Chapter Eight

 

Adrian

 

I couldn’t tell who was studying who more. My not-so-innocent question about whether or not he’d attended college instantly rose his hackles. Rory was twenty-eight years old. According to what he’d already shared, his problem with sunlight began six years back. That made him twenty-two at the time. So, I asked myself, what were most twenty-two-year-olds doing at that age? Schooling most likely. Or, if their course of study was simple enough, they’d be in the workforce. What I hoped to determine was, where was Rory Gallagher at the time all this began.

“Yes. Computer Technology.”

“Did you graduate?”

“My turn.”

He was no more forthcoming with information than I’d been. I supposed I deserved that. Waiting to hear what he’d ask next made me fidget. For some reason, he seemed hell-bent to know about my living arrangements and roommates. All week, I’d hated that he’d been exposed to one of their crueler tricks. It painted me as unprofessional, and I’d have much preferred burying the whole incident.

Nothing that happened in Rory’s presence was going as planned. There was an air of extreme nervous energy surrounding us. I was hyper-aware of everything I said and did while around him. More than once, as I heard the words fall from my mouth, I wondered if I sounded as stupid as I imagined. Not once had he given me that impression, but I was so accustomed to feelings of inadequacy surrounding my social skills, it was second nature. Growing up, my innocent comments or words had been tossed back at me in a mocking tone.

“Do your roommates always cause problems like they did on Monday?”

Floundered wasn’t quite the word for how I reacted to his question. Although it was certainly a fish-like reaction. I opened my mouth to respond, closed it, opened it again, snapped it shut, and turned to look out at the water.

“Pass.” Before he could object to my answer—or non-answer—I jumped in. “Did you graduate from your computer program?”

He didn’t respond. When I dared a glance back in his direction, the burning rage behind his eyes wasn’t hidden, and his lip twitched. My heart took off like a shot as a rush of adrenaline coated my skin in a thick blanket of heat.

The moment he noted my rising panic, he closed his eyes and visibly pushed away his animosity as he fisted his hands and pinched his lips. When he opened his eyes again, they locked on me. There was less anger behind them and more concern which confused me. What had caused his slip of control? My question or the answer I’d given to his?

“No,” he said. “I dropped out in my last year. Are you friends with your roommates?”

I hadn’t expected the exercise to feel so invasive, but he actively threw me off every time he asked something new. Taking the casual question route was supposed to help me dig deeper into Rory’s mind without him knowing what I was doing. However, I seemed to be as much under the microscope as he was.

“No. Not at all. I hate my roommates. If all goes well, I’ll be able to move out on my own come September.” Maybe that would shut him up. “Why did you drop out?”

“Pass.” He ducked his eyes to his smokes and opened the packet, pulling out another and fitting it between his lips. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

I almost choked on my spit. It was the last thing I’d expected him to ask, and suddenly his gaze—which had been aloof and flitting between me and the river—was solely on my face, unwavering, searching, and extremely interested in a response.

Before I could get a handle on my reaction, my cheeks flamed. I didn’t make a habit of flashing my relationship status or sexuality around in stranger’s faces. Nor did I think it was appropriate with a client—especially a good-looking client who’d captured my interest on the first day we’d met. One I was uncomfortable around because his body language and looks screamed badass bully. What would he do if he found out I wasn’t into girls?

I wasn’t the free-spirited gay man who needed to flaunt and gain attention from anyone around simply to prove he was content and happy in his own skin. In high school, I’d come out of the closet—but only barely. About one foot out. The other remained firmly planted on the other side of the door among coats and boots.

Aiming for calm—and failing—I tried playing his question off with as much nonchalance as I could muster. “No.”

“Boyfriend then?”

When I didn’t think my cheeks could get hotter, they did, obliterating any questions he might have had over what team I played for. Why was he asking me this?

“No. And that was technically two questions, so I get two now.”

Since he’d decided to venture into personal territory, I took my chances at digging into his, hoping he’d be ready to offer up something.

