by Drea Roman
Days go by, and I am listless. My boss, Lionel, keeps calling and messaging me, but I just click my phone off. It wouldn’t be so annoying if he weren’t aware of the reason I’ve gone dark. After we returned from the hospital, I emailed Lionel, giving him a bare bones description of the situation. I haven’t answered a single one of his messages or calls since. My blog has gone dark; my world has gone dark. Only one thing in my world is right, and that person is barely more than a stranger, though he already seems like so much more to me.
“It’s okay to take some time to recover,” Roger startles me by saying.
Looking up, I see he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed. It’s a relaxed stance which has become familiar within the week I’ve stayed here. As it does so frequently, Roger’s kindness overwhelms my natural reserve, and I end up revealing the questions on my mind.
“What am I supposed to do next?” I ask in a harsh whisper.
Roger drops his arms from his chest and comes around the island into the living room to sit on the couch next to me. He takes my right hand into his much larger palm and links our fingers together.
“I know it’s not my place to say this, Tyler. But I think therapy is the first thing that you need to do.”
I must look startled and he lets loose with a warm laugh. It always surprises me with its nuance and richness. Roger is a happy person. I don’t think I’ve ever been around someone who is just so naturally content and easy going. He’s told me about his work, so I know that being a small business owner isn’t always the easiest thing. It’s a bit fly by the seat of your pants, much like journalism is. We have a simpatico understanding about that.
“I’m practically living with you, Roger,” I say in a teasing tone. “I'd really like to know what you think because…” My voice trails off.
Roger cocks his head expectantly, waiting for my thoughts. I want to cry because I really don’t want to admit this feeling of defeat and sorrow that haunts my chest all the time now. I blink back the tears I can’t stop my eyes from producing.
“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” I say trying to make my voice sound strong and unwavering, though to my ears it sounds weak and thin.
“Therapy,” Roger repeats. “I am a strong believer in therapy.”
Blinking harder to do away with the moisture on my eyelashes, I force myself to laugh.
“You?” I ask, as I eye him up and down. I’m deflecting, and I’m sure Roger knows it. “No,” I say in a teasing voice, tilting my shoulder forward in a surprisingly flirty manner. “Not a tough, bearish guy like you.” I blink my eyelashes as a silly happiness begins to rise in my chest out of nowhere.
Rodger grins slowly then laughs softly. “Bearish, huh?”
I blush, shocked at the feelings of arousal winding their way through my system. He lifts our intertwined hands and kisses the back of mine. It’s not the first little touch of affection Roger has given me. It’s always sweet, often chaste, but the moments knit something back together inside of me, making me feel like crying but in joy. Yet this time, it’s different. I feel naive and silly at the warmth spreading through me. I blush again and have to look away, but I tighten my fingers around Roger’s.
“Yeah, bearish.” I mutter.
His soft husky laugh greets my ears, and he replies, “You’ll have to explain that to me one day.”
I still can’t make myself turn my head around and meet his eyes, so I nod and murmur again. “Yeah, I will.” For me, it’s a vow. We sit for a few moments in the not quite comfortable silence. Then Roger picks up the thread of our conversation before it went. . . well, before it went somewhere. I’m just not ready to think about where it went and how good it felt to go there.
“I do recommend therapy,” Roger continues. “Ten years ago, I was in a bad motorcycle wreck.”
I turn my head around to face him and discover the pinched look on his ever-calm face.
“I nearly died.” His voice remains calm but low. Tension I’ve never seen in him before creeps into his shoulders, and I find myself leaning closer into him, snuggling myself against his side. I want to give him some privacy, so I drop my gaze by resting my head lightly against his shoulder, pulling our intertwined hands from between us into my lap.
“What happened?” I whisper softly, looking at our clasped hands in my lap.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Roger intones solemnly, clearly trying to set a lighthearted mood for such a serious story. I quirk my head to the side so I can watch him out of the corner of my eye. In return, Roger eyes me out of the corner of his eye, his head now bowed forward, probably at the seriousness of the story.
