Chapter 7 #3
Things changed in high school. Ruben was recruited for their city’s orchestra right before his sixteenth birthday, and as his free time disappeared, so too did his friendship with Rowan.
The beginning of the end had been the night of Rowan's national chess championship. Yes, he knew how ridiculous that sounded, but at the time, it had been the most important thing in Rowan’s world.
His clubmates didn’t care about his aversion to touch, and they were around more than his parents and siblings combined.
Historically, the team had been quite bad, never progressing past the local competitions, let alone regionals or nationals.
If they didn’t start producing some results, the team was set to lose its sponsorship, so Rowan had thrown himself into building up the team, practicing nearly every day while teaching the other club members—and it had actually paid off.
They began winning, first locally, then statewide, and finally at the national level.
His parents hadn’t been able to make any of the lesser competitions, but after Rowan’s repeated requests, they committed to being in town for the championship match.
Rowan could still feel the way that elusive pride had swirled inside his chest. He wasn’t like his older siblings.
He wouldn’t be showing in an art gallery by twenty-two like Raina, starting a business by twenty like Riley, or joining an orchestra by sixteen like Ruben, but he had this… except it still wasn’t enough.
Obviously, Ruben hadn’t meant to sprain his wrist the same night as Rowan’s competition.
He had just been sneaking into the principal violist or bassist or whatever’s third-story bedroom window and fallen.
For any other teenage boy, this would have meant wrapping it in ice and going about his day, but that wouldn’t do for the up-and-coming best cellist on the East Coast.
His moms had flown into a panic, rushing out to take Ruben to the ER before Rowan’s team even stepped onto the competition stage. Despite the disruption, Rowan still managed to win second place, only to learn later that week that the club would still be losing its sponsorship the following year.
Ruben never apologized or even acknowledged what he’d done. His parents hadn’t said anything, either. They were far too preoccupied ferrying Ruben from one hand specialist to another, trying to get him back into tip-top shape to go off to his performing arts conservatory that fall.
No one noticed as Rowan slipped into the background at school, his one true interest and only source of pseudo-friends gone.
His parents were barely home that year, visiting their other three kids across the country and pursuing their other ventures.
When high school graduation arrived, his moms were so tired of their children’s school events that they didn’t ask what day it was, and Rowan didn’t offer.
He collected his diploma and put it away in the back of his closet next to his abandoned chess set.
His relationship with Ruben never quite returned to how it was when they were kids.
Throughout their years in college, the two of them stumbled through awkward visits home for the holidays until, slowly, they both stopped going home.
Rowan ended up living with Riley as she finished her MBA, and Rowan worked on his bachelor's in economics.
She was actually the one who created the family group chat and pushed Ruben and Rowan to talk to each other again.
When Ruben made the surprising choice to move back to the city, Rowan had been in such a dark place, he’d forgiven any and all past transgressions, genuinely just happy to have his brother back.
Over the past several years, they’d rebuilt their relationship into something solid, if sometimes a bit bothersome.
Case in point, Rowan was pretty sure he saw flecks of dried mud on his coffee table underneath Ruben’s boots.
His hawk bobbed his head, and he found himself channeling Milo and their easy bluntness.
“I met someone,” Rowan said.
Ruben paused with the can of seltzer halfway to his mouth. “Like met someone, met someone? Or made a new acquaintance?”
“Like made a new friend,” Rowan said, even if that descriptor was beginning to feel inadequate. “A really good friend.”
Ruben lowered the can back down to his thigh and squinted at Rowan. “Since when do you make really good friends?”
The room went so quiet that Rowan could hear the seltzer bubbling.
“Not that you wouldn’t make a great friend,” Ruben said, tipping his chin up and getting that stubborn look he sometimes got. “You just don’t seem to want friends outside of the family and the sort of fucked up people you tend to date.”
“They’re not fucked up.”
Ruben snorted, but the can crackled in his grip. “The last one made you cry. That seems pretty fucked up to me.”
The back of Rowan’s head prickled, and his hawk screeched. The last guy he had gone on a date with had called him “frigid” before slamming Rowan’s car door and storming off. Rowan had managed to make it back to his apartment’s parking lot before breaking down.
Because luck was truly never on his side, Ruben had just gotten home from practice and saw Rowan drive in.
He’d come over, hoping to surprise Rowan—actually, “startle” might be a more accurate word—but when he’d seen him in tears, he’d climbed into the passenger seat and demanded Rowan tell him everything.
When Rowan finished, Ruben had offered to egg the guy’s car, but by then, Rowan’s tears had dried, and he didn’t see the point.
“He wasn’t very nice about breaking things off, but he had every right to do so. I can’t offer or be what most people want.”
The can made an ominous popping sound. “Why, because you have a thing about touch? That shouldn’t be a big fucking deal.”
Rowan sank a little farther into the back of his couch. “Really? You’re telling me if you met someone at the club who couldn’t dance with you, kiss you, or even hold your hand on the way to the car, that wouldn’t be a big deal?”
Ruben shrugged one shoulder, but the movement seemed tight. “We would have a few things to discuss, obviously. Like, are there any touches he’s okay with? Through clothes or when touching certain parts of his body…or parts of my body?”
Ruben waggled his eyebrows, and Rowan groaned. “This suddenly turned weird.”
“Why?” Ruben said with a laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “I’m talking about some made-up dude at the club.”
Rowan rolled his eyes. “Okay, so let’s say this made-up dude at the club is comfortable with some forms of sex, but not a lot, and he probably wouldn’t be able to cuddle afterward.”
Ruben pursed his lips. Despite the too-cool-for-school persona he had always tried to project, Ruben was a very snuggly person. “Okay, hypothetical question. Would the dude be cool watching me fuck and cuddle with another guy? Because if so, I’ve already done that before. Multiple times.”
Rowan nearly dropped his bottle of water. “You…really?”
“Yeah. There are guys out there who don’t want to have sex but love the energy and vibes. I think it’s some flavor of asexual. Also, I’ve been with guys who don’t want to be touched but love touching me.”