“Is the reason you left your program related to what happened six years ago?”

Rory’s eyes went unfocused as he peered into a memory or saw something only he could see. Where he went or what he saw, I could only hope he would feel safe enough to share it with me someday.

“Yes,” he said. His voice was pitched so low it was nearly lost on the breeze. A surge of excitement coated me because I’d been expecting another pass. Did I push for more or proceed with caution?

“How about your friend, Krew. Does he know what happened?”

“Yes.” There was less hesitation in his answer that time. “Krew is the reason we are here right now. He’s the one who is pushing me to get help.”

“He sounds like a good friend.”

Rory shrugged as he smoked. I tensed, knowing it was my turn again, and I wondered what he might ask me next. For a while, he didn’t say anything. If he was forming questions in his mind or lost in his head, I didn’t know. In school, I’d been taught to recognize those moments when a patient had something to say and was trying to find the best way to express themselves. That was one of those moments. I didn’t know how I could tell, but I just knew.

After a short time, Rory mashed his butt into the ashtray and—respectfully—blew a wisp of smoke away from me. “I feel trapped.” He wet his lips as he left those words to hang in the air. “I’m the most comfortable in complete darkness, yet some days, my head is the most haunting place to be. I can escape light easily enough, but I can’t get away from the terror in my head. It’s a whole other shade of darkness altogether in there, and it feels like it’s slowly consuming me. Like, one day, I might wake up and find I’ve been eaten alive by it, and there will be nothing left of who I am. Does that make sense?”

It took everything in me not to jump from my chair and cheer at his revelation, not that I was happy about his struggles, but I was elated at the small breakthrough. The strain marring his brow spoke volumes. Sharing hadn’t been an easy thing for him, and his excess fidgeting and rapid eye movements told me he was perhaps ready to bolt if I didn’t say something soon.

It was everything I’d hoped for, so I pulled up all the skills I’d learned in school and focused on what he’d shared.

Reassure and acknowledge his feelings.

“It makes complete sense. You have learned to control your environment effectively over the years. You’ve adapted and found a way to live that feels safe for you. You manage by avoiding physical, outside influences that make you react in an uncomfortable or negative way. However, what happens inside our minds isn’t so easily controlled. All the reasons why you have needed to create this world with limitations are swimming around inside your head nonstop, reminding you that you must be diligent. And those thoughts never rest and can leave you exhausted. This darkness,” I tapped my head, “is directly influencing this one.” I waved my hand around. “We need to take away its power, and hopefully, it will help you be able to live a more settled life.”

His eyes went unfocused again, and he remained quiet. I really wanted him to feel safe sharing with me because I desperately wanted to help him find his way out of the dark world where he felt trapped. When he snapped out of his daze, he rattled his head before returning his focus to mine.

“Do you have siblings?”

Again, he switched gears, steering us away from the issue.

“No. Only child.”

“How long have you lived with these roommates of yours who you hate?”

I pushed my glasses up my nose and narrowed my eyes. “Why are you so hung up on my roommates and where I live?”

There, I said it.

The hard angles returned to his face, but his anger wasn’t nearly as intense. I knew the incident on Monday had started the inquiry, but why did he care?

“Because I fucking hate bullies,” he spat. “Is that what you’re dealing with every day? I’m right, aren’t I?”

The punch in his words spoke to his animosity. It wasn’t what I was expecting, considering I’d classified him as a bully himself, but maybe I was wrong.

The one thing I’d learned in all my years was not to trust someone who claims to be on your side—especially if your gut told you to be cautious.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ve been dealing with them for years.”

“Where do you live?”

I squirmed in my seat and picked up my notebook from the ground. “I’m not comfortable sharing that information.” For effect, I checked my watch and shimmied to the edge of my chair. “I need to get back to the office for tonight. When would you like to schedule our next appointment?”

