As I sit here with one foot on either side of the ledge, looking down from twelve stories above the streets of Boston, I canโt help but think about suicide.
Not myย own. I like my life enough to want to see it through.
Iโm more focused on other people, and how they ultimately come to the decision to just end their own lives.ย Do they ever regret it?ย In the moment after letting go and the second before they make impact, there has to be a little bit of remorse in that brief free fall. Do they look at the ground as it rushes toward them and think,ย โWell, crap. This was a bad idea.โ
Somehow, I think not.
I think about death a lot. Particularly today, considering I justโ twelve hours earlierโgave one of the most epic eulogies the people of Plethora, Maine, have ever witnessed. Okay, maybe it wasnโt the most epic. It very well could be considered the most disastrous. I guess that would depend on whether you were asking my mother or me.ย My mother, who probably wonโt speak to me for a solid year after today.
Donโt get me wrong; the eulogy I delivered wasnโt profound
enough to make history, like the one Brooke Shields delivered at Michael Jacksonโs funeral. Or the one delivered by Steve Jobsโs sister. Or Pat Tillmanโs brother. But it was epic in its own way.
I was nervous at ๏ฌrst. It was the funeral of the prodigious Andrew Bloom, after all. Adored mayor of my hometown of Plethora, Maine. Owner of the most successful real-estate agency within city limits. Husband of the highly adored Jenny Bloom, the most revered teaching assistant in all of Plethora. And father of Lily Bloomโthat strange girl with the erratic red hair who once fell in love with a homeless guy and brought great shame upon her entire family.
That would be me. Iโm Lily Bloom, and Andrew was my father.
As soon as I ๏ฌnished delivering his eulogy today, I caught a ๏ฌight straight back to Boston and hijacked the ๏ฌrst roof I could ๏ฌnd.ย Again, not because Iโm suicidal.ย I have no plans to scale off this roof. I just really needed fresh air and silence, and dammit if I canโt get that from my third ๏ฌoor apartment with absolutely no rooftop access and a roommate who likes to hear herself sing.
I didnโt account for how cold it would be up here, though. Itโs not unbearable, but itโs not comfortable, either. At least I can see the stars. Dead fathers and exasperating roommates and questionable eulogies donโt feel so awful when the night sky is clear enough to literally feel the grandeur of the universe.
I love it when the sky makes me feel insigni๏ฌcant. I like tonight.
Well . . . let me rephrase this so that it more appropriately re๏ฌects my feelings in past tense.
Iย likedย tonight.
But unfortunately for me, the door was just shoved open so hard, I expect the stairwell to spit a human out onto the rooftop. The door slams shut again and footsteps move swiftly across the deck. I donโt even bother looking up. Whoever it is more than likely wonโt even notice me back here straddling the ledge to the left of the door. They came out here in such a hurry, it isnโt my fault if they assume theyโre alone.
I sigh quietly, close my eyes and lean my head against the stucco wall behind me, cursing the universe for ripping this peaceful, introspective moment out from under me. The least the universe could do for me today is ensure that itโs a woman and not a man. If Iโm going to have company, Iโd rather it be a female. Iโm tough for my size and can probably hold my own in most cases, but Iโm too comfortable right now to be on a rooftop alone with a strange man in the middle of the night. I might fear for my safety and feel the need to leave, and I really donโt want to leave. As I said before . . . Iโm comfortable.
I ๏ฌnally allow my eyes to make the journey to the silhouette leaning over the ledge. As luck would have it, heโs de๏ฌnitely male. Even leaning over the rail, I can tell heโs tall. Broad shoulders create a strong contrast to the fragile way heโs holding his head in his hands. I can barely make out the heavy rise and fall of his back
as he drags in deep breaths and forces them back out when heโs done with them.
He appears to be on the verge of a breakdown. I contemplate speaking up to let him know he has company, or clearing my throat, but between thinking it and actually doing it, he spins around and kicks one of the patio chairs behind him.
I ๏ฌinch as it screeches across the deck, but being as though he isnโt even aware he has an audience, the guy doesnโt stop with just one kick. He kicks the chair repeatedly, over and over. Rather than give way beneath the blunt force of his foot, all the chair does is scoot farther and farther away from him.
