by Drea Roman
“You never have to apologize for who you are, Tyler, especially not to me. You are perfectly wonderful. How you do or do not respond to anyone is fine for you because that is how you are. Anybody who doesn’t understand that, well, it’s their loss I say.”
“Eric did not understand.” It pops out of my mouth before my brain realizes I thought it. Roger hands me the bowl of popcorn, and I eat a handful before continuing. The story of how I met Eric and thought I should really try with him tumbles out. “I was so tired of being lonely, and since Eric was attractive and appeared kind on the surface, I thought I would just go for it for once, you know? But it didn’t work, and I never felt fully engaged with him.”
I blow out a breath, feeling winded. “That was why I decided to break it off. The experiment was a failure, and as you know, he didn’t take the news well.”
Roger’s expression is kind, and he pats the hand that rests on my thigh. Quickly I turn it palm up, and he intertwines his fingers with mine.
“In fact, I realize now that most of the time, I’ve acted sexually based on someone else’s need and interest, not my own. I don’t want to do that ever again. It was a mistake which nearly cost me my life.”
We sit in silence for awhile until Roger squeezes my hand and I look up to find him looking at me solemnly.
“Just so you know, Tyler, anyone worth your while will want to wait until you feel something real.” He pauses, uncharacteristically looking away from me. Then he nods as if resolving something in his mind and turns his hazel eyes back to me. “I know I would,” he says, and leaves it at that.
Chapter 6
Two months of thrice weekly therapy sessions, and I still haven’t gone back to work. Or moved out of Roger’s spare bedroom. Even if David insists I am still in danger and Roger’s home is the best place for me to stay, I still feel like a complete failure. Today’s session was harsh, brutal. My insistence on my own culpability has lessened with each hour I’ve spent talking with Dr. Cox. Since she is both a psychiatrist and a psychologist, she offered me something to help me sleep. Today was the first day I’ve considered taking her up on it. Logically, I know Eric was responsible for everything he did to me: before the assault, during it, and afterward. But, I still can’t completely forgive myself for dating him in the first place, for allowing the relationship to form, for allowing it to continue when I knew it wasn’t what I needed. Dr. Cox reminds me every session that my thoughts and feelings are normal, understandable, but also unfair to me. I sigh realizing I’ve been staring into the mirror at my nude self for twenty minutes.
Shaking my head, I turn to the giant walk-in shower and turn on the water. Flicking open the cap of the shampoo, I inhale the fragrance as my eyes close and the steam rises around me. It is Roger’s shampoo. When I first agreed to stay here, Roger offered to buy me my own toiletries or to pick up mine from my apartment, but I hadn’t cared so he told me to use his. Now I crave the apple scent of his hair and wish it were all over me. Suddenly seized with a bone deep need to feel closer to the man who saved my life and has helped me put it back together, I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and use more of it as a body wash. As my hand slips down to my crotch, I find myself hardening for the first time since before the attack. I’m so shocked that all I can do at first is stare at the cock in my palm in wonder.
“Roger.” His name drops from my lips as I close my hand over my shaft and give myself a little pump down then up. The shampoo provides a silky glide, and I’m fully erect in a few strokes. “Roger,” I moan again as I imagine his hand clutching me instead of my own, his much larger body pushing me against the wet tile wall. I turn and lean against said wall, giving myself over to the fantasy in a way I’ve never done before in my whole sexual life. I gasp, and my imaginary Roger grips my chin before plunging his tongue into my mouth. I cry out, gasping, tightening my hand around myself as I glide my hand faster and faster over my dick. Orgasm shoots through me, but imaginary Roger swallows my cries and kisses me as I float on the high, then softly settle back down to earth. Flicking my eyes open, I desperately wish my fantasy were real. I feel alone and cold as I finish washing myself off. As I dry, then dress in soft gray lounge pants and a matching v-neck t-shirt, I contemplate what all this means. As I open the bathroom door to leave, my dirty laundry and towel left in the hamper, I turn to look at myself in the mirror again. I’m not sure who or what I see. It’s not a comfortable feeling, like something is changing, and I’m not sure I will survive the ride. As I stare at myself, a sinking feeling builds in my stomach as my memory turns toward the last time I was with Eric.
