15. Julian #2
It would be so easy to do. I know he’d let me. Still, I think this would be good for both of us. I don’t just want sex. Ian has always been more to me.
“Have you ever heard of a rage room?”
The place smells like dust, old metal, and turpentine.
I watch Ian take in the concrete floors and bare entryway. There’s a man at the front on a computer who welcomes us when we come in. “Hi, uh, can we rent a room? The rage room. We’re not sure how this whole thing works.”
“Sure, it’s twenty-five for the hour. You just need to fill out waivers and grab your protective gear. You have to wear the helmet and safety gear the entire time you’re in the smash zone.”
“The smash zone.” Ian laughs.
“You still want to do this?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, I do.”
We’re handed helmets, what look like hazmat suits, safety glasses, and gloves.
Ian stares at the gear and thanks the man.
I put on my helmet and safety glasses then slip on the protective suit and gloves as I watch Ian struggle with his helmet.
I walk over and help him adjust the chin straps, and I smile.
“I feel like we’re getting ready for a zombie invasion. ”
We walk inside the room where junk is stacked like an offering—old TVs, plates, radios, wine bottles, a computer. The heavy door shuts with a clang. “This is very horror-movie adjacent,” Ian says, as he picks up a bat and holds it like he’s never seen one in his life.
“Is that how you hold a bat?” I laugh.
He flips me off. “I don’t sport, Julian!” He grips it a little tighter. “I told you I’m not athletic.”
I watch him walk carefully over to the table with various broken electronics.
I don’t rush him. I’m a little unsure myself. Everything my mother taught me growing up about not breaking shit echoes in my brain. I feel like I’m doing something wrong even though we paid to be here. “Should I just—” I nod.
Ian swings.
The bat connects with an old TV, smashing in the screen. “Holy shit,” he laughs.
“Good?”
He nods. “Feels better than it should. Grab one.” I take a bottle. Ian backs up against the wall to give me space and I smash the bottle. Glass flies through the air.
“Oh, okay. I like this. Petition to make one of these in the back of the shop for when we get shitty clients.” Ian’s laugh rings through my ears. We take turns smashing things and laughing.
Glass rains down, plastic cracks. His bat connects with a glass mirror, and it explodes from the force of the bat. Ian freezes, breathing hard.
Then he swings again.
And again.
His shoulders bunch. Jaw tightens. Each strike is harder than the last.
I stop breaking shit and watch him. Violent and beautiful. I watch him let go of everything he’s been holding onto. Something comes over him. I don’t know what or when the shift changed.
Then he stops and looks at me as if he’s coming out of a possession. “Sorry.”
“Don’t stop.” I offer a smile. “Let it go, Ian.”
Something snaps inside him.
Then he shouts, raw and heartbreaking. He brings down the bat on everything in his path. The wine bottles are obliterated. The old gaming consoles gone. An old metal filing cabinet riddled with dents. His fury is deafening. Ian’s breathing turns ragged. Then he drops the bat and chokes out a sob.
I step carefully toward him.
I watch his throat work then he rips off his helmet, setting it on the desk.
His chest rises violently, and the broken look in his eyes hits me.
I slip off my helmet and set it next to his, and I watch him.
“Say it, Ian. Whatever you need to. Say it. Shout, scream. I’m here, okay. I’m here for you.”
Ian’s jaw trembles. “I didn’t get to say goodbye, Jules. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. He walked away from me that night like it was nothing and I never saw him again. I was fucking drunk when he was dying.”
I close the distance, taking him in my arms and resting my forehead to his. “Let it go. I got you.”
We stay like that while the dust settles around us and I let him fall apart.
I hug him tight, his arms squeeze me tighter, and he lets everything go.
The clean breeze outside makes my head clear some, but part of my mind is still back in that room with Ian crumbling. He hasn’t said much since we turned in our helmets. He sucks in a breath.
“How are you feeling now.”
“I feel empty.” He smiles. “In a good way. If that makes sense.”
Ian’s fingers slide into mine as we walk up the cobblestone steps to the bed and breakfast. He inhales sharply but doesn’t pull his hand away.
Then he stops suddenly and turns to me. “Thank you. For staying. When I lost it—”
“Always.” I smile, cupping his face and smoothing my thumb along his jaw. I don’t want to break this delicate thing that’s growing. Whatever it is. I’m afraid to test my weight and crack it. “You don’t scare me, Ian.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but feels like a cry.
“Sometimes I don’t know what to do with all this,” he admits.
“The anger and grief. It feels like poison.” He steps forward, fitting his arms around my waist and resting his head gently on my collarbone.
“Thank you.” I can feel the smile in his voice.
“Always.” The sky cracks open above us. According to my app this will be the last round of storms while we’re here. I’m grateful they downgraded the hurricane warning. Still, we have thunderstorms all night to look forward to. “So much for sunshine.”
He pulls back and gives me a faint smile.
Then his lips are back on mine. Warm and soft. Grounding. “We have time before dinner,” Ian whispers. “I want to let go, Jules.”
“What do you mean?” I think I know, but I need him to say it.
His fingers tangle in my shirt, touching and teasing. “Take me back to our room.”