That chair must be made from marine-grade polymer.
I once watched my father back over an outdoor patio table made of marine-grade polymer, and it practically laughed at him. Dented his bumper, but didnโt even put a scratch on the table.
This guy must realize heโs no match for such a high-quality material, because he ๏ฌnally stops kicking the chair. Heโs now standing over it, his hands clenched in ๏ฌsts at his sides. To be honest, Iโm a little envious. Here this guy is, taking his aggression out on patio furniture like a champ. Heโs obviously had a shitty day, as have I, but whereas I keep my aggression pent up until it manifests in the form of passive-aggressiveness, this guy actually has an outlet.
My outlet used to be gardening. Any time I was stressed, Iโd just go out to the backyard and pull every single weed I could ๏ฌnd. But since the day I moved to Boston two years ago, I havenโt had a backyard. Or a patio. I donโt even have weeds.
Maybe I need to invest in a marine-grade polymer patio chair.
I stare at the guy a moment longer, wondering if heโs ever going to move. Heโs just standing there, staring down at the chair. His hands arenโt in ๏ฌsts anymore. Theyโre resting on his hips, and I notice for the ๏ฌrst time how his shirt doesnโt ๏ฌt him very well around his biceps. It ๏ฌts him everywhere else, but his arms are huge. He begins ๏ฌshing around in his pockets until he ๏ฌnds what heโs looking for andโin what Iโm sure is probably an effort to release even more of his aggressionโhe lights up a joint.
Iโm twenty-three, Iโve been through college and have done this very same recreational drug a time or two. Iโm not going to judge
this guy for feeling the need to toke up in private. But thatโs the thingโheโsย notย in private. He just doesnโt know that yet.
He takes in a long drag of his joint and starts to turn back toward the ledge. He notices me on the exhale. He stops walking the second our eyes meet. His expression holds no shock, nor does it hold amusement when he sees me. Heโs about ten feet away, but thereโs enough light from the stars that I can see his eyes as they slowly drag over my body without revealing a single thought. This guy holds his cards well. His gaze is narrow and his mouth is drawn tight, like a male version of theย Mona Lisa.
โWhatโs your name?โ he asks.
I feel his voice in my stomach. Thatโs not good. Voices should stop at the ears, but sometimesโnot very often at all, actuallyโa voice will penetrate past my ears and reverberate straight down through my body. He has one of those voices. Deep, con๏ฌdent, and a little bit like butter.
When I donโt answer him, he brings the joint back to his mouth and takes another hit.
โLily,โ I ๏ฌnally say.ย I hate my voice.ย It sounds too weak to even reach his ears from here, much less reverberate insideย hisย body.
He lifts his chin a little and nudges his head toward me. โWill you please get down from there, Lily?โ
It isnโt until he says this that I notice his posture. Heโs standing straight up now, rigid even. Almost as if heโs nervous Iโm going to fall.ย Iโm not.ย This ledge is at least a foot wide, and Iโm mostly on the roof side. I could easily catch myself before I fell, not to mention Iโve got the wind in my favor.
I glance down at my legs and then back up at him. โNo, thanks.
Iโm quite comfortable where I am.โ
He turns a little, like he canโt look straight at me. โPlease get down.โ Itโs more of a demand now, despite his use of the wordย please. โThere are seven empty chairs up here.โ
โAlmost six,โ I correct, reminding him that he just tried to murder one of them. He doesnโt ๏ฌnd the humor in my response. When I fail to follow his orders, he takes a couple of steps closer.
โYou are a mere three inches from falling to your death. Iโve been around enough of that for one day.โ He motions for me to
get down again. โYouโre making me nervous. Not to mention ruining my high.โ
I roll my eyes and swing my legs over. โHeaven forbid a joint go to waste.โ I hop down and wipe my hands across my jeans. โBetter?โ I say as I walk toward him.
He lets out a rush of air, as if seeing me on the ledge actually had him holding his breath. I pass him to head for the side of the roof with the better view, and as I do, I canโt help but notice how unfortunately cute he is.
No. Cute is an insult.
