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Merrick
“Can I ask you a question?”
Davis’s out-of-left-field inquiry catches me off guard. He’s not exactly the type of man to prod or poke into my life. I would suspect that’s how he is toward everyone; closed off and unwilling to ever grow too close. In the weeks since our first run together, we’ve grown semi-close. We’ve certainly become more like friends, rather than the very distant but polite neighbors we once were. But the conversations we have cover only surface subjects; our jobs, sports, repairs or projects we each want to do around our homes. There’s been little to no personal information exchanged, not that I wouldn’t be willing to oblige if he asked.
In the past month he and I have spent a lot of time together. We’ve run every weekend—sometimes both Saturday and Sunday. At some point mid-week he’ll usually come over for a beer. Again, no real conversation is exchanged, and there’s only the bare minimum when we text one another, usually just to confirm a running time.
During the weeknights when he strolls over at no predictable time, we share space together, maybe watch a ball game if one is on. He will occasionally talk about the people he works with, or an annoying customer he’s had to deal with, but never does he give me any insight to his mystery of a life. He never mentions his wife, who I only recently learned is named Chantal, and that information came via the old man across the street. Davis never discusses his family, and only once has he made a reference about his mother in passing.
On the weekends I make us food to refuel after our run, and once we’ve eaten he immediately goes home, never lingering longer than it takes to clear away the dishes. A few weeks ago he took pity on me and drove me to pick up this new patio table, where we are currently seated. We are friends, but not to the extent I would prefer. We are close, but not really, and there is always an invisible wall that remains between us. I assume he does enjoy the time we spend together as he is far more relaxed than he was when we first met, and now he smiles on a more regular basis too.
I admit it…. I’m falling hard for him. I know it’s wrong. I know he’s married. I know the last thing this closed off man needs is someone trying to romance him. I haven’t been this taken with a man in years; many, many years. The only moment in my life I can liken it to was back in high school, when I fell hard and fast for a classmate. Tim Robowski was the first guy I was ever completely attracted to, and in him I saw the truth about myself, even if I wasn’t yet ready to admit it to anyone else. Everything he did, from the sound of his voice to the dimples he liked to flash when he was flirting with me, made my heart sing in a way I’d never experienced before or since.
Tim was popular, a senior to my junior, and completely and totally closeted. The type of closeted that enjoyed making jokes about homosexuality and bullied the few gay students in our school. He came on to me at a party, took me into a room and kissed me silly, then pretended he didn’t know who I was when we returned to school a few days later. After that, it became a constant roller coaster of sexy looks, whispered confidences, and sexual escapades in less-than desirable places. He romanced me, intrigued me, and used me in every single way, and for almost a year I put up with it. My entire world revolved around him and the brief moments when he’d pretend to be interested in me. I bought every lie, simply because I was enamored and I liked the sex we were having. I had nothing to compare it to, but in my innocent mind it was everything I could ask for. I was willing to be at his beck and call, to abide by his stupid rules of pretending we didn’t know one another, just to have a few token minutes of his time.
It ended the day after he graduated, without an explanation or apology. He stopped taking my calls, refused to see me if I showed up at his house, and a few weeks later he was gone. I heard through friends that his military father had been given a new assignment, but at the time I was too heartbroken to consider the reason why he fled. He was gone and I had nothing.
Some years later I saw a Facebook post of he and his wife and their newborn child and I was vividly reminded of all the lies he’d told. It had taken me a long time, but I had already realized how badly I’d been used. I’d matured enough to see the hate in what he’d done to me, and promised myself I’d never be that stupid ever again.
What I feel for Davis, although familiar, is certainly not the affection of a naïve school boy. I understand that he’s had issues in his life that while unexplainable, have affected him deeply. I do respect his marriage, even though I fully believe he and his wife stay together for convenience sake. If he were a man in love, a man completely committed to his relationship, he’d talk about her often, just as Aiden does about Chloe. He’d spend time with her, rather than spending so many hours with me.
