I Want To Stay

#11

Training for the semi-finals should have been the only thing on my mind in the months leading up to it. But it was clouded with angst towards my parents and the mystery surrounding Roman. After I potentially saw him at my meetup, it was impossible to find him. He was never on the smoke spot when I had a free moment, nor was he working the night shifts at the coffee stand. As the weeks rolled by, my annoyance grew ever larger as the same imaginary conversations I wanted to have with him spun through my head like a top.

For some reason, I wanted to keep the situation with Roman a secret. It felt like I needed to. So when Jeremy prodded me on why I was so absent-minded lately, I told them part of the truth. I told them that I had a small fight with my parents because they never showed up to support me. Jeremy empathized with me while Mimosa called them a word I dare not repeat, but let's just say that the Australians love to use it.

With only a month left until my competition, the pressure was as bad as ever. Natasha was pushing all of us to our limits (including Han, who luckily recovered from a hefty sprained ankle). Every day, I was tired, sore, and still plagued with Romanitis. I literally couldn't understand why either, which caused me even more mental turmoil.

"You're going to fall into the streeet," Art scolded as I was walking her to school. I mocked her, earning a jab in the shoulder, but I listened and stopped dazing off while traversing the curb.

It was truly wholesome to listen as she went on and on about her friends and how much fun she was having at school. She had even begun learning how to play the cello, which was awesome and completely unexpected! Though I was happy for her as an older sibling, I couldn't help but feel jealous of the joy she experienced at an age that I had never experienced. Even though the Noé situation wouldn't have happened for another year, at that age, we had moved yet again to a new home and therefore a new school. Although that move was not international, it really felt like it. We went from a highly diverse and accepting urbanized area to a town where everyone knew each other because no one ever immigrated or left there. This meant that all of the other middle schoolers looked the same, and I stood out like a sore thumb. Because of my perceived differences, nobody wanted to talk to me, albeit when they wanted to harass me. They would spit hateful, vile, and unspeakable things at me. One of the most common phrases they used was "go back to your own country." They would utter it as if I had any say in the matter. If I did, I would have happily gone back to Thailand. Even though it had its fair share of problems, at least it was beautiful, mostly accepting, and absent of other people my age who would have bullied me just for the way I looked and spoke. 

Art shook me out of my thoughts (quite literally) and gave me a hug before running to a group of kids who were waiting for her by the gates. I smiled, waved her off, and then headed towards my school. As I headed closer, I saw a figure leaning against a street sign as a trail of smoke floated above their head. When I got close enough to see him, my anger boiled over. It seemed like he had changed his routine completely because of me and chosen a place furthest from where I would think to look for him. Each step exponentially increased my fury until I was a ball of fire standing in front of Roman. Wordlessly, his eyes flitted to me and froze.

"Were you at my competition?" I questioned.

"What are you talking about?" He responded in a way that would have been believed by most. However, I noticed his gaze drifting anywhere and everywhere to avoid mine. I crossed my arms and doubled down.

"Who else has a bike like that?" I commented, jutting towards the parking lot where his vehicle was placed. Roman shrugged.

"It's a pretty popular model, so it could have been anyone who went to your gymnastics competition."

I devilishly grinned at his Freudian slip.

"I never told you I was in gymnastics." I taunted. I could see his breath subtly hitch before he spoke again in an awkwardly calm manor.

"That night you fell over, you were wearing gymnast attire." Roman rebutted. I rolled my eyes at his excuse and took a deep breath to avoid exploding upon him.

"Dieu, donne-moi de la force s'il te plaît! [God, please give me strength] Okay, fine, if you're not going to answer honestly, then at least tell me why you were mad at me the other day. And don't you dare say another damn lie or I swear I will not stop bothering you until I get the truth because I literally can't stop thinking about it! " I yelled. Roman's eyes darkened when he finally met my eyes in what felt to be a silent showdown.

"Do you really want to know why I was in a bad mood that day?" He curtly questioned. I gave him a look that I hope conveyed that I didn't want to repeat myself.

"Fine, if you really want to know, you can know." Roman Sarcastically spoke. Then he quickly (but surprisingly gently) grasped my forearm and dragged me to his bike. He opened a compartment and grabbed what was a brand new helmet that still had a protective cling film on the visor. Roman ripped it off and dangled the gear in front of me.

"Go on, put it on." He commanded.

"Why? This has nothing to do with what I asked."

"I guess you don't want to know then." Roman sassily said. I snatched the helmet from his hands and donned it. Before he put his helmet on, he dressed himself in an annoyingly satisfied smile.

I couldn't have cared less that I was about to skip school. The most pressing thing was where this guy was taking me. While I mostly trusted that no danger was involved, I still kept a smidgen of caution, for I wasn't completely inept.

Though I originally attempted to avoid grabbing onto his waist, it was virtually unavoidable as he raced faster than I'd ever seen down the road. His leather jacket felt thick under my fingertips, and I couldn't help but realize how cool he looked in it. Sporting said jacket, jeans, and a helmet that all matched hues made him look like a hot bad-boy street racer. Not that I thought he was hot, but I'm sure others would have said that...

Anyways... He took to the streets like a pro and expertly navigated around obstacles while the scenery blurred by. In what seemed like seconds, he stopped the vehicle. Directly in front of us was an old three story home. It was supposed to be pained white, but the number of chips in the color made it seem like it was supposed to be a puzzle. The yard was overrun with brambles, weeds, and larger-than-life grass. The three wooden steps leading up to the door were struggling to stay attached to each other. The windows that adorned the 'vintage' home all appeared to be old enough to retire. They all held enough condensation to water a small lawn and still have some left over. All in all, it was quite a mess.

"Why are we here?" I asked while still on his ride, though my helmet was off.

"This is why I was upset that day. I had to move here." He spoke. I cocked a brow at his miniscule explanation. It still didn't give me any clue as to why he acted the way he did.

"Because I turned eighteen, I had to move here into a group home." Roman continued. The avid biker appeared to become frustrated after I still did not understand what he was trying to tell me. With an exaggerated huff, Roman finally let it out.

"I had to move out of the home I was in because I'm a foster kid. I have no parents."

Lost for words, and seemingly out of my mind, I did the only thing I could think of. I leaned forward into his back, wrapped my arms completely around his body, and squeezed him into a hug.