This guy isย beautiful. Well-manicured, smells like money, looks to be several years older than me. His eyes crinkle in the corners as they follow me, and his lips seem to frown, even when they arenโt. When I reach the side of the building that overlooks the street, I lean forward and stare down at the cars below, trying not to appear impressed by him. I can tell by his haircut alone that heโs the kind of man people are easily impressed by, and I refuse to feed into his ego. Not that heโs done anything to make me think he evenย hasย one. But he is wearing a casual Burberry shirt, and Iโm not sure Iโve ever been on the radar of someone who could casually afford one.
I hear footsteps approaching from behind, and then he leans against the railing next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he takes another hit of his joint. When heโs ๏ฌnished, he offers it to me, but I wave it off. The last thing I need is to be under the in๏ฌuence around this guy. His voice is a drug in itself. I kind of want to hear it again, so I throw a question in his direction.
โSo what did that chair do to make you so angry?โ
He looks at me. Likeย reallyย looks at me. His eyes meet mine and he just stares, hard, like all my secrets are right there on my face. Iโve never seen eyes as dark as his. Maybe I have, but they seem darker when theyโre attached to such an intimidating presence. He doesnโt answer my question, but my curiosity isnโt easily put to rest. If heโs going to force me down from a very peaceful, comfortable ledge, then I expect him to entertain me with answers to my nosy questions.
โWas it a woman?โ I inquire. โDid she break your heart?โ
He laughs a little with that question. โIf only my issues were as trivial as matters of the heart.โ He leans into the wall so that he can
face me. โWhat ๏ฌoor do you live on?โ He licks his ๏ฌngers and pinches the end of his joint, then puts it back in his pocket. โIโve never noticed you before.โ
โThatโs because I donโt live here.โ I point in the direction of my apartment. โSee that insurance building?โ
He squints as he looks in the direction Iโm pointing. โYeah.โ
โI live in the building next to it. Itโs too short to see from here.
Itโs only three stories tall.โ
Heโs facing me again, resting his elbow on the ledge. โIf you live over there, why are you here? Your boyfriend live here or something?โ
His comment somehow makes me feel cheap. It was too easyโ an amateurish pickup line. From the looks of this guy, I know he has better skills than that. It makes me think he saves the more dif๏ฌcult pickup lines for the women he deems worthy.
โYou have a nice roof,โ I tell him.
He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for more of an explanation.
โI wanted fresh air. Somewhere to think. I pulled up Google Earth and found the closest apartment complex with a decent rooftop patio.โ
He regards me with a smile. โAt least youโre economical,โ he says. โThatโs a good quality to have.โ
At least?
I nod, because Iย amย economical. And itย isย a good quality to have. โWhy did you need fresh air?โ he asks.
Because I buried my father today and gave an epically disastrous eulogy and now I feel like I canโt breathe.
I face forward again and slowly exhale. โCan we just not talk for a little while?โ
He seems a bit relieved that I asked for silence. He leans over the ledge and lets an arm dangle as he stares down at the street. He stays like this for a while, and I stare at him the entire time. He probably knows Iโm staring, but he doesnโt seem to care.
โA guy fell off this roof last month,โ he says.
I would be annoyed at his lack of respect for my request for silence, but Iโm kind of intrigued.
โWas it an accident?โ
He shrugs. โNo one knows. It happened late in the evening. His wife said she was cooking dinner and he told her he was coming up here to take some pictures of the sunset. He was a photographer. They think he was leaning over the ledge to get a shot of the skyline, and he slipped.โ
I look over the ledge, wondering how someone could possibly put themselves in a situation where they could fall by accident. But then I remember I was just straddling the ledge on the other side of the roof a few minutes ago.
โWhen my sister told me what happened, the only thing I could think about was whether or not he got the shot. I was hoping his camera didnโt fall with him, because that would have been a real waste, you know? To die because of your love of photography, but you didnโt even get the ๏ฌnal shot that cost you your life?โ
His thought makes me laugh. Although Iโm not sure I should have laughed at that. โDo you always say exactly whatโs on your mind?โ
He shrugs. โNot to most people.โ
This makes me smile. I like that he doesnโt even know me, but for whatever reason, Iโm not consideredย most peopleย to him.
