28
Again, I awakened, this time to the sound of someone humming, and a cool and consistent application on my toes. Groggy-eyed, I lifted my head to find Rome dressed in a black tank-top and sweats, diligently painting my toenails with orange nail varnish.
"Rome?" I grumbled.
He kept at his task, blowing the paint on my toes until it dried to his satisfaction. When I wiggled them, he slapped my foot, and I fell back onto the bed with a laugh.
"I'm hungrrrry!" I growled. "Ahhhhhh!"
"Me too," he grinned, switching to the other foot. "I was waitin' on ya...to see what you'd want."
"Everything, I think."
"Like last time?" he snickered, referencing our feast from the other day.
"Pasta and steak and chicken and pork and lobster and—"
"Just kill all the animals."
“Yesss.”
Later he pulled the sheet away. Rather exposed, I covered myself, but he removed my hands, kissing my thighs and belly.
Pressing his warm lips to the large, sword-wielding angel inked across my ribcage, wings outstretched.
It was his favorite of mine. He had a similar one, a massive portrait of the archangel Michael slaying Lucifer, which trailed down his entire right flank.
It had cost him a great deal of anguish, but the result was sublime.
He now traced the amber-eyed panther that curled around my hip.
Then closely examined the new rosary draped around my forearm.
Finally, the secret Roman galea with the red plume inked on my lower abdomen, which only he knew the meaning of.
I'd gotten it long before he left, but hardly anyone knew.
Least of all the fans, who liked to categorize and copy my ink.
Eventually he reached across me to grab a cigarette from the opposite nightstand, which I lit for him like old times. I hadn’t even realized I'd grabbed the lighter. After setting it aside, a thought occurred to me.
"You know you're, uh, willfully inhaling things like lead into your body? And about 4,000 other chemicals? Or should I say 3,999 other chemicals."
"Oh, gee, really? No way, I had no idea, bro. Thank you for tellin' me. You're so bloody smart..."
"Hey, easy on the sarcasm. I was just stating facts. Look," I grabbed the package and read the Surgeon General's warning. "Cigarette Smoke Contains Carbon Monoxide." I face-palmed. "Mate, it's right on the bloody label. What're you doing with your life?"
"Well alcohol's really bad for you too, y'know."
"Oof...touché, my friend. Touché." I laughed. "Gimme some of that!" I reached for the cigarette and he dodged away.
"Now why would you wanna smoke somethin’ if you know it's sohhh bad for you, huh?"
"Because, you're doing it."
"And?"
"I dunno." I propped up onto my elbows and shrugged.
"Guess that's as good a reason as any," he decided, maneuvering to lay back across the center of the bed; resting his head on my lap. I pulled the sheet over my crotch and helped him get comfortable. He squinted through the smoke, taking long drafts and gazing at the ceiling.
"We're sooo lazy, " I moaned, falling back onto the pillows.
"Always 'ave been. Nothin' new."
I picked a little crust from the corner of my nose, then rubbed my eyes.
"...because I'm obsessed with you."
"Hm?"
It was a stupid thing for me to say, but it was out there now. Best to roll with it.
"That's why I want to smoke. Because you're doing it, I guess. That's just the way my brain works."
"Mm..." He contemplated my answer a while, his silence driving me up a wall.
How was I still afraid of his rejection, even after seeing the muraled room and the manner in which he made love to me?
Hadn't I been accepted beyond measure? How could he reasonably reject me or think me grotesque or pitiful after the things he’d revealed since I arrived; both in word and in action?
But I suppose my apprehension was a testament to the sheer power he held.
I would never not be intimidated by him.
Finally, he admitted, "Maybe I'm obsessed with you too, then."
"So... we’re obsessed with each other?"
"Pretty fucked up, innit?"
"Where do we go from here?"
There was a moment's silence before he shrugged.
"Marry me," I murmured, only half-serious.
"Okay."
"You don't mean it. You never do."
He reached over and snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand then lay with his back to me.
"Be completely honest with me, alright?" I began.
"Okay..."
"How does she make you feel?"
"Who? Mila? I dunno. Normal, I guess. Grounded...fun. Mostly alright."
"Ok...now tell me...how do I make you feel?"
"Rafe..."
"C'mon...be honest with me. It's a simple question." He hesitated, so I cleared my throat. "Please? Just this once? Don't bullshit me on this—"
"Insane...confused...frustrated..." My spirits plummeted until he dug deeper. "Safe...hidden...honest..."
