21 #2
He was fighting a look of derision. I stifled a laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing...nothing. Why're you even asking about him?"
He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fuck if I know. I was just wonderin'."
"But why? What’s it to you?"
"Because I wanna fuckin’ know, Rafe? Isn't that enough?" His eyes had become murky slits. Barely any blue remained. "Because you were with him every day last year. Somethin' must've been goin' on, right? That’s a fair assumption."
"Is it? So, just because we spent time together in public—while we were finishing the tour, by the way—that means I'm fucking him?
Do you even hear yourself?" After voicing his accusation aloud, I realized how unfair it was to me.
"Just because I'm around somebody, I'm fair game?
Is that really what you think of me, Rome? "
"No…I didn't mean it like that.” He shut his eyes briefly. “Sorry. I dunno...I just meant...fuck, bro. Why can't you just be straight with me for once? Quit playin' games."
"I'm not playing games.”
“Then answer the question, Rafe. It’s as simple as that. What the fuck is the matter with you? Yes or no?”
“Why the fuck would I, like, dignify a question like that with an answer? Fuck off.”
“Yeah, alright.” He was livid. He sat back and played with his lighter.
"You're gonna burn it all out."
He always killed his lighters this way. I took pity since I enjoyed the thought of him being jealous, even after all this time.
"Mate, look...I’m not gonna sit here and map out every aspect of our relationship for your satisfaction. But I will say…ultimately he and I are just friends, alright? Simple as. Don’t have a baby about it.”
“So, he’s still around?”
“What're you acting all butthurt for? Am I not allowed to have friends, Rome? Even with you out of my life?"
"I'm not butthurt, fuckhead. Just curious. So…you still see him then?"
"Mm-hm... sometimes."
"So…nothin' happened?"
"Again, I’m not going there. Believe what you want."
“Did you fuck?”
We hadn’t, but something in me refused to give him the reassurance he sought. He had no right to demand that of me.
"Rafe…Rafe?” He grabbed my arm but I shrugged him off. “Was it even like that? Did you want somethin’ to happen? Did you let him in? Rafe? Rafe, has he been inside you? Would you just fuckin’ answer me please."
"Rome, mate, seriously! I can’t believe you’re even asking me shit like this already. Chill, alright? It’s making me uncomfortable. And again, what's it to you anyway?”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“You left me, remember? You were the one 'engaged'.
" I hit him with the air quotes on that one.
"You were the one who ran off to Italy—or wherever-the-fuck—with Piper and your mum after you left.
You know how bad that fucked me up? To see you with her after I lost you?
And…and now after everything, you dump her, and suddenly you're with... "
"Yeah…"
“Mila…”
“I know.”
"And it’s all the press can ever fucking talk about. All over my timeline 24/7. Roman Jacobs & Mila Hearst. If I wanna check up on you, it means seeing the two of you together. So don’t give me shit about who I’m seen with. Ever."
"Fair. So, uh…I guess we both fucked around a bit."
"Obviously," I ruffled my hair, shoving it behind my ears.
"How many?"
"A few. Just a few here and there."
"But what does that mean?"
"Like...nearly ten." He raised his eyebrows, but I rushed to assure him. "I didn't bed them all, mate. They were just sort of a distraction."
"Still...that's a lot for you."
"Yeah, it was," I sighed. "I was lonely. I was in a fucked-up place for months. What'd you expect? You were difficult to get over."
"Does that mean you're over me then?"
I shrugged. “Who cares? Doesn’t matter.”
"Can you tell me who they were?"
"What for? It's over now. A lot of the time I was shit-faced or blacked out and couldn't even remember who it was anyway."
“Damn, Rafe.”
“Don’t judge.”
“Any guys?" He feared my answer. I delivered it as gently as possible.
"Um...yeah." His lids lowered. "We didn't go too far. Not as far as you and I—"
"Don't fuckin’ compare them to me."
"Alright. Ok. Chill, Rome."
"Keep talkin’."
"No…you're already getting pissed at me. I told you I didn't wanna do it. Just forget it."
He scooted to the opposite end of the couch, away from me.
"Dickhead," I muttered.
"Yeah okay."
He lit another cigarette. I reached and took it from his mouth and crushed it.
He simply lit another one. While he smoked, I got up and cut the record player off since the vinyl had run its course.
I wandered about his halls, studying the art that filled the place and lent it the look of a zany exhibition.
Despite the minimalist approach to its furnishing, the home was much warmer than mine because it was a hodgepodge of things distinctively Rome.
All suggestive of his insular little world.
Loads of customizations. Vintage comic books and merch.
Pirate flags. Eccentric antiques and collectables.
A massive collage of Polaroids at the end of the hall, documenting his time in LA and Vegas after the band.
Strange places and faces I would need to grill him about someday.
Do you even think of me? It sat on the tip of my tongue, ready to strike.
I longed to confront him about the things he'd built up in me, only to let plummet one day out of the blue.
When his ego told him to split, to the detriment of our covert universe.
Inflicting damage no one else could detect or console.
Did he have any clue I was barely holding it together?
Didn't he see the lesions? The sutures? The hideous places I'd sewn myself up—feeble and encrusted with blood?
I had no idea what I was doing when I attempted to fix myself, I only knew that I must.
Now he looked at me like everything was alright. Totally copacetic. As though nothing violent had transpired in the final days of our private hell. I hated how well-adjusted he was. Too apt at getting over things.
Of course I think about you, he’d say, just to shut me up.
Although, none of it made a bit of difference.
He was in love with someone else. They were making a home together—gleefully playing house.
Bitter hostility rose in my throat. I was beginning to feel waterboarded.
I knew it was time to make excuses and part. Just like old times.
It was good seeing you. Best of luck with everything. Hope your family's well. Cheers mate.
I returned to the living room and he'd finished the cigarette. He was reading something on his phone, but put it away the minute I entered. I was too craven to leave abruptly like I’d planned a moment ago, so I plopped down beside him.
Nearly right on top of him. Our arms were overlapping.
My leg lay alongside his, our jeans nearly identical.
I could see his knees. They were bony and tanned.
We were slumped like old-timers on the porch of a rest home. Passing the time with talk of bygone days. Faces we'd never see again. I looked over at him and he used his free hand to smooth the scowl from my forehead.
"Angel face..." he muttered. "You've got sick eyes, man, I mean it." I was beginning to feel weak, so I gazed ahead. We’d survived so much together. Miles of difficult terrain and few regrets.
I knew we were almost there when his voice became unnervingly tender.
Don’t stop talking, whatever you do. How many nights had I lain awake listening to him murmur?
Filling my belly with a syrupy heat. Now all I could hear was Journey's "Faithfully" scoring the moment in my heart, like a tentative memory of the wee hours on the road.
"I've missed this so much," I said, resting my head on his shoulder. He set his chin atop.
"Yeah…"
“I remember everything.”
"Last thing I remember was how ticklish you were. I could make you piss yourself with one touch." I laughed and he nudged me with the arm I was lying against. "What about now?"
"No... not anymore. I’ve toughened up—"