He rests his back against the ledge and folds his arms over his chest. โWere you born here?โ
I shake my head. โNo. Moved here from Maine after I graduated college.โ
He scrunches up his nose, and itโs kind of hot. Watching this guy
โdressed in his Burberry shirt with his two-hundred-dollar haircut
โmaking silly faces.
โSo youโre in Boston purgatory, huh? Thatโs gotta suck.โ โWhat do you mean?โ I ask him.
The corner of his mouth curls up. โThe tourists treat you like a local; the locals treat you like a tourist.โ
I laugh. โWow. Thatโs a very accurate description.โ
โIโve been here two months. Iโm not even in purgatory yet, so youโre doing better than I am.โ
โWhat brought you to Boston?โ
โMy residency. And my sister lives here.โ He taps his foot and says, โRight beneath us, actually. Married a tech-savvy Bostonian and they bought the entire top ๏ฌoor.โ
I look down. โTheย entireย top ๏ฌoor?โ
He nods. โLucky bastard works from home. Doesnโt even have to change out of his pajamas and makes seven ๏ฌgures a year.โ
Lucky bastard, indeed.
โWhat kind of residency? Are you a doctor?โ
He nods. โNeurosurgeon. Less than a year left of my residency and then itโs of๏ฌcial.โ
Stylish, well spoken,ย andย smart.ย And smokes pot.ย If this were an SAT question, I would ask which one didnโt belong. โShould doctors be smoking weed?โ
He smirks. โProbably not. But if we didnโt indulge on occasion, there would be a lot more of us taking the leap over these ledges, I can promise you that.โ Heโs facing forward again with his chin resting on his arms. His eyes are closed now, like heโs enjoying the wind against his face. He doesnโt look as intimidating like this.
โYou want to know something that only the locals know?โ โOf course,โ he says, bringing his attention back to me.
I point to the east. โSee that building? The one with the green roof?โ
He nods.
โThereโs a building behind it on Melcher. Thereโs a house on top of the building. Like a legit house, built right on the rooftop. You canโt see it from the street, and the building is so tall that not many people even know about it.โ
He looks impressed. โReally?โ
I nod. โI saw it when I was searching Google Earth, so I looked it up. Apparently a permit was granted for the construction in 1982. How cool would that be? To live in a house on top of a building?โ
โYouโd get the whole roof to yourself,โ he says.
I hadnโt thought of that. If I owned it I could plant gardens up there. Iโd have an outlet.
โWho lives there?โ he asks.
โNo one really knows. Itโs one of the great mysteries of Boston.โ
He laughs and then looks at me inquisitively. โWhatโs another great mystery of Boston?โ
โYour name.โ As soon as I say it, I slap my hand against my forehead. It sounded so much like a cheesy pickup line; the only thing I can do is laugh at myself.
He smiles. โItโs Ryle,โ he says. โRyle Kincaid.โ
I sigh, sinking into myself. โThatโs a really great name.โ โWhy do you sound sad about it?โ
โBecause, Iโd give anything for a great name.โ โYou donโt like the name Lily?โ
I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. โMy last name . . . is Bloom.โ Heโs quiet. I can feel him trying to hold back his pity.
โI know. Itโs awful. Itโs the name of a two-year-old little girl, not a twenty-three-year-old woman.โ
โA two-year-old girl will have the same name no matter how old she gets. Names arenโt something we eventually grow out of, Lily Bloom.โ
โUnfortunately for me,โ I say. โBut what makes it even worse is that I absolutely love gardening. I love ๏ฌowers. Plants. Growing things. Itโs my passion. Itโs always been my dream to open a ๏ฌorist shop, but Iโm afraid if I did, people wouldnโt think my desire was authentic. They would think I was trying to capitalize off my name and that being a ๏ฌorist isnโt really my dream job.โ
โMaybe so,โ he says. โBut whatโs that matter?โ
โIt doesnโt, I suppose.โ I catch myself whispering, โLily Bloomโsโ quietly. I can see him smiling a little bit. โIt really is a great name for a ๏ฌorist. But I have a masterโs degree in business. Iโd be downgrading, donโt you think? I work for the biggest marketing ๏ฌrm in Boston.โ
โOwning your own business isnโt downgrading,โ he says. I raise an eyebrow. โUnless it ๏ฌops.โ
He nods in agreement. โUnless it ๏ฌops,โ he says. โSo whatโs your middle name, Lily Bloom?โ
I groan, which makes him perk up. โYou mean it gets worse?โ
I drop my head in my hands and nod. โRose?โ
I shake my head. โWorse.โ โViolet?โ
โI wish.โ I cringe and then mutter, โBlossom.โ
Thereโs a moment of silence. โGoddamn,โ he says softly.
