6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Rory

A name. A name. A fucking name. Finally!

The sound of that word screaming inside my head is getting stronger and stronger, while on the outside, things are different.

A marble statue would have had more life than me right now. My body is shaking, my skin feels as cold as snow, and I bet I'm as pale as a whiteboard. So breathless that not even my chest is moving, and his eyes change mood from one blink to another.

Then I'm like spring coming out of winter and off the sofa, pacing around the room, mumbling to myself, saying thanks to whatever deity finally fulfilled my prayers.

All while ignoring the man still standing near the sofa, watching me, and spying each reaction his news pulls out of me. I'm not ashamed of showing my emotions to him—my tears, my inability to stay still, or the need to scream my joy at the four winds.

One thing I'm trying very hard to contain is my need to hug him and say a thousand thank yous. In a surge of joy which overwhelms my common sense and self-preservation, and ignores the flags of danger flying around Samuel, I hug him. I put my arms around him and pull him closer. I ignore his stillness and rigidity, trying to convey how grateful I am through the touch of our bodies so that it can be passed to him without having to utter impossible words at the moment.

Samuel stays rigid in my arms, but he doesn't pull away, so I stay close to him until my heart stops beating like bolts of lightning, and finally settles on its normal rhythm, leaving me tired, as though I carried rocks up and down a hill all day long.

I drop my arms to my side, but I don't move away because the warmth seeping from Samuel to me is too comfortable—too enjoyable—and it affects me deep inside. I've been without human touch, deprived of the simplest contact, since I lost John. Partially because I couldn't fathom the idea of someone else's touch, and because no one was John.

So, why is Samuel affecting me so much?

I've never been a tactile person, and I'm not sure why I need to touch him so much. It must be gratitude, and nothing to do with the awareness zinging up and down my body, which I ignore.

"Thank you." The words come directly from my heart.

"No need for thank yous. Can we talk before we proceed?"

His coldness puts me in my place, sending me down in the dumps. I shake it off and focus on moving forward. Yes, he's the first person to take an interest in my situation, but it doesn't mean we're friends.

I don't even know why he's doing it. What is he getting out of my situation? And because my need to know takes over before my brain can process my thoughts, the question is out of my mouth.

"Why are you helping me?"

He does a double take, as if surprised by my question, then pretends he didn't hear me.

Should I press him? What if he walks away? Thank you, brain, for being a step ahead every single time. But then he answers, and while his answer doesn't give me any insight, it still has the power to settle my nerves.

"Because I can." His answer is curt and doesn't leave room for more questions. I'm not sure why those words make me happy. I'm not right in the head if I find his coldness and detachment interesting. And—what the actual fuck—charming. I shake my head to scatter the useless thoughts away.

"Let's talk," I say, bringing the conversation back to the important stuff—the name.

"There are a few rules we need to discuss before I'll share the name." He sits down on the chair, which tells me it's not going to be an easy or short conversation. Never mind that I would agree to anything, if it gives me that name.

"Okay."

"First things first, no contact with this person. Second, you must keep who you are and why you're there a secret, in case there is contact. Third, no mention of your life and no mention of knowing about the transplant. Fourth, I'll be there with you." He pauses, and I wonder if he's thinking about more rules, but when he doesn't talk for a while, I get worried.

"Is—" I try, but I'm interrupted by Samuel.

"I'm risking everything by helping you out. So, please, don't break these rules."

He had me at ‘please,' but I want to make sure he understands how much what he's doing means to me. Reading further into his rules, it's clear he needs to control everything, almost as though bad things could happen if he lost it.

"I would never do anything to harm you. I'll follow every single rule you have, and I won't ask questions of them or you. You can be there, and I won't complain." I stop to take a breath, then continue. "You'll never know how grateful I am. On a scale from one to a hundred, I'm a million times grateful."

He smiles, and the realisation of how nonsensical what I just said is hits me, and I chuckle at my disjointed mind.

"Okay, then. When do you want to go see this person?"

"Is tomorrow too soon?"

"I need a couple of days to organise everything, and make sure I check every single detail before we get there."

"Are you a police officer?" The question's out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

"Yeah, you got a problem with it?"

