Page 32 of Stroke Rate

It was always Laura. Everything revolved around Laura. Her needs, her wants, how she and her family looked to the public, how her children could serve her narcissistic needs. And now she was there in the house with River, and the thought of introducing them made bile burn Chris’ throat. He shouldn’t worry—knowing this time Laura would put on her fake, yet convincing smile. She would hug River because Laura didn't shake hands. Laura hugged. Forcefully. The possibility of her hands on River had Chris retching and emptying bile from his empty stomach. Lying on the floor of the shower, his body quaked and emptied as he dry-heaved over and over. The retching ‌stopped, and Chris found the light-headed, empty space he had yearned for—floating away from the anguish.

“You okay in there?” River’s voice sounded distant as he knocked on the door, pulling Chris back into his body.

Chris expelled a muted groan before responding, “Yeah, I'll be out in a minute.”

Pushing himself to stand, he gripped the bench so his legs wouldn't collapse under him. Chris leaned and waited for the spinning in his head to stop, for the tingling in his limbs to cease, and the rushing in his ears to quiet before scrubbing his body and brushing the acid from his tongue.

Emerging from the bathroom, Chris felt more asleep than awake. The cloying, strange breathing issue he got when around his family was back, not allowing him to take deep enough breaths. The tightness in his lungs loosened just a fraction as he found River waiting on the bed, his hands turned up on his knees as if he were waiting for an offering.

“How can I help?” River’s small voice cracked at the end, and with it a soft protectiveness clawed at Chris’ chest. He wanted to keep River to himself and prevent Laura from tarnishing or belittling him.

With a soft rustle of carpet fibers beneath his feet, Chris crossed the room and, in just a few strides, ‌found himself nestled in River's lap. Chris straddled him, his legs wrapping around River’s back, arms around his neck, face buried into his shoulder. "Would you just hold me?" Chris murmured, his mouth pressed so hard into River’s skin the words themselves were a vibration. River rubbed up and down Chris' spine, a deep hum vibrating from his chest, nuzzling his nose into Chris' damp hair, soothing him as he would a small child. Chris wished he could stay wrapped up, lulled back to sleep in big muscular arms and a warm chest that smelled like sunshine-warmed blankets. It occurred to Chris that River was the first person who had held him, ever. Chris always thought it would be weird to be held, but it wasn't. He wanted it. Craved it, his body reaching for the comfort it had been denied its entire existence.

He’d always thought he never liked to be touched, no hugs or soft caresses, rarely kissing on the mouth—cold, perfunctory exchanges of orgasms was all he knew. Harsh grabs, sharp slaps, clawing nails—all his body had ever received. But with River, not only did he want a soft touch, he craved it. With River’s arms around him, Chris wanted to let all the tears flow he had held back. He wanted the gentle hands holding him to wipe away all the tears caused by abuse and neglect. He wanted to curl into the sunny warmth of River’s chest and beg him to never leave, to keep him safe and nothing more. That was all he had ever wanted.

“One more minute. Just sit here one more minute, baby,” River said, nosing against his throat and kissing his Adam’s apple. Chris wanted to stay just like that. Safe, soft, and comfortable, but Laura was there, and he needed to steel himself and put on his armor.

“I need to get up,” he whispered against River’s skin as he untangled their limbs. River clasped the back of Chris' neck—his grip grounding, not harsh—as he pushed the hair off Chris’ forehead, kissed his temple, and placed him on his feet.

“Let me shower, and I’ll go out with you.”

“Are you kidding? No. Nope. I’ll go out and keep her distracted. You shower and come out when you're ready. Hopefully, by then she will be ready to go.”

“No, I…”

Chris didn't let River finish. “I’ll be fine. Just come out when you are done.”

Chris watched as his mom cleaned and mumbled to herself as she flitted around. “This place is fucking disgusting. We should never have gotten this house. Ungrateful little shit,” Laura spat under her breath as she wiped the already spotless kitchen counter. Every mumble and gripe from her mouth grated on Chris’ nerves. His heart raced, and his fingers trembled as he watched her, trying to gauge what kind of mood she was in, trying to figure out what mask to put on to shield himself from her.