โYeah. Blossom is my motherโs maiden name and my parents thought it was fate that their last names were synonyms. So of
course when they had me, a ๏ฌower was their ๏ฌrst choice.โ โYour parents must be real assholes.โ
One of them is.ย Was.ย โMy father died this week.โ
He glances at me. โNice try. Iโm not falling for that.โ
โIโm serious. Thatโs why I came up here tonight. I think I just needed a good cry.โ
He stares at me suspiciously for a moment to make sure Iโm not pulling his leg. He doesnโt apologize for the blunder. Instead, his eyes grow a little more curious, like his intrigue is actually authentic. โWere you close?โ
Thatโs a hard question. I rest my chin on my arms and look down at the street again. โI donโt know,โ I say with a shrug. โAs his daughter, I loved him. But as a human, I hated him.โ
I can feel him watching me for a moment, and then he says, โI like that. Your honesty.โ
He likes my honesty.ย I think I might be blushing.
Weโre both quiet again for a while, and then he says, โDo you ever wish people were more transparent?โ
โHow so?โ
He picks at a piece of chipped stucco with his thumb until it breaks loose. He ๏ฌicks it over the ledge. โI feel like everyone fakes who they really are, when deep down weโre all equal amounts of screwed up. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.โ
Either his high is setting in, or heโs just very introspective. Either way, Iโm okay with it. My favorite conversations are the ones with no real answers.
โI donโt think being a little guarded is a negative thing,โ I say. โNaked truths arenโt always pretty.โ
He stares at me for a moment. โNaked truths,โ he repeats. โI like that.โ He turns around and walks to the middle of the rooftop. He adjusts the back on one of the patio loungers behind me and lowers himself onto it. Itโs the kind you lie on, so he pulls his hands behind his head and looks up at the sky. I claim the one next to him and adjust it until Iโm in the same position as him.
โTell me a naked truth, Lily.โ โPertaining to what?โ
He shrugs. โI donโt know. Something you arenโt proud of. Something that will make me feel a little less screwed up on the
inside.โ
Heโs staring up at the sky, waiting on me to answer. My eyes follow the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his lips. His eyebrows are drawn together in contemplation. I donโt understand why, but he seems to need conversation right now. I think about his question and try to ๏ฌnd an honest answer. When I come up with one, I look away from him and back up to the sky.
โMy father was abusive. Not to meโto my mother. He would get so angry when they fought that sometimes he would hit her. When that happened, he would spend the next week or two making up for it. He would do things like buy her ๏ฌowers or take us out to a nice dinner. Sometimes he would buy me stuff because he knew I hated it when they fought. When I was a kid, I found myself looking forward to the nights they would ๏ฌght. Because I knew if he hit her, the two weeks that followed would be great.โ I pause. Iโm not sure Iโve ever admitted that to myself. โOf course if I could, I would have made it to where he never touched her. But the abuse was inevitable with their marriage, and it became our norm. When I got older, I realized that not doing something about it made me just as guilty. I spent most of my life hating him for being such a bad person, but Iโm not so sure Iโm much better. Maybe weโre both bad people.โ
Ryle looks over at me with a thoughtful expression. โLily,โ he says pointedly. โThere is no such thing asย bad people. Weโre all just people who sometimes do bad things.โ
I open my mouth to respond, but his words strike me silent.ย Weโre all just people who sometimes do bad things.ย I guess thatโs true in a way. No one is exclusively bad, nor is anyone exclusively good. Some are just forced to work harder at suppressing the bad.