When I walk into house, there is something odd about the stillness. The tv is not on, nor is the radio. I make my way through the entryway and into the kitchen before I see Tyler standing in the doorway of the bathroom with his back turned toward me, staring but not moving.
“Tyler,” I say concerned about how still he is standing and the far away look in his eyes. He doesn’t move or seem to have heard me. If not for the rise and fall of his chest, I would think he was a marble statue come to life. I walk softly and slowly across the carpet toward him, afraid of frightening him with my movement. When I make it to his side, I can see that his jaw and hands are clenched tightly, and tears are running down his face. Hesitantly, I reach out and touch his shoulder with my fingertips.
Tyler startles at the contact, whipping his head around. But he looks at me like he doesn’t recognize my face. Fear dilates his pupils and he brings up his arms to shield his face as he screams. “No! Stop!”
I step back out of his space and he begins to sob loudly, doubling over, clutching his arms around his middle as he hangs his head toward the floor.
“Oh my God,” he cries out over and over again. He looks on the verge of collapse and his legs are shaking underneath him.
“Tyler.” I coo at him in a soft voice as if he were a frightened animal.
He cries out again at the sound of his name, bringing his hands up to cover his ears. “No, no, no,” he moans, his sobs rattling his chest and throat. Their sounds rend my heart, and surely that is what is happening inside of Tyler. Still bent over, he chokes and sputters, swaying on his bare feet.
“Tyler.” I try for stern this time, worried he is going to collapse and hurt his head on the floor. I inch closer as he sinks to his knees. Squatting down next to him, I stay close but do not touch him.
“Tyler, it’s Roger. ‘Roger Not the Rabbit.’ Do you remember?” He makes a choking noise and I place my palm on his shoulder without thinking. His head yanks up, but this time his tear-filled eyes recognize me.
“Roger,” he breathes out on a moan, but sobs continue to slip out of his throat. “Roger.”
Leaning for to help him to his feet, he shocks me by throwing himself into my arms. I almost end up on my ass but manage to pull us both up to standing. His arms grasp at me desperately hugging himself hard against my chest.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He cries out, his tears soaking into my t-shirt and sliding down my neck.
“Why, Tyler?” I whisper against his ear, his tear stained cheek pressed tightly against mine. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
“I thought you were him! I thought you were Eric. For a split second, I remembered him beating me.” His breath is hot against my arm as I lean forward into him to bridge our height difference. “You are so kind, Roger, nothing like Eric.” He continues but is barely understandable through the tears. “You touched me on the shoulder, and suddenly I was back there with him. I knew! I knew!” He screams in my ear as he attempts to burrow himself into my body, clearly seeking safety.
“Shh, it’s okay,” I murmur in his ear, hoping he will believe me and start to calm down, but if possible, it seems he is crying harder.
“I knew something was wrong with him, with the relationship, but it was so easy, so much easier than being alone! To come home from a trip and have someone waiting for me.” The words are halting, garbled, gasped between
sobs in a staccato rhythm. “Why was I so stupid? Why, Roger?! Why?!”
He is melting down in my arms, sobs still wracking his frame. He burrows his face into my neck and practically strangles on his gut-wrenching sobs.
“Tyler, shhh.” I whisper to him again, dropping a kiss against his ear because I am desperate to comfort him. “It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not!” He chokes out. Running my hands up and down his back in even strokes, I attempt to pet him down to calmness. But even though he clings to me desperately, his anguish continues to roll out of him in great, wracking heaves. Maybe this is a good thing. I knew it was inevitable that the effects of the trauma he endured at the hands of his ex would surface; I’m relieved that he is here with me, turning to me to comfort him.
“It is okay, Tyler. Just get it out. Tell me everything.” I feel his hot, heavy breath against my neck as his tears streak down my skin, running a wet path over my clavicle, and soaking into the top of my t-shirt.