“I hit an icy patch on the road. My bike spun out, and I ended up thrown from the cycle onto the edge of snow-banked ditch. It was a busy area just outside of town, so I was found pretty quickly. I had a massive concussion, luckily only broken ribs and some serious road rash on my arms and legs. But since I was knocked out, the cold was dropping my body temperature fast.”
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve pulled his arm closer to me for inspection. Running my fingers over the colorful lines of the tattooed sleeve of his left arm, I look for scars. Chancing a glance up, I find Roger looking at me in what I can only guess is surprise, but which looks a little more like awe. What could he possibly see in me that would inspire a sense of awe?
“What happened?” I whisper, my heart starting to thud in worry even though Roger is clearly just fine now. His hazel eyes are shiny and he blinks. Swallowing hard and squeezing my hand tighter for a moment, Roger takes a moment before continuing his story.
“I was in the hospital for a week. Hypothermia hadn’t set in, but my core temperature had dropped 10 degrees by the time they got me to the hospital. Afterward I thought everything would be fine, but I found myself almost hyperventilating every time I so much as heard a motorcycle engine. Considering my line of work, that kind of handicap would have crippled my business. I’m not saying only bikers get tattoos, but they do make up a significant portion of my clientele. If I freaked every time one of them drove up to my shop on a bike, I would be out of business pretty quickly. One of my friends, who just happens to be the biker chick who owns Tilly’s, recommended someone to me. It helped a lot, being able to admit my fears, to figure out what life meant to me after a near death experience like that.”
He pauses a moment and turns on the couch. Instinctively I turn with him so we are facing each other. “Tyler, while I think you should give it a shot, it’s up to you.”
I swallow hard, then lick my lips. I watch his face and something clicks inside. I want to be okay again. For me. But also for him. Because I want Roger. For myself. Unsure of how to compartmentalize that thought, I let it go for the moment and nod. Swallowing again to clear my suddenly bone-dry throat, I ask for the help Roger is freely offering me.
“Do you still have the number for that therapist?” I pause pulling in a deep breath before I move forward. “I think I need to talk to someone.”
Roger smiles softly and nods. He pulls up a number on his phone and hits dial before offering it to me. I reach out my free hand to take it, barely able to grasp on for the shaking, even as I once again tighten the fingers of my other hand in his. When a woman picks up the line, I stumble out, “I would like to make an appointment to speak with someone as soon as possible.”
Roger holds my gaze with a reassuring smile and my hearts settles down, allowing me to release the breath I did not realize I was holding.
I don’t know what I expected to hear when David stopped by a few weeks later to update us on the case, but it sure as hell wasn’t that my piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend had skipped town. Or that a body had been found underneath the cement of his basement floor. The skeletal remains were directly below the cot Eric had tied me to. Roger senses my distress and puts his arm around me. I lean against his shoulder, not caring about the suspicious and somewhat amused look David throws Roger’s way.
�
�What does this mean for Tyler?” Roger asks, threading his arm underneath my shoulders and pulling me tighter into his side. I appreciate the gesture and the weight of his warm arm. At the moment, his presence is the only thing grounding me to reality.
David sits back in the small mint-green recliner, linking his hands in his lap. “For one thing, you need to stay here with Roger or go into protective custody. Given the crimes Dr. Stevens is now suspected of, he is incredibly dangerous to your well-being.”
“Here,” I choke out. “I’ll stay here.” Standing abruptly, I barely manage coherent words. “I can’t do this right now.” Without looking at either of them, I rush from the room and crawl under the white comforter on the bed I have come to think of as mine.
Fifteen minutes later, Roger knocks softly on the not quite closed door. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head, but don’t look toward him. Instead I stay on my side and stare out the window as hot tears roll down my cheeks. The mattress dips as Roger sits on the edge. His hand touches my back through the covers, tentatively at first, then rubbing a gentle circle again and again between my shoulders.
