And similar to our searches for fun dance clubs, we would sometimes venture to Boston or New York City or Providence if the court cases in New Haven got stale. The Northeast had no shortage of exciting trials and notable local lawyers. I once asked Roman if he wished he could bring a bag of popcorn into the trial. He looked at me blankly. “Of course not. The chewing might make me miss something important. And when do I ever eat empty carbs?”
I accompanied Roman to the courthouse because it was interesting and helpful for me to note the human experience of being the accused or accuser, judge or jury member, for psychological purposes. I was especially curious about signs of guilt and also wondered why in this country to feel remorse meant a lesser sentence. The crime is still the crime, so why do a criminal’s emotions after the fact play into it? Perhaps because judges took remorse as a sign that the criminal would not partake in the illegal activity again. But many statistics show that feelings of guilt or lack of guilt do not affect the likelihood of reoffending. It’s as simple as if I ate a cookie, and I feel guilty I cheated on my diet. Fuck it, I’ll eat the whole sleeve. We’ve all been there. Guilt is not an intrinsically helpful emotion for future decision-making. And often the spiral of guilt and shame can lead criminals to remain criminals.
This idea was so intriguing to me, for personal reasons that should already be clear, that I later took it on for my undergraduate senior thesis. My paper, which I turned in six weeks early and for which I received an A, was titled “Remorse and Absolution: Peas in a Pod or Dangerous Bunkmates?”
And while Roman and I made the Northeast our own, I got to know his family. Sometimes we would go to New Canaan for a weekend. The live-in housekeeper would do our laundry and make us yummy sandwiches with goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes and roasted red peppers. His father found my crazy Miami tales amusing and appreciated my work ethic. He liked having me around because he felt I was a good influence on his son. Not that Roman needed any help marching along his path to legal greatness.
During my first visit to the Miller house, they didn’t seem to believe that Roman and I were just friends. One of his middle brothers punched him hard in the arm when he saw me, as if to say, Good going. And his youngest brother gave me a few sideways glances, like, Is my brother doing it with you? Gross! At first I slept in one of the many guest rooms and he stayed in his childhood bedroom. But by my second visit they all saw what we saw, an unbreakable, fully platonic friendship. It was then that his parents let us share his old room. We would fall asleep side by side in the queen bed with the brown-and-green plaid-patterned comforter, me quizzing him on Trivial Pursuit questions mixed in with practice LSAT exam questions, him quizzing me with questions on neuroanatomy mixed in with what it feels like to do cocaine.
In a way, I became a part of his family. And received the perks. Mr. and Mrs. Miller were much more effusive with their own children than my own parents were, but with that also came a certain pressure to live up to their demands. Roman wore that pressure like heavy armor that sometimes weighed him down, but since I didn’t have eighteen years of the helicopter-parent dynamic, I only noticed the protective effects of the praise, without the weight. The Millers were so proud of my constant 4.0 GPA they actually put my report card on their own refrigerator. When I saw it up there, mixed in with a magnet from Turks and Caicos and an old sketch from their youngest boy, I got a little teary. I had accidentally found surrogate parents who nurtured me in a way that my own parents never did. I felt awash in joy with a splash of sadness. Getting something new can trigger a painful realization of what you lacked before.
I was so comfortable with Roman, more so than with Ameena and even with Ellie in some ways, that a few times I almost mentioned Duncan Reese in passing. Totally, like that one time I drowned that bully in the ocean. I almost casually referenced slashing Richard Vale in the eyebrow. Believe me, I know the head can bleed a lot, even when it’s just a surface wound. And as the memories and the thoughts were about to fly from my mouth, I would remember that I could never say these things out loud. These were secrets I had to keep forever. From even my best friends. My closest family. Secrets forced me to keep up a thin wall between me and the people I loved and trusted most. Another thin layer of latex. Some might think this is sad, no way to live, but if you’ve never had sex without a condom, using condoms feels pretty damn good.
But still, maybe, if there was anyone I could tell or would tell someday . . . it would be Roman.
CHAPTER 11
BETRAYAL
Roman felt it would be a crime to not share his beautiful body with the world, so he signed up to be a nude model for several Yale art classes. How he would find the time to stand around naked for the betterment of others while crushing his two majors, studying for the LSAT, and doing two-a-days in the gym was beyond me.
His one concern, however, was that while naked in front of the art class he might make eye contact with a pretty girl. Or have a pornographic thought. Or let a daydream turn into a fantasy. Any of these things could make him get hard. He didn’t want to get hard. He wanted to be a muse, to be gazed upon and adored, calm, cool, and collected, like a statue, and didn’t want his penis to give away that he hadn’t transcended natural bodily functions. So he came up with a plan.
I arrived at his studio apartment—he was now living off campus—with my laptop, a bag full of textbooks, and two giant coffees. His with exactly one and one half pods of cream, mine with two pods of cream and two packets of raw sugar. I handed him his coffee and plopped down in his one comfy chair. He took his pants off. And then his boxer briefs. He looked comical with his T-shirt and socks still on. He realized this and he quickly pulled off his T-shirt. And then bent down and removed his socks. Roman was now fully naked, standing in front of me. He was beautiful.
I had never seen him naked before. And I stared. Because that was part of the plan. I was to stare at him, in all sorts of ways, from all sorts of angles. And he was to stand there and see if being naked in front of a girl would make him hard.
“So?” he asked.
“What do you mean, so? I’m not here to critique your dick.”
“I know. I just thought I’d ask anyway.”
“This might come as a shock, but most women, me included, don’t care so much about the penis. It’s weird-looking, and as long as it’s in the realm of normal human size, it doesn’t really matter.”
“Wait. All of them are weird-looking? Or mine specifically is weird-looking?”
“Jesus Christ. All of them are weird-looking! Why do you think male sex symbols are always in tuxedos? Men are at their most attractive when they’re covered up as much as possible.”
This seemed to really demolish his spirit. He plopped down on his couch, deflated. I felt bad, and sat next to him. I put a hand on his arm. Felt the muscles tense under my touch. I then put my head on his shoulder and side-hugged him, allowing my hand to rest on his protruding left oblique. I felt a thrill shoot up my spine and also down into my pelvis.
“Listen to me, your body is incredible. You know that. We aren’t here to debate that. We are here to see if you are going to get hard or not.” Roman looked down at his flaccid penis. Then looked at me, then took a sip of his coffee. And we waited.
Roman did not get hard, not in front of me and not in front of any art classes. He was as good at modeling naked as he was at everything else he tried. And our friendship continued to soar through to the beginning of senior year. Which was when I met Jake.