He rose and followed me inside where I gathered my bag. Samson came and stole some attention while Rory mumbled, “How about Monday?”

“Sounds good. I’ll pencil you in once I’m in my office. Same time?”

“Yeah.”

He was subdued, and the lines on his forehead fit the image of a man who wasn’t entirely happy.

“Think about what I said earlier. Those feelings of unease inside can be tamed. They are manageable if you are willing to address them.”

Rory remained silent.

As I put my hand on the doorknob, his words halted me. “Are you safe?” His voice was thick with emotion and carried a vulnerability which made me turn around.

“Like I said, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

His gaze drifted all over my face, taking in every angle and openly examining me. There was a brief moment when his attention lingered on my lips, and perhaps I imagined it, but I was certain a spark of heat flared in his eyes. On analysis, I knew I must have imagined it. There was no way in hell Rory was showing me that kind of attention. He wasn’t gay, and even if he was, I was not exactly the desirable choice for a man like him. He was a tattooed, beer drinking, smoking, badass type, and I was the bookworm nerd and always had been. He was in a whole other league. I didn’t even have a league in comparison. Those two kinds of people just didn’t mesh.

He cleared his throat, and I turned back to the door, pulling it open. “See you Monday,” I called as I exited.

He didn’t respond, and the door clicked in my wake.

 

* * *

 

My first full week of work came to an end on Saturday morning at seven. It’d taken all week to adjust to my new routine, and I fell onto my bed, grateful for the quiet house surrounding me at shortly after nine. For the first time in four years, I took solace in the fact that my roommates were probably going to be sleeping off Friday night hangovers for a few more hours.

It was late afternoon—just a fraction past four—before the sounds of the house woke me. Raucous laughter and clatter filtered up the stairs and seeped through the thin walls of my bedroom. It sounded like a lot more than three people making the noise. Being the weekend, I guessed we had company. It wasn’t uncommon for Calvin and Dylan to invite a slew of people over for a night of drinking and profanity. Once one hangover was nursed back to health, a new night of drinking would begin.

I pulled myself from my cocoon of blankets and searched up some clothes. I found a fresh pair of tan colored slacks, new as of the previous week when I’d received a care package from home. I paired them with a white button up and pulled on my favorite navy sweater vest. The weather was warming fast, and I knew I’d soon need to pack it away for the summer.

I used the bathroom to fix my hair and brush my teeth, then I went immediately to flip the laundry I’d started before bed. The chatter of voices was coming from the living room, so I planned to invade the kitchen while it sounded empty and fix myself some food once I had everything in the dryer.

Pulling my clothes from the washing machine, I immediately noticed the discoloration marring my light load. My tans and whites had all taken on a hint of pink.

“Oh shit. No, no, no!”

I scrambled to remove all the pieces of clothing, searching for the error in my ways. In my half-asleep state before bed, I must have dropped a red shirt or sock or something into the load by mistake.

It wasn’t until I found the culprit that I remembered, I didn’t own red clothing at all. Dangling from my finger was a bright red pair of women’s bikini style underwear. In that exact moment, it dawned on me that it had not been an accident at all, and someone had purposefully dyed all my clothing pink.

Itching, burning rage boiled my blood as I returned all my clothes to the washing machine, minus the underwear, and restarted the load. Even as I filled the machine with soap and water, I knew they weren’t salvageable. Everything was ruined.

“Well aren’t these just the sexiest little things.” The snide voice belonged to Dylan.

He reached over my shoulder and pinched the flaming red panties between fingers and held them up before his eyes as he cocked a brow.

“I know you don’t have a girlfriend seeing as you’re a flaming faggot, so are these yours, Adrianna?”

He dangled them in front of my face with a smirk as anger seeped through my veins, bringing to the surface an uncontrollable tremble.

“You put those in there, didn’t you?”

He gasped dramatically and held a hand to his chest. “Did not!” He glanced at the machine, and his smile grew to astronomical proportions. Before I knew what was happening, he shoved me aside and ripped an article of clothing from inside the machine. A pair of my plain white briefs recently made pink. Then, he laughed so hard he snorted.