"I’ll take it."
"How do I make you feel, then?"
"To be honest...nothing," I cackled. He tickled the back of my knee until I nearly pissed myself. "Alright, alright! I'll answer!" I gurgled with laughter. "All of the above, of course. And, uh, whole...unafraid."
Drake's "Crew Love" scored the moment and was so unfitting I couldn't help but smile.
"So are you gonna give me briefs to wear this time?"
As I got dressed, he stepped into the hall to take a call, but rushed back in with a panicked expression.
"Mila's here!"
"What?! Fuck’s sake!” I blurted. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!”
“Grab your shit!”
I glanced around, flushing beet red, trying to grab anything that might've indicated my presence.
He did the same. Luckily, my car was parked on the street a good distance from the driveway, so she wouldn't suspect anyone had stopped by.
Rome brought me my rings and necklace and shoved them into my hands, urging me into the closet to hide.
He uttered a quick 'I'm so sorry' before shutting the doors and leaving me in total darkness.
Almost immediately, her voice filled the room.
The sound of her heels against the polished concrete was an absolute bane.
I could smell her perfume from a block away.
She spoke flippantly of her day, laughing every other word.
Rome told her he'd been writing, and that he'd been in the studio all day since she left.
She playfully admonished him for not making the bed, and when she went to fix the sheets, he stopped her.
I heard them kiss. She whimpered and I cringed, swallowing the bile rising in my throat.
He said he thought they were meeting at her place tomorrow.
She replied they still are, but she'd left her phone, which is why she called from a friend's. Once they found it on the counter in the bathroom, they headed out of the master suite and the conversation fell beyond my earshot. Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters” was the only sound that remained.
I let out a breath, convinced we were in the clear, but registered the state I was in.
Tucked away in the closet, lights off. He'd forgotten to turn them on for me.
It was a large closet, and I had plenty of room to move about, but somehow, I felt crammed away.
Worse, interred. I sank down against the nearest wall and hugged my legs.
Fuck’s sake, I was a homewrecker. The mistress, the other woman.
Always the fucking secret. Unworthy of being spotted with him in the light of day.
And just as those familiar ruminations began to overwhelm, the closet door flung open and he was kneeling before me.
Apologizing profusely. Kissing all over my face.
***
An hour later we were chowing down on Vietnamese and a smorgasbord from Fat Sal's Deli, which he swore by.
I ate shirtless so whenever things dropped onto my chest, Rome leaned across the table to slurp it off, which left me in stitches every time.
After dinner, we moved into the living room where "Cheap Thrills" played and I jumped up and down on the sofa, rocking out to the song until he tackled me to the floor.
There we sat across from each other, drinking the last of the Stellas and disclosing the weirdest stories from our time apart.
He spoke about a fight with his uncle before moving to the U.S.
The uncle wanted to borrow a substantial amount of money to jumpstart some shady business venture, but Rome had cut him off because he'd become rather exploitative.
"Sick fuck, he is.”
“Yeah,” I uttered, with a nostalgic smile. Remembering the uncle all too well.
“Always drumming up some dumb fuck idea—which never amounts to anythin’."
"Remember the wireless headphones pitch?"
"Yeah, how could I forget?" he scoffed. "He just wouldn't listen. Mate, I told him they already existed. Who doesn't get that? That you’d make no money for peddlin’ someone else's idea?
" I burst out laughing. "Then I'm supposed to feel like a dickhead for not bankrollin' everythin' he puts forward.
Like I'm turnin' me back on me own family. "
"I've gotten a few of those emails. People crawling out the woodwork looking for handouts, especially when the band ended.
They find the weirdest excuses as well. It's like, just admit you want the bloody money and leave it at that, mate.
Don't bother making up fake illnesses and procedures, especially for children and puppies.
Ugh, I can't begin to tell you how many surgeries I've paid for, for 'family' I haven't even met. "
"Oh yeah?" he gazed over at me, brow furrowed.
"Some were legit, of course. But many were just bullshit, y'know?"
"True. It's always the step-in-laws or—"
"Something, something, twice removed," I chuckled.
"Man, I hate money. No one ever believes me when I say that, but I do."
"I believe you," I reassured him, draining the last of my beer. He'd been saying it for years, now. That sentiment emboldened him to walk away from millions in the last year of touring.