โYour turn,โ I tell him.
Based on his reaction, I think he might not want to play his own game. He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. He opens his mouth to speak, but then clamps it shut again. He thinks for a bit, and then ๏ฌnally speaks. โI watched a little boy die tonight.โ His voice is despondent. โHe was only ๏ฌve years old. He and his little brother found a gun in his parentsโ bedroom. The younger brother was holding it and it went off by accident.โ
My stomach ๏ฌips. I think this may be a little too much truth for me.
โThere was nothing that could be done by the time he made it to the operating table. Everyone aroundโnurses, other doctorsโ they all felt so sorry for the family. โThose poor parents,โ they said. But when I had to walk into the waiting room and tell those parents that their child didnโt make it, I didnโt feel an ounce of sorrow for them. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to feel the weight of their ignorance for keeping a loaded gun within access of two innocent children. I wanted them to know that not only did they just lose a child, they just ruined the entire life of the one who accidentally pulled the trigger.โ
Jesus Christ.ย I wasnโt prepared for something so heavy.
I canโt even conceive how a family moves past that. โThat poor boyโs brother,โ I say. โI canโt imagine what thatโs going to do to him
โseeing something like that.โ
Ryle ๏ฌicks something off the knee of his jeans. โItโll destroy him for life, thatโs what itโll do.โ
I turn on my side to face him, lifting my head up onto my hand. โIs it hard? Seeing things like that every day?โ
He gives his head a slight shake. โIt should be a lot harder, but the more Iโm around death, the more it just becomes a part of life. Iโm not sure how I feel about that.โ He makes eye contact with me again. โGive me another one,โ he says. โI feel like mine was a little more twisted than yours.โ
I disagree, but I tell him about the twisted thing I did a mere twelve hours ago.
โMy mother asked me two days ago if I would deliver the eulogy at my fatherโs funeral today. I told her I didnโt feel comfortableโ that I might be crying too hard to speak in front of a crowdโbut that was a lie. I just didnโt want to do it because I feel like eulogies should be delivered by those who respected the deceased. And I didnโt much respect my father.โ
โDid you do it?โ
I nod. โYeah. This morning.โ I sit up and pull my legs beneath me as I face him. โYou want to hear it?โ
He smiles. โAbsolutely.โ
I fold my hands in my lap and inhale a breath. โI had no idea what to say. About an hour before the funeral, I told my mother I didnโt want to do it. She said it was simple and that my father would have wanted me to do it. She said all I had to do was walk up to the podium and say ๏ฌve great things about my father. So . . . thatโs exactly what I did.โ
Ryle lifts up onto his elbow, appearing even more interested. He can tell by the look on my face that it gets worse. โOh, no, Lily. What did you do?โ
โHere. Let me just reenact it for you.โ I stand up and walk around to the other side of my chair. I stand tall and act like Iโm looking out over the same crowded room I was met with this morning. I clear my throat.
โHello. My name is Lily Bloom, daughter of the late Andrew Bloom. Thank you all for joining us today as we mourn his loss. I wanted to take a moment to honor his life by sharing with you ๏ฌve great things about my father. The ๏ฌrst thing . . .โ
I look down at Ryle and shrug. โThatโs it.โ He sits up. โWhat do you mean?โ
I take a seat on my lounge chair and lie back down. โI stood up there for two solid minutes without saying another word. There wasnโt one great thing I could say about that manโso I just stared silently at the crowd until my mother realized what I was doing and had my uncle remove me from the podium.โ
Ryle tilts his head. โAre you kidding me? You gave the anti-eulogy at your own fatherโs funeral?โ
I nod. โIโm not proud of it. I donโtย think.ย I mean, if I had my way, he would have been a much better person and I would have stood up there and talked for an hour.โ
Ryle lies back down. โWow,โ he says, shaking his head. โYouโre kind of my hero. You just roasted a dead guy.โ
โThatโs tacky.โ
โYeah, well. Naked truth hurts.โ I laugh. โYour turn.โ
โI canโt top that,โ he says.