“It’s going to be okay, Tyler.”
I flip onto my back and stare up into his concerned face. “How do you know?” I whisper, wishing desperately he could give me the answer that would make this all go away.
He smiles. “Because you’re here with me. I won’t let anything happen to you. Neither will David.”
I’m not interested in what David plans to do. “Why?” I ask.
Roger just shrugs and brushes a lock of my wavy hair behind my ear. “Because I want to.”
So simple, but his answer calms something inside me. Sighing, I close my eyes. After five minutes, Roger slips out and closes the door quietly behind him. I can hear their muffled voices, and I am sure Roger will give me the important details later. For now, I rest. Falling into a deep sleep, I dream of a picnic in the park on a sunny day. Roger and I hold hands and sit by the water. Sunshine warms me on the outside, and Roger’s smile warms me on the inside.
Saturday night quickly becomes movie night. Though I leave the house for my appointments with my therapist, Dr. Cox, I don’t often go anywhere else. It is not just the fear that Eric will pop up at my favorite Walgreens or grab me off the sidewalk as I amble down to the local park. The presence of strangers now makes my skin crawl. After I started therapy, Roger and I tried to go to the movies, a misadventure which ended abruptly when a burly patron bumped into me at the concession stand, knocking my bag of popcorn to the floor. It fell like so much snow, and when I looked up at Roger, he somehow knew I needed to go. None of this bodes well for my career, but for now I just tried to focus on my recovery, both physical and emotional. Luckily, my head had stopped hurting within a week of coming home with Roger. A month passed before my ribs felt normal again. No stitches were required in my lip, so it hadn’t scarred. Now, six weeks into being Roger’s permanent houseguest, everything physical has healed, and only the emotional remains.
Roger pops popcorn in a saucepan on the stove since he insists it tastes better cooked in real butter instead of sprinkled with “that yellow chemical powder” as he calls it. David hasn’t stopped by since dropping the ugly bombshell about my ex’s murderous tendencies. But Roger told me David is embroiled in another, far more personal case now, a cold case suddenly turned hot. Apparently, he is on protective custody duty now too, much to Roger’s amusement. Their friendship intrigues me. I’m not jealous per say, but I’m happy David has stayed away, no matter what that means about me personally.
Sitting on the couch, I flip listlessly through the on-demand movie options. Action, horror, teen comedy, boring, boring, boring. Huh, The Birdcage.
I look into the kitchen where Roger is humming and shuffling the pan back and forth on the gas burner. “Do you like The Birdcage?”
He looks up smiling. “I don’t care. Whatever you like is fine.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I remember that I liked it when I first saw it. But it seems like it might feel problematic now.” I pause. “You really don’t have a preference?”
A wolfish grin I’ve never seen before flashes upon Roger’s mouth. “Oh, I have preferences,” he purrs, his voice pitched in a lower register, a bedroom register. My pulse speeds up, and I swallow hard. Another lens seems to click into place over my eyes and I suddenly see how gorgeous and sexy Roger really is. His dark auburn hair hangs rakishly over his forehead, drawing attention to his more-green-than-brown hazel eyes. The beard on his face suddenly calls to my fingers, which twitch with the desire to touch it. His bottom lip looks plump and bite-able, which is a thought I have literally never had about another human. He doesn’t seem to notice I’m staring at him with what must be saucer-sized eyes as I openly gape at the splendor before me.
I knew he was attractive before, but now it’s like a spotlight has been turned on, and all I can see are his broad shoulders stretching out his old Def Leopard concert tee, his faded blue jeans hugging his muscled ass, and the colorful tattoos up and down his arms begging to be traced by my fingers. Swallowing hard again, I try to redirect my thoughts to the movie selection, but my mind and my mouth go where they want no matter my brain’s objections.
