Page 87 of Torrid Love
We all laugh.
“Who’s the guy?” Roark asks.
I give him the lowdown.
“Fuck awkward and fuck Joel,” Roark says. He’s never been one to mince words. “One evening isn’t enough for him to seduce her—”
“They’ve been text buddies since she was in Europe,” I tell him.
“It doesn’t mean a damn thing, Rod,” Roark snaps.
“Decide what you want with Dom and go after it,” Loki says. “The Rod I know doesn’t hesitate nor does he second-guess himself.”
“I agree.” Roark voices his opinion.
The Rod you know is tripping all over himself because of a girl.
“What if I’m not enough or what if I’m incapable of giving more?” Old insecurities creep to the surface. “Dom seems like the kind of woman who would want—no, need—more. I don’t know if I can go there. Heck, I don’t even know how to love or how to be loved.”
“Rod, it’s called baby steps,” Loki points out. “I doubt she’d expect a marriage proposal on day one.”
“I’ve never dated before,” I remind him. “I’m likely to disappoint her. I’m not sure I want to risk jeopardizing our friendship because I’m not boyfriend material. If I lose her, I might lose myself,” I admit.
“For fuck’s sake,” Roark slams his hand on the table causing a few patrons to turn in our direction. “Stop letting Rachel fuck you up,” he growls. “I told you that the last time we talked about Dom. And for the record, you’re dead wrong.”
“About what?”
“You do know what love is.”
“I––”
“I love you, little brother. I’d like to think it’s mutual.” Roark’s comment surprises me. He isn’t one for sappy talk.
“Stop being an idiot,” I volley. “You know it is. Although right now I hate you for busting my balls.”
“Just doing my brotherly duties,” he grins. “Rory loves the hell out of you even if you made it a point to butt heads with him as often as you could growing up. We stepped in when Rachel checked out and River left our asses dry. Fucking losers.”
You don’t choose your parents.
I’ll spare you the sob stories of how many nights I cried myself to sleep begging God to give us a better mother because Rachel Chalmers was a pretty shitty one. River Wolfe is our father, but our parents were never married. Dad kept drifting in and out of Mom’s life. Around the time Roark turned six, Dad disappeared for a very long stretch. According to Nana Irene, he was involved in some pretty shady shit––always flirting with the wrong side of the law, but never getting caught. Then one day, he popped by again. Nine months later I was born. A year after my birth, Dad was still around. Since Mom thought he was finally ready to grow some roots, she started campaigning. She wanted Dad to man up and build a safe home for his boys. Mom worked menial jobs her whole life, but her obsession with self-help daytime TV shows paid off. She had saved enough for the down payment on a tiny no-frills house in a not so great neighborhood. Rory was there when Mom flashed a wad of cash in front of Dad. She didn’t trust banks. She hid her money between her mattresses. I know, very cliché. Apparently, Dad agreed to Mom’s request. She was thrilled.
Ten months later, we were all packed and ready to move out of the Fashion District, except the movers never came. By midnight, it was obvious Dad wasn’t going to show up either. He was gone. So was Mom’s life savings. She hit rock bottom and started drinking again. After a pretty angry rant, she handed Rory a duffle bag stuffed with clothing, a few baby bottles, and fifty dollars. She told him she needed space, and then pushed us out the door and slammed it shut in our faces. Rory was fifteen. Roark was thirteen. I was nearly two. On that night, my brothers slept outside of the front door—with me curled up in Rory’s arms—hoping Mom would come to her senses. She didn’t leave her rented house the next day nor did she open the door. Starved and afraid, my brothers sought refuge at a neighbor’s house. Linda had small children. She taught them how to take care of a toddler. A week later, Mom still kept shouting for us to get lost every time we knocked on her door. Desperate and under Linda’s guidance, Rory called Nana Irene—Dad’s mom—to ward off Child Protective Services. For the better part of my childhood, I bounced from Mom’s to Nana Irene’s place whenever Mom checked out—which was often. With few career options, my brothers enlisted as soon as they could. In time, Mom grew more verbally abusive, predicting I’d turn into a thief like my asshole of a father. At twelve, she declared she was done being a mother. Nana could have me. She changed her mind a few months before my sixteenth birthday.
Thanks to music, I turned my rage and rebellion towards my drums. Aaron’s parents bought me a secondhand set of drums when I was forced to move back with Mom. I kept them in the small shed in the backyard. Without their generosity, I would’ve had to watch my dream vanish.
Living with Mom was toxic. The only reason I stayed under her roof longer than I should’ve, was Dom. The minute I was able to get her away from her own dysfunctional mother and her line-up of douche bag boyfriends, I was out.
“And there’s Nana Irene,” Roark says cutting through my gloomy thoughts. “She fought the courts—and Mom—to the grave to save you from going back to The Fashion District. She may have lost the fight in the end, but it’s not for lack of determination. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”
Mom hated Nana with a vengeance. A judge who doesn’t know anything about how fucked up my mother was made a decision that was like a prison sentence. Nana retaliated. Mom made it her life mission to spew as much venom as she could towards my grandmother, accusing her of knowing where my father was hiding and protecting the lowlife. Mom was wrong. Nana hadn’t heard from her son since he skipped town.
I stare at my brother harder. “Those are family ties,” I argue. “And why are we rehashing things I already know? It’s not as if I don’t remember where I come from.” I can’t help my irritation.
Roark shoots me a crooked smile. “Because you seem to believe there’s only one shade of love.”
“Says the guy who’s been in a long loving relationship with a woman for years,” I quip. Sarcastic? You bet. “Oh, no, wait. You’ve never been in a relationship in your life,” I roll my eyes. “Rich, really rich, big brother.”
“I know I’m nowhere near Rory. I get why you don't let women close enough to develop feelings. I’m the same way. You and I deliberately choose flings who don’t want anything beyond a quick fuck because being abandoned creates trust issues. I’m nearly forty and still trying to get my act together—”