“Oh, honey, there you are,” Laura said as she approached him for a hug and a kiss. He loathed her touch, but withstood it to keep the peace. “What were you doing? Why didn’t you answer when I came in?” Cold, calculating eyes appraised him. He found himself looking into eyes that were a perfect, uncanny replica of his own. It was as if he was looking into a playhouse mirror—so much alike, yet different and slightly distorted. “I called your name so many times. This house is a mess. When was the last time the maid came in? Have you still been training? You don’t look good.”

That was Laura’s way of commenting on his weight. If she said you look great, so thin, he was in the clear. If she said little or commented on training, he knew she was dissecting his body like a science experiment. Sometimes she said nothing; Chris found that even worse. The little boy inside him craved her attention, even if it was negative—like a kicked puppy still seeking belly rubs—he exposed his soft underbelly over and over, in hopes she would love him just the way he was.

Laura moved on from her comments because she didn’t actually care. Instead, she launched into what was happening in her life, her daily struggles or lack thereof. Laura was a kept woman who had never had to work. His dad served her as if he were her servant, while she socialized and spent money. Socializing became an excuse for constant drinking, with "It's 5 o'clock somewhere" leaving her lips on the regular.

Her alcoholism had, for better or worse, shaped him into the person he was.

A man who feared drinking because he might hurt someone.

A man who feared touch because Laura had made it synonymous with pain.

A man who barely knew himself, always having to put on different masks to cover up who he truly was.

He hugged her, holding back a gag, the pungent scent of old booze leaking from her pores and mouth, vodka on her lips as he kissed her. Laura went on and on about the ladies who lunch, followed by story after story about his youngest brother, Flynn. How amazing he was doing at his job, how in love with his latest girlfriend he was. Chris cringed, waiting for her to ask questions about his love life. She didn’t. Why would she?

“And guess what, honey, Casey is so fun!” In other words, Flynn’s latest long-term girlfriend liked to party. Chris knew that, of course, he did. Casey had been around for over a year, and her drinking with Laura had been a point of contention between the brothers. Causing so much strain that Chris and Flynn hadn’t spoken to one another for a period. Chris smiled and nodded as if he gave a shit. He didn’t want to talk about Casey; he hoped his plastic smile would make her feel validated enough to move on and leave. Just when he felt as if she was winding down, getting ready to leave, he heard River clear his throat.

Chapter twenty-eight

River

Aheavy, repressive energy hit River as he stepped out of the bedroom, its power almost knocking the wind out of him. Yesterday, the house felt warm and bright—the same way its owner felt to River—but now it ‌felt‌ dark and heavy with something River couldn't put his finger on. River ‌didn't like it at all. Driven by the sudden need to reach Chris, River's muted footsteps echoed softly down the hallway, bathed in the bright morning light as he hurried towards the kitchen. Standing against the wall unseen, River listened as Chris’ mother ‌talked ‌at him, noticing that every word she said had a cruel, condescending undertone that made River dig his fingernails into the flesh of his palm. Her demeanor was cold, stark, and demeaning as she continued to talk to Chris. Her words were biting and so harsh they caused River to flinch as he continued to listen.

As River observed them, he could clearly see how deeply this woman had been hurting Chris his whole life. His poor boy looked as though he was bleeding out as he ‌sat‌ on the stool at the counter, eyes void, absentmindedly ‌rubbing ‌his wrists. ‌Watching‌ the way Laura looked‌ at Chris ‌sent‌ a chill through River; she ‌looked‌ at him like a vulture waiting for its meal to die. Her words were neutral, yet cutting. She made an off-putting comment about training, a weird dig about his friends, and an almost growling statement about the odds and ends scattered around the house. The house wasn’t dirty per se. The house felt lived-in, but she spoke as if she were witnessing a hoarder situation.

“A lot of carbs,” she said. “Are you eating all right?” She stated with a sarcastic tone. “Are you swimming enough?” River strained to hear Chris’ answer, his voice small like that of an annoyed little boy. He sounded like a child who was sick of hearing their parent’s voices, realizing that saying anything back meant or changed nothing. Like he had realized his best response was a muted “yes Mom, no Mom.”

“We built you this house to make it easier for you to train. You don’t look like you are using it much. And that race. Christopher, that was a disappointment. It looked like you didn’t even try. You should have heard the ladies,” she whisper-yelled.