The racket drew more people into the laundry room, and the minute Calvin saw the panties in Dylan’s hand he grabbed them with a grin. “Oh, good they’re clean. Thanks, Adrianna, I told Chelsea I’d get them back to her tonight.” Then, his face turned so dramatically innocent, I wanted to punch it as he turned to see the machine filling. “It’s okay that I tossed them in with your load, right? You didn’t mind?”

The snickering group had grown by four, strangers included. The only person not in the laundry room witnessing the newest horror was Marcus.

Any response I could have given would have only egged them on. I’d been in that type of situation more times than I could count. I slammed the lid on the machine and shoved past the group, storming back to my room to do another search for rentals in town. Anything would be better than this nightmare. Their laughter followed me.

By eight that evening, with my clean, folded, pink laundry stacked in piles on my bed, I broke down and called home. It was time. I needed to make solid plans for September before I did something drastic, like slit my wrists… or my roommate’s jugular.

I was grateful when my mother answered, even though the financial discussion I needed to have would be with my father, I wasn’t ready to wade in those waters quite yet.

“Adrian, it’s so good to hear from you. You never call. How is school? Is your term report in yet?”

“Hey, Mom. Not yet. Grades should be posted soon.” My schooling was the most important topic, followed by my wellbeing. “We just finished classes two weeks ago, you know it takes forever for them to post grades. I did well.”

“Top of the class? You know your father was top of his class every year back in his day.”

“I don’t know, Mom. We’ll see, but I’m sure they are good. Going into exams, I had mid-nineties.”

She made a noise that was either impressed or disgusted, I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t ask.

“I got a job working at the government counseling center for the summer.” It was the best news I had to offer since my grades weren’t in.

“That’s lovely, dear. It’s a far cry from having your own practice, but it will come. Don’t be discouraged.”

I wasn’t. I was proud or had been until two seconds ago.

“Is Dad around? I was hoping to ask him something.”

“Of course, dear. He’s in his office, but I’ll see if he’s able to chat.”

Again, ranking in importance; my father’s job first and foremost, then my schooling—which he never failed to be disappointed in—then maybe, if I was lucky, my wellbeing. It astounded me how far down the ladder I ranked.

“Adrian!” My father’s voice boomed over the phone. “Am I calling you doctor yet?”

I chuckled, knowing he was trying to make a joke. “Not yet, sir. But I’ve completed my bachelor’s degree, so one step closer.”

“Hmm… Top of the class?”

I rolled my eyes and fell backward on my bed. “I don’t know yet, sir. Probably. Our grades aren’t posted.”

“I should say you will be. Not like psychology is much of a challenge. A half-wit could take that course and do well.”

I bit back a retort, refusing to get involved in another debate where I had to defend my choices and degree.

“Dad, I was calling about my living arrangements. Before you pay my portion of next year’s rent, I was really hoping I could—”

“Already taken care of. You know I don’t drag my feet. A terrible habit, remember that.”

Already paid! Dammit.

“But, Dad, that’s four months away! Why would you do that? I wanted to move out on my own.”

“Why on earth would you want to move? You’re close to the school and quite settled. You don’t even need to rely on public transportation like some students. Besides, living on your own would only increase all your expenses. I pay enough for you to be away from home, and I have no intention of paying more because you are too good for residency. Next, you’ll be telling me you need a car because public transportation is inadequate—which it is. Filthy and disgusting if you ask me.”

“No,” I snapped a little too harshly. “I’m not asking you to pay more. I found a job. I’m working full-time this summer, and they are keeping me on part-time while I’m in school. I was going to offer to help.”

The minute the words left my mouth, I wished I’d swallowed them. The whole plan was supposed to include not telling him the job continued in the fall.

