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Broken Little Melodies(22)

By:Jennifer Ann


“I know you hate me, Brooke, but I’m worried about Roman.” I held out a piece of paper with my home phone number. “Can you…just…let me know when you get back to New York if he’s all right?”

“He’ll be fine. At least he’s far away from you.”

I wiggled the piece of paper between us. “Please.” It made me ill to have to beg her, but I didn’t know what else to do. Roman’s dad had been livid, and it was killing me not knowing what his comment about going to juvie had to do with me. “I’m really worried about him.”

I don’t know if it was because I looked legitimately afraid for Roman, or if Brooke actually had a beating heart, but she plucked the paper from my fingers. “Fine, whatever.” Then she rolled her eyes before walking away.

Still, she never called.

After returning home, I spent hours at the public library, searching the Internet for everyone living in Manhattan with the Stone surname. When I came up empty-handed, I asked my Aunt Joey for help. Her first idea was to call child services in New York, but I was scared to death it could trigger something bigger, and land Roman in a foster home. When I told her that wasn’t happening, she called Chris, an older man with thinning hair that she had started seeing while I was gone, and asked his advice since he “had connections.” And that’s how Aunt Joey was finally convinced to let me open a Facebook account.

When I came across the profile picture of Roman grinning proudly in a short black uniform, holding a basketball against his hip, my insides became a bowl of jelly. I swear I stared at it for an entire hour before printing a black and white copy that I would later frame and keep on my dresser for years to come. I tried clicking through his other pictures, but it seemed there was only the one. He either wasn’t on his account much, or had everything else set as private. I sent him a friend request and sat there with my fingers crossed, staring at the screen for what felt like an eternity.

I kept going back to the library every day for a week. He never accepted my request.

I told myself it was because he had been grounded, and not because he was mad at me, or even worse, because his dad had hurt him severely. When the idea that Roman could be dead first came crashing into me, unapologetic and brutally painful, I spent twenty minutes dry-heaving over a library toilet.

As the days became colder and the nights grew longer, I lost interest in school and was lucky to pass any of my classes. Roman didn’t try to call or send a letter, and I became physically ill with concern. Then Aunt Joey announced two days before Thanksgiving that we were moving to Las Vegas because Chris found them both jobs at a casino that would pay really well, and I lost any remaining will to live. I had no way to get in touch with Roman, and he would no longer have my number.

By the time we settled with Chris in the crappy little apartment just a block off The Strip, things got ugly. I hated Chris, and I was eating nothing more than the toast Aunt Joey made me choke down whenever she was around. I once considered stealing Chris’s car and driving to New York, even though I knew everything about the idea was dumb. But I’d do anything to get the hell out of that apartment. And I was desperate to see Roman.

Without thinking or having any kind of plan, I’d take off at night whenever I was home alone to wander the busy streets. Anything to take my mind off losing the boy I loved. On those nights I was offered sex, booze, and drugs. I was desperate, but not desperate enough to get involved with anything illegal. At least not at that point.

Melanie called often, not bothering to hide her worry as soon as she realized something was off. She once caught Aunt Joey on the phone, and suggested to her that I see a doctor. Then Melanie convinced Kalee—the friend from Colorado who beat me out for the first scholarship the year before—to start calling to lift my spirits.

That’s when I first learned of the rumor going around that Roman had stolen money from his dad to pay for “my scholarship.”

The news gutted me. I had no way of knowing whether or not it was true, but it fit with the things his dad said the day he took Roman home. The idea that Roman could be serving time in juvie because of me was too much to bear. Crippling guilt kept me from doing much of anything for an entire week.

Around the time I normally would’ve been at tryouts, I started hanging out with a wild crowd from school. I knew they were all trouble, but that didn’t matter as long as they were friendly. They got me into drinking hardcore booze and smoking menthols. I took whatever they offered, eager to numb the pain of losing my Roman, and possibly ruining his life.

There was this somewhat cute guy in his late twenties who was a total flirt. He went by the name of Benjamin and was tall with a deep voice. Whenever I was drunk, I could close my eyes and pretend he was Roman. One night he pinned me up against a wall and kissed me hard. I let it happen until he shoved his vodka-laced tongue into my mouth and dug his hard-on into my belly. It felt so dirty because I didn’t want to kiss anyone other than Roman, but it helped relieve the loneliness that had only gotten worse since camp.