“I’m demisexual,” I suddenly spit out, immediately clamping my mouth shut in humiliation.
Roger shows no signs of shock and just keeps shaking the pan of popping corn across the burner. “Is that so?” he asks, his smile having softened into the sweet and comforting one I am now so accustomed to.
The popcorn has stopped popping, so I am saved from responding, at least for a moment, which gives me a moment to think while Roger pours the popcorn into a large purple bowl. Do I want to continue this conversation? I wonder, surprised to realize I do. Tonight is the first time I’ve felt actively physically attracted to another person for so long I can’t even recall the last time.
Instead of answering, I just nod as Roger carries the bowl into the living room and places it on the coffee table in front of us. The remote hangs loosely in my hand until Roger takes it and sets it next to the bowl on the table. Movies are all but forgotten as my blood pounds through my ears and I feel overheated.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, tilting his head to the side so he can study my expression better.
Though I’ve already made up my mind, it seems to take forever for my suddenly dry mouth to cooperate. I nod instead of answering and pull in a deep breath. When my voice does come out, it sounds rushed and apprehensive to my own ears.
“It’s not that I’m unattracted. It just takes a really long time for the attraction to develop into a physical one.” Roger nods so I feel a bit more comfortable with continuing my explanation.
“When I was in high school, I thought I might be asexual, but then I developed a crush on the football player I tutored in English during my sophomore year. He was sweet and kind to me, always saying ‘hi’ no matter who was around when he saw me in the halls. It was like one day the sun shined brighter on him and I saw how beautiful he was.” I stumble because the moment feels so hard to explain. “I knew he was attractive before, that he had features everyone likes. But suddenly he was attractive to me.” I pause and take in a deep breath. Chancing a glance at Roger, I find him with popcorn in his palm. He seems to be listening intently while chewing the bright white puffs. That startles a laugh out of me.
“You look like the Michael Jackson meme: ‘I’m just here for the comments.’” He winks then nods for me to continue as he pops another piece into his mouth. But my eyes snag on his lips for a second too long, and I drop my gaze to my lap as I feel a blush creep up my cheeks.
Shaking my head to break the fog of distraction Roger caused, I refocus on my story. “Being the journalism geek I was, I started doing research. Demisexuality explained what was happening and why I was suddenly reacting to Jeremy when he had been my friend for over a year.” Warming to my topic now, like I always do, I ask, “Did you
know there are several theories explaining the different types of sexuality when it comes to sexual attraction and sexual desire?” I look up to find that Roger has stopped eating popcorn and is intently focused on my face, which makes me want to blush.
“What?” I murmur.
He shakes his head. “I like watching you talk about the research you do for your career, you light up.”
Frowning, I respond, “This was personal research.”
He grins, nodding his head. “My observation still stands. You like research, and I enjoy watching you talk about it.”
“Hearing, you mean. You like hearing me talk about it.”
“No, I meant exactly what I said. I enjoy watching you talk about research.”
A flush of heat sweeps my body and I swallow hard, struggling to get my mind back on track. “In the theory I like best, demisexual people experience secondary sexual attraction first, meaning the sexual attraction comes out of an emotional attachment, not the other way around as is our cultural norm: that you see someone and want to jump their bones whether or not you even know their name. That is called primary sexual attraction, and most demisexual people just don’t experience attraction that way.”
Roger laughs. “I like all of the technical jargon, especially 'jump their bones.'”
“So that’s why I don’t do hookups,” I finish, ignoring his tease as I’m feeling a bit lame now that my mini-lecture is finished. I shrug my shoulders to relieve the tension. A memory surfaces making me smile. Apparently travel journalists, especially gay ones, have a bit of a reputation, specifically, a slutty one. More than one concierge has recommended the local BDSM club to me, especially when I was on a tour of Germany. Laughing lightly at that and intending to share the thought with him, I return my gaze to Roger’s face, which has an odd expression.
“What?” I fumble out, unsure what his almost frown means.
