Anything But Lonely
Chapter Five: Born To Lose
Roger did, um, leave his room the next morning, but no words were spoken. He grabbed his coffee and toast (which I had prepared when I woke up, like any normal day) and perched on the table. Well, at least it wasn't the couch anymore.
I crept toward him, sitting on the other side of the table. Gradually I scooted in -- and each time I did, Roger moved further away. When he finally reached the table's edge, he hopped down and relocated to the couch.
I let out an exasperated sigh. "This is ridiculous," I said, breaking the silence. "Can't we just be adults and talk about this?"
"There's nothing to talk about. We both know what happened last night." Roger wouldn't meet my imploring gaze.
"Well, what happens now?"
"Isn't that obvious?" He sounded so ominous, it was almost cheesy. "We pretend it never happened. We never, ever mention it again."
His words stung me unexpectedly. "Just like that, huh? It's over before it even started."
Finally Roger's anguished eyes met mine. "Before what started? I'm not gay, Mark! And I never will be!"
"Great, fine, neither am I!" I shouted. "I'm no gayer than you are. But -- you can't say it didn't mean anything."
"I can say anything I want!"
"That doesn't make it true."
"It is true! I mean, it isn't! I mean --" Roger paused, confused. "Look, we were both feeling vulnerable and it just happened. You know you're my best friend in the world. But being gay is for people like Collins and Angel --"
"Are you saying they're bad people?"
He looked surprised. "No! Of course not."
"It seems like you're saying that."
"Well, I'm not."
"Well, that's what you implied."
"No, it's what you inferred, because you want to make me the bad guy and you the victim, just like every argument we ever have."
"You think I like confrontation?" I asked. "You're the one who always starts things, knowing full well that I just want everyone to get along."
"Do not."
"Do too."
"What are we, kindergarteners?" Roger said, raising his voice a few pitches. "Can we get back to whatever this was really about?"
"Sure, let's talk about your homophobia."
"Why don't you just shut up, Mark? I'm not a fucking homophobe, okay? Just because I'm straight doesn't make me homophobic."
"Hello? I'm straight too!"
"Great!"
"Great!" I felt like an idiot. It ended like this every time. Roger and Mark argue like a cross between grade-schoolers and an old, married couple. Then Mark gives in to make Roger happy and get things back to normal. "Okay, you're right, let's just act like it never happened," I concurred. "We were best friends before, we're best friends now, nothing changes, right?"
Roger gave a curt nod and strummed a few lines of Musetta's Waltz. That was one of his "subtle" hints that he wanted a conversation to be over. So I gave him what he wanted.
"I'm gonna go to the grocery store. I haven't been shopping since. . . well, in a long time." I received no reply. "Okay, see ya later," I said, remembering to take the keys as I walked out the door.
- - - - -
"Hey, Roge, I'm home," I called when I returned from the store. I sat four paper bags on the kitchen counter and glanced around. The loft was quiet and there was no sign of Roger. Then I spotted a yellow post-it note attached to the fridge. On it, Roger had scrawled:
"Left for Santa Fe. Had to sort some things out. I'll call."
This couldn't be happening! Damn Roger! I had thought he was over his run-away-from-troubles stage. But apparently I gave the boy too much credit.
Sadly I wandered into his bedroom. All his important things were gone -- clothes, music equipment, and the box of Mimi's stuff labeled "ROGER'S." I sank down onto his bed, fighting back tears. Be a man, Mark, I mentally ordered myself. For once in your life, be a man.
The phone rang. Immediately I sprang out of the room and picked up the receiver. "Roger?" I asked.
"No, it's me."
"Oh, hi, Joanne."
"Don't get too excited," she said sarcastically.
"I'm sorry, it's just -- I really hoped it would be Roger."
"Maureen told me about your fight last night. I assume you didn't work things out?"
"No, not exactly."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we talked last night and I thought everything was gonna be alright. Then. . . something happened, and today he took off for Santa Fe."
"Oh no," Joanne murmured. "I'm so sorry. What could have made him do that?"
I sighed, deciding I didn't want to tell anyone yet. Not until I understood things for myself. "I haven't a clue."
"Well, if there's anything Maureen or I can do, let us know."
"I will. Thanks."
"Anytime, honey."
I hung up the phone feeling worse than when I had answered it. The loneliness was back in full effect, corroding my heart, overwhelming me. Every sight, every sound, every movement I made aroused memories of the songwriter. He haunted my thoughts like a wraith: his eyes, his hair, the scruffy little patch on his chin that he called a goatee, his music, his voice. . .
His voice. God, I would have given anything to hear it one more time. "Please call, Roger, please," I begged silently.
That night I lie awake in bed until 3 AM, partially from insomnia and partially hoping that Roger would fulfill his promise to call. Needless to say, he didn't, so after a few days, I reluctantly gave up hope.
((Hang on, folks, I've got one more chapter to put the finishing touches on and then I'll post it. Hope y'all (can you tell I'm from Texas?) like my story so far.))