I met Rafe in college. He was my first roommate. It was my first time away from home and I was green. I was so naïve. He was a year older than me and we took some time to warm up to each other. I just wasn't used to sharing a room or my life with anyone other than my family and I had had to get to know them over the course of 18 years. But, after the initial wariness wore off, he made the effort to pull me out of my shell. His father was from Ireland and his mother was from Guadalajara; so he got the best from both cultures. He had creamy, bronzed skin and black, black hair that was more straight than curly with his dad's bright blue eyes. He was tall, about six-two, but it didn't touch my six-five. He smiled a lot and was almost always laughing and joking. It helped.
As is often the case when you spend almost every waking moment with someone, cramped into a room twelve by nine, you either hate each other to pieces or become best of friends. Well, we became friends. I lived about ten hours away from school, but Rafe's family lived only two hours away. We talked about all things, growing closer and closer as the days passed. By Christmas that first year, we could complete each other's sentences. When I lost my virginity to a sweet co-ed named Carrie in February, I shared all the details with Rafe. He just smiled at me and laughed as I told him how nervous I had been and how I thought it was wonderful, but it was over a little too soon (her words, not mine).
In March, just before Spring Break, I got a call from my dad's best friend. My parents had been killed in a car accident. I know I breathed because I am alive, but the events of the following few hours are gone. Rafe found me about an hour or so after the phone call, sitting on the floor in a pile by the phone. He had had to shove me back because I was blocking the door. When he looked at me, directly in my eyes, the numbness faded and the pain came flooding out. All I remember is crying and being held. I remember other people in the dorms coming to the open door and watching the tragedy, rubbernecking someone else's pain. Rafe called all of my professors and all the other myriad people then drove me home. We stayed in the house that my parents had lived in. It was so shocking to see. There was folded laundry waiting to go in drawers and their bed was unmade and one of my mom's shoes was just sitting, waiting for her to come home. But they didn't. Rafe stayed with me through the funeral and the will reading. We got back to school after spring break and took make up finals.
For the next six weeks or so, I was doing anything to dull the pain. I slept with girl after girl, three of them in one night. I drank and smoked grass, even thought of trying other stuff, harder stuff, anything to make the ache go away. When I had slept through another day's worth of classes, Rafe poured a bucket of cold water on me in bed, waking me, sobering me. He then let me have it for all he was worth. Shame was riding me hard, guilt followed a close second and pain was the constant background. Rafe's words shocked me. He had never been angry before. He had never raised his voice and had never yelled at me. I was in shock, unable to even defend myself. He must have screamed at me for a good half hour. When he finally ran down his head of steam, he noticed that I had paled and was crying. But, he did make me realize how destructive my life had become. He helped me get cleaned up and talk to my teachers and workout a make-up plan. Over the next few weeks, I went through some serious shakes. I wasn't addicted to anything, but I also had to face the world without a girl or a drink or a hit. I was just grateful that I had somehow remembered condoms when I had slept with all those women.
That summer, I went to my home and packed up and sorted through my folk's things. Rafe joined me for the summer. My parents owned a consulting firm and had left their majority in the business to me. I had my dad's best friend take over until I was done with school. I didn't want grief to cause me to make mistakes. I still had to vote on important matters, but I was given time to mourn and grow a little more. That fall, Rafe and I moved into an apartment off campus and roomed together through the remainder of school.
I dated from time to time, but I was in no way as promiscuous as I had been. I only slept with one other woman in college and it was a few months of dating before that happened. Rafe didn't date though. I asked a couple of times and he kept evading. One day I cornered him and asked why. He was scared and angry and told me he was gay. I just looked at him and then told him he was an idiot for worrying about telling me. I hadn't noticed how tense Rafe had become around me until he relaxed after telling me. I felt really bad that he was so scared. There is so much evil in the world and some people find the stupidest things to be uptight about. Rafe was studying for his master's degree and was going to be in school a little longer than I was. During our last year living together, just before I went home to take over the family business, Rafe cornered me.
"John, I know you wanted me to go home with you for the summer, but I can't."
I was hurt and confused; we had been planning on him staying with me until he got a job with the city's library system. "Why?"
"John, please..."
"Why? We planned this. I was looking forward to it. Weren't you?"
"Yes, but John..."
"Why, damn it!"
"Because I've fallen in love with you!"
I was surprised. No, shocked was a better word. I was unprepared for what he said. I tried to say something, but all I did was stammer.
"It's okay John, I need to be away from you or I'll never got over it. I will eventually, but not if we are living in the same house." The light seemed to have faded from his eyes a little. He laughed, but without humor. "This has always been my biggest fear. Falling in love and not having that love returned."
I was so lost. I didn't know what to say or what to do. I felt so bad. But, after graduation, I returned home and Rafe stayed in our old apartment until he found a job. I called from time to time. I really missed my best friend. After about two months when I called, Rafe begged me to stop calling. He was crying on the phone. "I can't do this John. I miss you too. But I ache every time I hear your voice. I love you so much. Please stop calling. You're killing me."
So I stopped calling. I maintained my friendship with his family and they kept me up to date on how Rafe, Rafael to his mother, was doing. But I didn't talk to him on the phone. I didn't see him, even when business took me to his town. I stayed away. I felt guilty and sad because I couldn't return his feelings. I loved him, but I wasn't in love with him.
