All American Boys

44. Rose Garden Dreams

All American Boys

Chapter 44: Rose Garden Dreams

Cyril was right across the room, standing there, ready for the taking. My eyes were focused on him as I carefully made my way past the flurry of suits and dresses. He had just finished talking to an older man in a crisp black blazer, and the latter was beginning to wander away.

I knew exactly what I wanted, and I knew exactly how to get it.

"Where have you been?" he said in a rather hushed tone, as if he was afraid the people at the party might hear him.

"I took a walk in the garden with Isaac," I replied, realizing there was no point in lying. "He offered to show it to me, and I needed some fresh air."

"Oh, I see, he does know the mansion pretty well, " Cyril replied, adjusting his cuffs. "Back when his dad was alive he'd bring his children over, ever since we were little."

"So I suppose you two go way back," I said. "What happened?"

Cyril shrugged.

"I don't know," he replied. "He had always been a quiet kid. Never really talked much. We played in the yard once and he got violent – learned to stay away ever since. But I really feel bad for him, poor kid."

"Yeah," I said, looking down at my feet. "Poor kid."

If only he knew the pain my poor boy endured. All the pain on that pure soul who didn't deserve any of it. But that pain was not meant to be shared. It was what was special between Isaac and I. Only I understood him.

Only I could help him. I was the only one who walked this earth who could help him with his pain. No one else.

But I remembered what I had to do.

Looking up, I painted a sweet smile on my lips.

"Well," I said. "You seem to be free now."

"Wha-"

I seemed to have taken him off guard. I took a step closer to him, looking into his hazel eyes. He averted his gaze in a flurry.

"I've missed you so much," I said, making sure no one else was in earshot. "It's been so long."

And it was true, it has been a while since I was ever intimate with Cyril. Not that I particularly enjoyed it, but intimacy was still intimacy. A mere physical action intended for both parties to feel good. There was only meaning to intimacy if you attached a meaning to it. For me with Cyril, it meant nothing at all.

The same could be said for my words – nothing more than a mere string of sounds escaping my lips. Truth, lies, meaning, those are all attached and constructed by those listening. They chose to be misled by what they chose to hear.

And if Cyril's own naivete convinced him to think that the times spent together meant that I actually loved him, then he had only himself to blame. He himself chose to believe that. He chose to construe a disgusting pastiche of me. A pastiche of me that he thinks loves him.

I studied his cheeks as they grew progressively more red.

How pitiable.

"Yeah," he replied as he took a step back. "I missed you too."

He was cornered. Like a lion hunting its prey, I finally made the pounce.

"I was thinking. . ." I began, sinking my teeth into my lower lip. "Maybe we should spend some time together.

In a calculated move, I played around with my collar, pinching and tugging at it carefully. I noticed his eyes tracing my neck, just where I wanted it.