AllFreeNovel
Share Us
From the outside, his office looks completely different from the rest of the house, decorated with dark walnut, green textured wallpaper, and a deep leather couch. When I push the door open wider, I notice the set of bookshelves that line the wall, and I can’t stop myself from stepping over the threshold and into a room I probably shouldn’t be in. I tell myself that it’s wrong, but I imagine it smells like him – like the spines of old books and leather. The bookcases go all the way to the ceiling, and there are so many with their different colored spines lined perfectly on the shelves, as if they are begging to be touched.
I’m not sure if the books are organized in any sort of way, so I work my way from left to right, my finger running over gold embossed spines, and others that look well-loved and used, stopping on The Collective Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I’m almost afraid to touch it, but I pull it out anyway, turning it over in my hand, knowing that he, too, held this book, and it’s as if the memory I have of him has become tangible. The spine is worn and cracked, one of the well-used and well-loved books in what must be a collection of thousands.
From behind me, I hear Darren's voice, rough and quiet as he recites the ending verse of Emerson’s poem, Give All To Love.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
I slip the book back into its place. I wanted to tell him that I knew his father once, but it was a secret that I wanted to keep close—something that was just mine and no one else’s, like a treasured timepiece. There never seemed to be a right time, and I wouldn’t expect Darren to understand that after only meeting Kerry once, he had an impact that would stay with me for years. But I can’t tell him now, especially when I’m standing in his office, holding his book.
I turn around to see Darren in the doorway, wearing a faded Georgetown t-shirt that looks as though it’s been washed one too many times and is possibly a size too small for him now. He looks like a frat boy with his lean figure, the shirt fitting tight across his broad chest, and jeans that sit low on his waist. His hair looks freshly washed, the ends still wet and messy. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, but not the shadow they cast.
“For someone who claims to dislike Emerson, you sure have quite the catalog memorized,” I say, moving away from the bookcase and focusing my attention on the artwork lining the other wall as the oriental rug in front of the desk warms my bare feet. Fall in Washington D.C. is much colder than in Nevada. I have to remember to wear socks.
“I never said I disliked Emerson,” Darren returns as he pushes off the door frame and walks into the office. He looks as though he’s treading carefully, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans as if expecting someone to catch him in a place he shouldn’t be. Then I’m reminded that I’m the intruder.
When we’d first arrived, Darren had made a point to say that I could make myself at home and to help myself to anything before he showed me the guest room upstairs. I didn’t take that to mean I could enter his father’s private office though.
“I was passing by – the door was open, and I saw the…”
“Books,” he finishes for me, the corners of his mouth tugging into a reluctant smile.
“Yes,” I say quietly, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in here,” I apologize while walking towards the door.
He steps in front of me, grabbing my waist, his hand warm and firm through the shirt. “Stay,” he says, tilting his head towards me. The green flecks in his eyes glimmer in the low light of an antique lamp next to us. “I like seeing you in here,” he admits, although I’m not sure what he means by that, so I stay.
“Okay,” I reply, trying to navigate this space which means different things to both of us.
Perhaps it’s Darren’s way of facing his demon’s while I simply give into mine.
“My father would hate it,” Darren says, a touch of wicked amusement in his voice.
Maybe I should be offended that Darren thinks that someone like me – someone who has fucked men for money – wouldn’t be welcome, but that makes it all the more enticing. The way Darren is watching me make my way around the office leads me believe he feels the same way.
I turn my attention to the desk and run my hand along the edge of the dark walnut, feeling the wood graze my skin. A pen lays on top of a leather-bound pad of legal paper, as if waiting for him to come back to jot down a private thought.
“It’s a beautiful office,” I say, leaning over the desk to look at the framed poem on the wall, the same poem Darren recited in the bar while drunk.
Darren grunts behind me, the noise sounding as though it’s coming from low in his throat.
“You don’t think so?” I ask, turning my head to look at him.
Darren drops his arms to his sides and moves behind me. “It loses its grandeur when you only come in here to get lectured or yelled at.”
I haven’t decided if I should feel sorry for him or not, but the way his body feels against my back and the wood of the desk against my palms clouds my judgment. I can picture Darren standing in front of this desk, hands in his pockets, staring past his father to the framed poem on the wall while being reprimanded by something foolish he did.
Maybe I’m drawn to tragedy… the same way I was drawn into the office of a man I once knew, and the same way I’m drawn to Darren. They are a lot alike, but different in so many ways.