"Nope, but maybe you do. I have a restraining order."

"Why?" There is no heat behind his question, as if he does really want to know.

"I needed to know where John was, but they didn't like me asking . . . over and over."

"Then that's bullshit, and we both know it." His scruffy voice sends awareness down my spine, making me impossibly aware of him.

Once again, I ask myself what it is about this man, and why I'm reacting this way to his presence?

"I'm here all the time. Just let me know and I'll be ready."

He stands up, and that's the end of the conversation. We walk to the door and pause there. I want to tell him again how what he's doing amazes me, but I refrain.

"I'll be going." Without another word, he's gone.

I'm back to being by myself, but this time hope fills the room, and I don't feel like losing my mind any longer.

I'm going to see John again, talk to him one last time. I can finally tell him what I've always had in my heart, but I can also tell him I'm ready to move forward, and that his presence and the love I have for him will always be with me.

I go to our room and stand there, looking at the closed door for a while, trying to find the courage to enter. I lean against the wood, still hoping to find him inside getting ready for work. When I go inside, the room is dark and smells like him, like us. My heart is strangled as if a python is constricting it, and my breath is coming in fast and furious exhales to get enough oxygen into my lungs. I walk to the wardrobe and open it, and with a gentle touch, I caress his clothes.

These are the only things I have of him, and I never had the strength to give them away to people who may need them more than me. The thought of seeing his part of the wardrobe empty makes me think of how alone I am, how empty my life is, and how it would have been better for John to be here and instead, me the one gone forever.

He had a life, and I had John.

Now he's not here, and I'm alone. I don't know how to move forward, let go of what we had, or make him proud of me. I thought we were going to be together forever. Instead, we only had ten months. Things weren't perfect, but we were happy. I finally had someone to call mine, and someone who called me his.

I was lucky to have found John. His idea of me was so different from my own. He looked at me as if I was whole; he never saw the cracks I had inside me. He couldn't understand how painful and how impossible it was for me to overcome my upbringing and the pain my family brought to me.

Still, we worked. We wanted to build something together. Neither of us expected the time we had to be so short.

John gave me a life, a home, and happiness. Nothing could have taken me away from him. We would still be together and happy if he was here, and maybe his love would have smoothed the parts of me that have sharp edges. He would have soothed the parts of me that still hurt. We didn't have enough time together, but even knowing that, I still would have chosen to love him.

I take one of his shirts and press it against my face, inhaling deeply to get John's scent inside of me.

A memory of me doing this at the beginning of our story pops into my head and I'm brought back to that time.

"Rory?" I turn around and John is there, looking at me as though I'm a lunatic.

"Yeah?" I reply, trying to look nonchalant while hiding the shirt behind my back.

"Why are you smelling my shirt?"

I look at him with an ‘I wasn't' face, but I can't avoid my cheeks going up in flames.

He walks towards me, the movements calculated to bring my attention to his swinging hips, and some—most—of my blood goes south, my head getting dizzy from the loss.

I lick my lips and I love the sound John makes, so I do it again.

He stops when he's only inches away from me, leans to the right, and in a quick move, reaches behind my back, snatching the garment from my hands.

"I think you should smell me. All over," he says, while throwing the shirt behind his back without worrying where it lands.

His wicked smile brings even more of my blood to my already hard shaft.

"Oh, God. Stop saying things like this, especially when we need to go out," I complain.

He leans in, going on his tiptoes and kissing me like his life depends on it. I'll give him everything he asks for.

"I love your smell," I say once we've separated.

"I love your smell, too. On me."

I pull away and swat his ass, lingering there before moving back. I really want to pull him against me until we're both sweaty and satisfied, but we need to go out.

Something falling on my hand brings me back to the room and the pain of loss. Now that I'm allowing the memories to seep through, the pain of what I lost is even greater than before. The pain of not seeing him one last time, giving him one last kiss, telling him one last time how much I loved him, and how lucky I was to have met him.

I wasn't able to do that, but now at least, thanks to Samuel, I'll be able to witness the parts of John that have given other people a better life.

Samuel . . .

I push the thought of him away because, before I start anything with anyone, I need to let John go.

Maybe one day . . .