“Absolutely not! We’ve discussed this. Work will only interfere with your studies. You will remain where you are. Your rent is covered, and your allowance allows you enough freedom to pay your share of bills, eat, and enjoy a few luxuries. Do you understand how well you have things, Adrian? Not all children are so privileged.”

The color drained from my face along with all hopes and dreams for peace of mind away from my bullying roommates.

“But, Dad, things haven’t gotten better.”

“How many times must we discuss this? Are you listening to me? This is not up for discussion.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. Now enough nonsense.”

The well of defeat was deep and bottomless, and the longer I talked to my father, the farther within its depths I felt myself fall. He understood the bullying I’d been victim to in high school, but there was no way he’d hear of it now. I was too old for that rubbish. Even back then, when I’d gone home with bruised flesh and ego, my father had told me I was above all that nonsense like I was somehow allowing it to happen. If I willed it to stop, it would. The problem was, his personal philosophy wasn’t a shield I could use to protect myself. Bullying was why I’d run. It was why I’d gone to Dewhurst to begin with. Too many people from my graduating class had gone to the U of T, and there was no way I would follow them.

However, I wasn’t any safer now than I was before.

After a long conversation about my grades, the simplicity of my course, and a discussion over the prospective location for opening a practice when I eventually finished school, I hung up, emotionally exhausted and no further ahead. I felt like the poor horse from The Neverending Story, drowning in the swamp of sadness, except, unlike Artax, my hero, Atreyu, wasn’t there to try and save me.

I didn’t know what I was going to do if I had to stay in the house any longer. My job wouldn’t pay me enough to keep a roof over my head while I went to school, never mind cover the bills and food, especially when I had to drop to part-time in September.

I lay pondering options until the noise level in the house was too much to take. At just after ten, I decided to take a walk and get away from the chaos for a while. I dressed for the cool May evening and took off.

After circuiting campus twice, I decided I wasn’t ready to go home. Downtown Dewhurst was close enough, I decided to head in that direction instead. Maybe I’d find a late-night coffee house where I could sit and wallow in my troubles. The main road that led off campus was busy. There were all kinds of students hanging out on the street or waiting for a late-night bus at the bus stop. The summer courses had begun, and there seemed to be a good crowd of students in attendance that year. It was Saturday night, and unlike myself, most college students had lives which included partying the weekend away with friends at the local bars or someone’s dorm room.

With my head down, I watched the sidewalk pass by under my feet, ignoring the sounds of laughter and fun all around and hearing my father’s solidifying words, sentencing me to another year of hell. I didn’t see how I could get out of my mess. Unless I tried to get into another house or dorm on campus. But would they cancel his payment and refund his money? Would he even allow for it? I couldn’t see my father even trying. In his mind, I had no valid reason to relocate. Maybe if I showed him my new collection of pink underwear he’d understand.

I laughed humorlessly at myself. That wouldn’t work at all. He’d probably think I was just trying to express my gayness and lecture me about how being gay could jeopardize my chances of success if I wasn’t careful to contain all the gay bubbling up inside me. Sometimes, my father could be a real prick.

While lost deep in thought over my future as a gay psychologist, I ran smack into a solid body who stepped out in front of me unexpectedly. The impact knocked my glasses askew, and I instinctively grabbed hold of the person’s arms to steady myself. As I tilted my head up to see who I’d run into, I nearly screamed.

The stranger was dressed in a black hoodie with the hood drawn up, his face completely shadowed, and his eyes were covered with dark shades.

Every horror movie I’d seen as a child came back to me, and I was sure I’d just met my end, despite the crowded street, despite the brightly lit main road. I was done for.

The scream propelled its way up my throat, my last effort at self-preservation, when he clamped a hand over my mouth to stop it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited for the sting of a knife or the butt of a gun to be lodged against some tender part of my skin.

“It’s me.”

My eyes popped open, as panic paralyzed me. The voice. I knew him. Only when realization dawned on me did he pull his hand free. “Rory?”