Still, it’s not any of my business why he and Chantal are hostile toward one another or why they remain in what I presume is a loveless marriage. My job is to be the best friend I can be for him, provide him counsel if needed, a shoulder to cry on if permitted, and that’s all. This crush I have will go nowhere. I know that without a doubt. And yet, I can’t resist the way my heart warms when he’s around. I’m mesmerized by him.
“Merrick, did you hear me?”
Startled, I reply, “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I wanted to know if I could ask you something?”
Anything…. ask me anything. “Sure, of course.”
He nervously scratches his chin—a tell if ever there was one—then looks at me across the table. “I’m wondering where you’re from. The accent, I mean.”
Grinning at the way he bumbles about, I start to snicker. “That’s usually the first question anyone asks of me.” I get no response from him other than a slight lift of one brow. “I was born just outside London. I haven’t lived there for many years, but the accent has remained.” I shove my empty plate aside. “I’d love to get back there sometime.”
“What about your family?”
Stretching my legs out, I sit back comfortably in the chair and take my water bottle in hand. “My parents are in New York.” I want to offer more; hell, I’ll tell this man anything he wants to know about me, my life, or anyone in it. But one thing I’ve learned with Davis is that he will come to me when he’s ready and not a moment before. Communication is something he’s comfortable leading and for now, I’m happy to follow.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
I grin at him. “Nope. Just me.” My eyes roll over his face and I attempt not to lose myself in his warm, brown eyes. He’s so damn beautiful, and he has absolutely no clue. He’s not classically handsome—not as I’ve been accused of being—but rather handsome in a rugged sort of way. He has this perpetual frown between his eyes that I’ve only seen disappear a handful of times. He’s broody, and hot as hell, with those honed muscles courtesy of our weekly runs. I’ve never seen him clean shaven, and I have a hunch his sexy scruff remains because he truly does not care what people think of him.
Waiting him out takes monumental patience on my part, which I’ve recently discovered I’m sorely lacking in. I’d love to bombard him with questions and learn everything about this man who has me so intrigued. But I can’t. Doing so will only push him away, and I’m not about to lose his friendship because I’m desperate to learn more about him.
“Where did you go to college?”
There you go. “Back East. Syracuse. You?” The question rolls off my tongue automatically and I cringe, expecting him to remain silent.
Surprisingly, he shakes his head and looks away. “I didn’t go to college. Took some tech classes to get my mechanics certifications, but that’s it.”
“College isn’t for everyone,” I reply, clasping my hands together on my stomach. “I always knew I wanted to help people, but I didn’t have the stomach to become a medical doctor. Physical therapy seemed like the perfect answer.”
“The only thing I knew was that the bills had to get paid.” The hollowness in his voice speaks to the pain in his past. I plead silently for him to let me in, to give me some insight into what makes him the man he is today.
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” I don’t intend for the statement to come out as a whisper, but it does. And it has just the added effect on the lonely man seated across from me. He looks directly at me, brown eyes meeting blue, and in that moment it feels like I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t possibly move or react. He and I have shared many looks over all the weeks we’ve been hanging out together, but nothing like this moment, when I can feel the warmth from his eyes on mine and we connect on a level we never have before. I see all the pain he tries so desperately to hide, the loneliness too. I see the strength of someone I admire, someone I’m beginning to really care for. I see how very easily he could be the one to break my heart all over again. “You know, I’ve been told I’m a great listener.” His eyes widen slightly at my comment, but our gazes stay locked. “When and if you’re ready, I’m here. I’m your friend and I’d like to help if I can.”
In those few seconds that pass before he turns away, our relationship—correction, our friendship—deepens to a more intimate level. I see trust in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, and a kindness he’s hidden well up until this point. There’s a brief, endearing smile he gives me that makes my stomach jump and my heart soar. But then the moment is gone, his cheeks are flushing with embarrassment, and I can visibly see that protective layer falling into place over him once more.
Our friendship is definitely a work in progress. For every one step forward, we take a dozen back. But I’m more than willing to give him whatever amount of time he needs to trust me. Days, weeks, months even. I’m not going anywhere.