“It’s my fault! I let him do this to me!” His voice is muffled into my skin, and his desperate self-accusations tear at my heart. We cannot stand like this in front of the bathroom doorway forever, so I slowly start stepping backward into the living room, half-carrying him along. He does not fight me, nor does he stop crying, though the voracity seems to have waned. When I manage to maneuver us to the couch, I sink down and pull him down with me. Leaning back against the arm, I pull my legs up onto the cushions and settle Tyler on top of me, his side resting against my chest, his face still buried in my neck, his legs curled up into my lap.
“Shh.” I murmur to him again. He is still crying, but silently now, the tears running like a waterfall down his cheeks, down my neck, soaking my t-shirt through. Since I need to reassure him and help him see he bears no responsibility for what his ex did to him, I continue trying to rationally soothe him.
“No, you didn’t let that piece of shit excuse-for-a-man do anything to you. You did not invite him to hurt you by staying in the relationship. You never signed up to be beaten, to be choked, to be tied to a fucking cot and left to starve, Tyler. I will keep saying it to you until you understand me. You did nothing wrong. Eric did. All of this is on him. None of it is on you.”
I take a deep breath because his breakdown is starting to break me down, too. Breathing in deeply, I can smell the fresh shampoo from his recent shower. It’s my shampoo, and something about that shared intimacy sends a shudder of ecstasy and longing through my system. Not exactly sexual, the feeling is so pure in its joy that I understand immediately what it means. I love Tyler. It’s not just some desire to take care of him or just some wanton lust for his flesh. I have fallen in love with the man I am coming to know. But I’m not scared by the realization. No, it feels right, and my arms tighten around his lithe frame, pulling him imperceptivity further into me. I hope that my body heat, almost always at roasting levels according to more than one ex-lover, will seep into him because his skin feels so cold, so clammy, like the sadness, anguish, and fear are a flu he is fighting. And I hope that he will let me be the medicine he needs to recover and build his life anew, with me. I want him to build a life with me.
Twenty more minutes and Tyler’s crying drops off to be replaced with soft hiccupping noise. He absentmindedly rubs his nose against the dip of my clavicle, smearing snot across my skin. It’s slimy and gross, but I cannot help but laugh. Tyler leans back and looks at me in surprise. His face is red, puffy, and streaked with snot and tears.
Unfortunately, I cannot hold back my sudden giggles, the relief of seeing his eyes free of the pain tormenting them earlier is overwhelming my jangled nerves. “I’m sorry,” I gasp out.
A small smile kicks up the corners of his mouth. He raises his hand to his cheek. When he pulls his fingers away to look at them, they are covered in tears and snot. He glances up at me and a soft almost laugh-sigh escapes him. Clearly his throat, he speaks with a horse voice, “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
Shaking my head, I murmur, “No. You just needed to cry.” I pause gauging his mood. Since he seems blank or perhaps following, I try for a comforting tease. “All over me.” When his smile widens, I press my luck. “Was my collarbone a good snot rag? I have to admit it has never been used for that purpose before.”
Tyler’s head tips back slightly, and he laughs softly, his eyes taking on a slight merriment. I will take it. When he meets my eyes again, he tilts his head to the side and studies me a moment. I stare back into his amber, almost whiskey-colored eyes. They are beautiful in spite of their red rimmed state. We hold each other’s gazes for a few long moments, and it feels like something solid settles in place between us.
Tyler is the first to break our gaze as he looks down at his curled-up position in my lap. “You make a good seat, too. Who needs furniture and handkerchiefs when you have ‘Roger Not the Rabbit’ Montgomery?” He slips his arms from around me and sits up further.
His tone sobers, “Thank you, Roger. I don’t think I could have gotten through that on my own.”
Since one hand is still around his waist, I use my free one to tip up his chin, so I can look him directly in the eye. “You are welcome, Tyler. I know you are strong enough, but I am happy that you took my help when you needed it.” We stare at each other for a while, the moment both light and laden with unspoken meaning, yearning, and understanding.
