school house desk. Another spot I loved to write. I walked over to it and sat down.
“I used to come out here all the time,” I said. I ran my hand over the surface in front of me. Two windows were on the walls around me, letting the grey rainy light inside. Everything was dusty.
Chace walked over to the futon and sat down. “Your brother and I used to come play out here,” he said.
“I miss my grandmother,” I said, suddenly. I mourned my lost relationship with her. The closeness we once shared. When I moved away, my relationship with her suffered the most. I didn’t call. I didn’t want my grandfather to pick up. For a dark while, I blamed her too. I wondered how she could have been so blind to the evil living inside her husband.
“Have you spoken to her recently?” Chace picked up his guitar and started strumming idly, leaning back.
I turned sideways in my seat and faced him. I rested my elbows on my knees and placed my chin in my palms. “I flew down to Florida a couple years ago. The whole family had Christmas.”
It was the last time I had seen her. I felt guilty in her presence. My absence at her husband’s funeral caused me guilt, no matter the circumstance. I needed to fly down to see her soon, to mend.
Chace stopped playing and looked up at me. “You left something here, you know.”
“I did?” I asked.
“I found your notebooks,” he answered.
“I know, you told me. My stories.” I turned and faced forward in the seat again, stretching my feet out in front of me.
“No, not those.” His voice was soft. He looked down at his hand, still strumming.
“What do you mean?” I turned my head back his direction.
“It’s like I said with my ex,” he stopped playing. “I’m not into games. I always want to be straight with you.” He set the guitar on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. I could tell he was bracing himself for something, then he spoke again.
“I read what you wrote as a teenager. Not just the stories your mom gave us. After your grandparents moved, your mom brought us out here as she packed stuff up and did repairs. She put me in your room, your old room, like I am now. She said to start packing the books, to move to the library. So I did. I was cleaning out stuff from under your bed and I saw a loose floorboard.”
He paused so I could process the words. I knew what he found. I didn’t think anyone ever would find them. He saw from my face that I knew.
“I think I wanted you before I even knew what it was like to want someone,” he began. “I was a kid. I saw your pictures all over your mom’s house. I couldn’t tell Andrew how beautiful I thought his sister was. I felt ashamed for reading your words when it was obvious they were ones you meant to keep hidden. Ones you hoped no one would ever lay an eye on. I started falling for you through your words. I never expected I’d meet you. You didn’t feel real to me. When I found out you were moving back here, to live in this house with me I freaked out a bit. Your mother never knew I found your poetry. I loved reading it. I fell in love. I could escape in them. I wasn’t the skinny kid with a broken family missing a leg. I was whoever I wanted to be. I fell in love with your voice, with the brokenness you owned, too. The first time I saw a picture of you on the mantle, I thought I really fell in love. I was, like, 12 I think. Then you hit it big. You made this career out of a dream you
had. So, I thought maybe I could have one of my own. That there was more to life than this shitty thing that happened to me. And what happened to you. I was no longer going to let it define me like my father was.”
I stared down at my hands. I was in shock. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t angry at him. He was just a kid when he found the truth in my journals, and kids were curious by nature. If it had been me, I would have done the same. I blushed at the thought of him reading my words. My poetry was so raw. Then I felt sick. He knew. He knew the truth. I shoved the thought back down.
His words burned into me. I think I wanted you before I even knew what it was like to want someone. He had wanted me for years. He knew what happened to me and he still wanted me. The knowledge that I would be living with him had freaked him out. I remembered his shy smile the day I met him.
This kind of shit didn’t happen in real life. It happened in the silly stories I wrote as a child. It happened in Disney movies and romantic comedies. What was my life? Those pages. Fuck…
“Where are they?” My low voice echoed in the small space. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. I wiped it away before he could see.
Chace motioned to the desk. I slowly reached for the cubbyhole beneath my ass. My fingers found leather and worn pages. I pulled my hand back as if I had been bitten. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to see the words, to imagine him reading them. I bit my lip, still at a loss.
“I’m sorry,” he offered. He was genuine. He meant it.
“I’m not mad. Actually, I’m sorry.” I chuckled running my hands over my face. I didn’t know how to feel. I felt anxiety crawling up my throat. I choked it down.
“What for?” he asked.
“That you had to read that. I never showed my poetry to anyone, because it’s the writing of mine I am the most unsure of.” I felt more exposed on those pages than I ever did, bare, in front of a man.
“Nothing compares to your poetry,” he stated. “I’m not saying your other writing is bad. That’s not what I mean. You’re an amazing writer. But your poetry. It’s you. I know that writer’s block was killing you, but the words were always there. I changed the day I read those words.”