โIโm sure you can come close.โ โIโm not sure I can.โ
I roll my eyes. โYes you can. Donโt make me feel like the worst person out of the two of us. Tell me the most recent thought youโve had that most people wouldnโt say out loud.โ
He pulls his hands up behind his head and looks me straight in the eye. โI want to fuck you.โ
My mouth falls open. Then I clamp it shut again. I think I might be speechless.
He shoots me a look of innocence. โYou asked for the most recent thought, so I gave it to you. Youโre beautiful. Iโm a guy. If you were into one-night stands, I would take you downstairs to my bedroom and I would fuck you.โ
I canโt even look at him. His statement makes me feel a multitude of things all at once.
โWell, Iโm not into one-night stands.โ
โI ๏ฌgured as much,โ he says. โYour turn.โ
Heโs so nonchalant; he acts as if he didnโt just stun me into silence.
โI need a minute to regroup after that one,โ I say with a laugh. I try to think of something with a little shock value, but I canโt get over the fact that he just said that.ย Out loud.ย Maybe because heโs a neurosurgeon and I never pictured someone so educated throwing around the wordย fuckย so casually.
I gather myself . . . somewhat . . . and then say, โOkay. Since weโre on the subject . . . the ๏ฌrst guy I ever had sex with was homeless.โ
He perks up and faces me. โOh, Iโm gonna need more of this story.โ
I stretch my arm out and rest my head on it. โI grew up in Maine. We lived in a fairly decent neighborhood, but the street behind our house wasnโt in the best condition. Our backyard butted up to a condemned house adjacent to two abandoned lots. I became friends with a guy named Atlas who stayed in the condemned house. No one knew he was living there other than me. I used to take him food and clothes and stuff. Until my father found out.โ
โWhatโd he do?โ
My jaw tightens. I donโt know why I brought this up when I still force myself not to think about it on a daily basis. โHe beat him
up.โ Thatโs as naked as I want to get about that subject. โYour turn.โ He regards me silently for a moment, as if he knows thereโs more to that story. But then he breaks eye contact. โThe thought of marriage repulses me,โ he says. โIโm almost thirty years old and I have no desire for a wife. Iย especiallyย donโt want children. The only thing I want out of life is success. Lots of it. But if I admit that out
loud to anyone, it makes me sound arrogant.โ โProfessional success? Or social status?โ
He says, โBoth. Anyone can have children. Anyone can get married. But not everyone can be a neurosurgeon. I get a lot of pride out of that. And I donโt just want to be a great neurosurgeon. I want to be the best in my ๏ฌeld.โ
โYouโre right. It does make you sound arrogant.โ
He smiles. โMy mother fears Iโm wasting my life away because all I do is work.โ
โYouโre a neurosurgeon and your mother isย disappointedย in you?โ I laugh. โGood lord, thatโs insane. Are parents ever really happy with their children? Will they ever be good enough?โ
He shakes his head. โMy children wouldnโt be. Not many people have the drive I do, so Iโd only be setting them up for failure. Thatโs why Iโll never have any.โ
โI actually think thatโs respectable, Ryle. A lot of people refuse to admit they might be too sel๏ฌsh to have children.โ
He shakes his head. โOh, Iโmย wayย too sel๏ฌsh to have children.
And Iโm de๏ฌnitely way too sel๏ฌsh to be in a relationship.โ โSo how do you avoid it? You just donโt date?โ
He cuts his eyes to me, and thereโs a slight grin af๏ฌxed to his face. โWhen I have time, there are girls who satisfy those needs. I donโt lack for anything in that department, if thatโs what youโre asking. But love has never appealed to me. Itโs always been more of a burden than anything.โ
I wish I looked at love like that. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier. โI envy you. I have this idea that thereโs a perfect man out there for me. I tend to become jaded easily, because no one ever meets my standards. I feel like Iโm on an in๏ฌnite search for the Holy Grail.โ
โYou should try my method,โ he says. โWhich is?โ
โOne-night stands.โ He raises an eyebrow, like itโs an invitation.
Iโm glad itโs dark, because my face is on ๏ฌre. โI could never sleep with someone if I didnโt see it going anywhere.โ I say this out loud, but my words lack conviction when I say it to him.
