Ravaged (Roman Holiday 4)

No one was coming for me, because I have no one.

He hadn’t been brave. He’d cried until he retched and rose coughing to his hands and knees so he could vomit up what little was left in his stomach.

But in the hospital, he hadn’t been capable of saying the words. He’d lain there, silent, denuded of his uniform, his armor—and then Patrick had supplied his own words.

What kind of trick were you trying to pull anyway? A stupid stunt like that. You never think of anyone but yourself, Roman. I’m ashamed to even look at you.

A kick in the chest so hard, Roman had forgotten how to breathe.

He should have expected it. Should have learned to expect it, because it always came.

I’d like to practice forgiveness didn’t mean I forgive you.

It was easier when Patrick was angry, because when Patrick was bewildered in his disappointment, he would ask, Why do you keep doing this to me? Why do you make it so impossible for me to love you?

Roman quit the Boy Scouts after that. Quit camping. Eventually, he quit waiting for Patrick to change.

Self-preservation wasn’t a matter of surviving in the woods. It was a matter of learning to set your expectations so that no one had the power to make you feel as though you were huddling alone and afraid. That was what Heberto had taught him: that no one could escape solitude. The only choice was to embrace it.

We’re individuals. Community is an illusion.

What you had left when you accepted your solitude was better, because it opened up space to understand that you could build your own fortress against fear.

Roman had the tools. He had the plan, the understanding, the philosophy.

So why was he stumbling through the woods, cold despite sweating, sucking in shallow, panicked breaths and trying to ignore the trembling in his hands?

He di

dn’t know. Something was wrong with him.

Something yearning. Still.

Some stubborn fucking hope.

On his wet heel, a blister broke open, and the muck soaking his sock ground against tender flesh. He began to limp.

The pain cleared his head, and after a while he stopped and looked up. It was getting dark, but he could still see a clear area off to the right. He caught the shine of the Airstream and grimaced.

Back at the campground, he threw his shoes and socks away in a Dumpster and tossed his tie in after them. He unbuttoned his shirt and braced one arm against the cool metal side of the bin so he could wrap the shirt around his foot.

Can’t leave now. You’re hobbled. Hobbled ponies stay put.

He looked down the drive at the rounded end of the Airstream, gleaming like some perverse egg.

What would he do now, limp back to her? Crawl into her trailer, bunk on the thin mattress she’d just beaten the dust out of?

No.

She’d taken over his plans, taken control of his life, and she’d dug into him somehow, made him want her.

Not just her. Something worse. She made him want to believe her—to swallow the lie that there was such a thing as family, or community. That you could make one for yourself, and it could be the most important thing in your world.

He flattened his forearm against the side of the Dumpster and rested his hand there, overwhelmed by this new knowledge.

Ashley made him want to believe.

So?