Another month rolls by, and Tyler has been houseguest for three of the happiest months of my life. We are almost like roommates now. We eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together and watch movies on Saturday nights. Except something crackles in the air between us, an invisible current running beneath the surface of things. While David wasn’t far off in calling me a Zen bastard with a calmness honed through practice and struggle, with every day, I care and long for Tyler more and more. Not that I have ever been physically distant with him. From the first moment he awoke in my arms, sodden and muddy, Tyler has leaned into my touch. It’s not too difficult to stay on the chaste side of things, but there should be no doubt, even in Tyler’s mind, that I want more from our friendship. At least, I hope it was clear when I declared I would wait for him. Maybe not. Sighing, I push back in my office chair and throw my feet up on the edge of my desk.
Two days after Tyler’s emotional breakdown, David had dropped by unexpectedly to deliver news on the case against Tyler’s ex. While the rather evil Dr. Stevens had been caught awhile before, it had taken awhile for the wheels of justice to start rolling properly. The whole mess went to trial last week with the assault against Tyler as only one part of a larger case. Dr. Eric Stevens, formerly head of emergency medicine at Oakland General, turned out to be a straight up serial killer in the making. Tyler was victim number two and lucky to have escaped with relatively minor injuries, his severe concussion aside. He had been horrified to hear that victim number one’s dead body had been buried in the cement of the basement floor directly beneath the cot Eric had tied him to. It appeared that the only reason Tyler escaped Eric’s violence for as long as he did was because he traveled so much for work.
Eric’s trail had gone cold outside of Albuquerque until he was found in a cheap hotel, holed up like the rat he is. David had seemed distracted and agitated when he delivered the news, clearly in a hurry to get back to his mysterious protective custody charge. He gave Tyler the options he had negotiated on his behalf. Tyler could testify directly to the judge and have his testimony recorded for playback for the larger courtroom or testify publicly. Tyler chose to tell his story inside the judge’s chambers and miraculously the prosecutor somehow managed to keep his name out of the press. A jury of his peers deliberated on Eric’s fate for a single hour before pronouncing him guilty. We were in attendance in the galley, and the relieved smile Tyler gave me after the verdict was read made my heart sing.
This is why I’m sitting in my office overthinking everything. When we walked out of the courtroom after hearing the verdict a week ago, I expected some sort of clarity on our situation. As r
elieved as I was that Tyler simply took my hand and lead me to my car, I have would preferred something more solid and clear. Like glass. Laughing at myself now, I throw my feet off the desk and stand up to stretch. I have an appointment for a cover up at 4 p.m., and it will be a two-hour job. Then, it’s dinner with Tyler and our Saturday movie night. But for once, I feel unsettled, a little apprehensive, as I have no idea what is on Tyler’s mind. I’m afraid to ask for fear of breaking whatever spell we appear to be under, for him to pack up and move out, leaving me alone, longing for him.
Chapter 7
One week after the trial ended in guilty verdicts on multiple charges against the definitely evil doctor Dr. Stevens, I carry a bowl of popcorn into the living room and plop down on the couch. Roger grins at me and as always happens, my heart flutters with happiness and a touch of apprehension. With the trial over and Eric sentenced to life in prison for his crimes, my future with Roger remains up in the air. Not that I want it to be. I want more, but I’m a little afraid and unsure of exactly what I am asking for.
We settle in to watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I. Roger, as it turns out, is a rather tall and sexy Potterhead. But tonight’s selection is my pick. As the characters rush around the halls of the Ministry of Magic, I snuggle back against Roger’s chest. That is another thing which has developed over time. My comfort with initiating physical contact with Roger has increased to the point that tonight I pulled him down to the couch with me and arranged him as my pillow, leaning my back into his chest, and pulling his arms around me like his ever-present afghan. Roger just chuckled and kissed my ear. He doesn’t even realize how often he does that, touches me, giving me comfort, reassurance, and affection. Desperately, I want more, but the tiniest scrap of fear holds me back. The “what-ifs” circle my brain and I talk myself out of broaching the subject of what I believe is our mutual desire, again and again. I’ve felt like this since the movie night when we discussed my sexuality and Roger declared that he would wait for me. As seemingly direct as the statement might have appeared, it didn’t feel that way to me, and I am afraid he meant it only in the hypothetical.