He drags in a long, slow breath, and then rolls onto his back. โNot that kind of girl, huh?โ He says this with a trace of disappointment in his voice.
I match his disappointment. Iโm not sure Iโd even want to turn him down if he made a move, but I might have just thwarted that possibility.
โIf you wouldnโtย sleepย with someone you just met . . .โ His eyes meet mine again. โExactly how far would you go?โ
I donโt have an answer for that. I roll onto my back because the way heโs looking at me makes me want to rethink one-night stands. Iโm not necessarily against them, I suppose. Iโve just never been propositioned for one by someone I would consider it with.
Until now. Iย think. Is he even propositioning me? Iโve always been terrible at ๏ฌirting.
He reaches out and grabs the edge of my lounge chair. In one swift movement and with very minimal effort, he drags my chair closer to him until it bumps his.
My whole body stiffens. Heโs so close now, I can feel the warmth of his breath cutting through the cold air. If I were to look at him, his face would be mere inches from mine. I refuse to look at him, because heโd probably kiss me and I know absolutely nothing about this guy, other than a couple of naked truths. But that doesnโt weigh on my conscience at all when he rests a heavy hand on my stomach.
โHow far would you go, Lily?โ His voice is decadent. Smooth. It travels straight to my toes.
โI donโt know,โ I whisper.
His ๏ฌngers begin to crawl toward the hem of my shirt. He begins to slowly inch it upward until a slither of my stomach is showing. โOh, Jesus,โ I whisper, feeling the warmth from his hand as he slides it up my stomach.
Against my better judgment, I face him again and the look in his eyes completely captivates me. He looks hopeful and hungry and completely con๏ฌdent. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as his
hand begins to tease its way up my shirt. I know he can feel my heart thrashing around in my chest. Hell, he can probablyย hearย it.
โIs this too far?โ he asks.
I donโt know where this side of me is coming from, but I shake my head and say, โNot even close.โ
With a grin, his ๏ฌngers brush the underneath of my bra, lightly trickling over my skin that is now covered in chills.
As soon as my eyelids fall shut, the piercing of a ring rips through the air. His hand stiffens when we both realize itโs a phone.ย Hisย phone.
He drops his forehead to my shoulder. โDammit.โ
I frown when his hand slips out from beneath my shirt. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, standing up and walking several feet away from me to take the call.
โDr. Kincaid,โ he says. He listens intently, his hand gripping the back of his neck. โWhat about Roberts? Iโm not even supposed to be on call right now.โ More silence is followed with, โYeah, give me ten minutes. On my way.โ
He ends the call and slides his phone back in his pocket. When he turns to face me, he looks a little disappointed. He points to the door that leads to the stairwell. โI have to . . .โ
I nod. โItโs ๏ฌne.โ
He considers me for a moment, and then holds up a ๏ฌnger. โDonโt move,โ he says, reaching for his phone again. He walks closer and holds it up as if heโs about to snap a picture of me. I almost object, but I donโt even know why. Iโm fully clothed. It just doesnโt feel that way for some reason.
He snaps a picture of me lying in the lounge chair, my arms relaxed above my head. I have no idea what he plans to do with that picture, but I like that he took it. I like that he had the urge to remember what I look like, even though he knows heโll never see me again.
He stares at the photo on his screen for a few seconds and smiles. Iโm half-tempted to take a picture of him in return, but Iโm not sure I want a reminder of someone Iโll never see again. The thought of that is a little depressing.
โIt was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours.โ
I smile, equally saddened and confused by this guy. Iโm not sure that Iโve ever spent time with someone like him beforeโsomeone of a completely different lifestyle and tax bracket. I probably never will again. But Iโm pleasantly surprised to see that we arenโt all that different.
Misconception con๏ฌrmed.
He looks down at his feet for a moment as he stands in somewhat of an unsure pose. Itโs as if heโs suspended between the desire to say something else to me and the need to leave. He glances at me one last timeโthis time without so much of a poker face. I can see the disappointment in the set of his mouth before he turns and walks in the other direction. He opens the door and I can hear his footsteps fade as he rushes down the stairwell. Iโm alone on the rooftop once again, but to my surprise, Iโm a little saddened by that now.
