Page 4 of Rowan's Renewal
SoDoctorAaron Park —because ofcoursehe’s also a doctor!— can’t actually be a product of my hysterical imaginings.
With thick, jet-black hair, dark soulful eyes, and flawless gold-toned skin, he’s handsome, funny, and a good Samaritan. Sure,he’s a lot younger than any of the men I’ve dated (not that I’ve dated many, considering my condition), but I can’t help finding him attractive.
Being alone for the better part of a year isn’t helping my attraction to him, either. Plus, it’s a fatal flaw of mine to be attracted to any scrap of kindness. I know that’s not the healthiest way to be, either, but this is what happens every time a guy is even remotely nice to me.
I start forming attachments.
Ican’tget attached to Dr. Aaron Park. Firstly, because we’ve only known each other for, like, five minutes, so that’s just weird. Secondly, because I don’t know anything about him, aside from the fact that he says he’s a doctor and he also lives somewhere in America. Thirdly, because I have no ideawherehe lives back home, and we are only staying here for a week.
But finally, and most importantly, he’s too young to be saddled with a permanently incontinent old man for any amount of time. Not even for this week.
Not for the first time in my life, or even in the past twenty-four hours, I wish my situation was wildly different. The flight here was every part as awful as I thought it would be, with me choosing to practically live in the plane’s bathrooms (to the point where I think the woman stuck in the seat beside me was afraid I had some kind of stomach bug). Thankfully, entering the country through Customs was not as traumatic as I imagined it might be, and I avoided a pat down and the embarrassment of someone discovering my adult diapers.
Because I don’t care that the packaging says they are discrete and look like real underwear: they really don’t. Especially if I’ve been unable to make it to the bathroom the second the urge to pee has struck. And, because of my overactive bladder, it strikes often.
Unfortunately, between the long car trip from Brisbane Airport to Noosa, which took almost two hours with traffic, and then the booking problem at reception, the protection I was wearing did its job, but it was on the verge of leakage by the time we finally made it into the hotel room.
I hate that feeling. Physically and emotionally.
The dampness is uncomfortable, as is the weight of the padding once it gets soaked and puffs up. But then there’s the shame of knowing I couldn’t hold it. That I’ve got the bladder control of a toddler. I feel small and vulnerable when it happens; feelings compounded by ex-lovers who said they could handle it but, ultimately, could not.
I can’t even blame them. I’m a forty-one-year-old gay man with erectile dysfunction (also caused by surgical complications), no prostate to play with, and I piss myself on the regular.
I am nobody’s idea of a catch.
Alex made that perfectly clear when everything fell to shit, too.
Stop thinking about it.
Sighing, I pull on the new pair of pants and rummage under the bathroom sink for a spare trash can liner. There are three of the little plastic bags there, so I grab one and stuff the old diaper inside, tying it off tightly and, with a grimace, tossing it inside my suitcase to dispose of down the floor’s trash chute later. I don’t need the incriminating evidence lying around forDoctorAaron Park to discover. I would die of embarrassment.
After getting my cargo pants back on, I check my reflection in the mirror, confirming that the bulk and bagginess conceals my secret. Then I roll my suitcase out of the bathroom, with its bright white tiles and light-colored timber accents, to check out the rest of the apartment.
“I hope you don’t mind that I picked my room already,” Aaron says from behind me as I poke my head into an open doorway. “They’re pretty much identical.”
“It’s your apartment,” I step into the free bedroom as he trails in behind me, “I’m just grateful to have a room at all.”
And it is a very nice room. With a king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the inviting blue ocean, I can’t possibly complain about my lodgings.
“I also turned the A/C on to the most arctic setting I could,” Aaron continues. “If it’s too cold, let me know. I’m still not completely acclimatized to the Australian summer heat.”
I snort. “I’d be happier if you could make it snow inside, so however cold you can get it is perfect for me.” My gaze drifts back to the window and I sigh.
The beach looks amazing with its miles of uninterrupted soft sand and gently rolling waves. But hiding my condition is even harder to do in swimwear or shorts, so I will content myself to look from afar. I’ve never really liked the beach anyway. It’s just harder to remember that when it isright there.
“It’s going to suck going back home,” Aaron says, following my gaze. “I live in a landlocked city a few hours east of Cali. Getting to the beach is…a lot.”
I nod. “Me too. But I’m not usually a beach person, so…”
“You’re not a beach person?” he asks dubiously, turning his head towards the window with a frown. “So you organized a weeklong vacation at a beach resort.”
“My best friend did. This is her misguided attempt to get me ‘out there’ again, or something.” Shoulders sagging, I confess, “My last breakup was kind of brutal, but I’ve stayed single for too long, according to her. My birthday was a few weeks ago and she sprang this whole trip on me as a birthday surprise. The thought was nice, but…”
His appreciative whistle cuts into my trailed off sentence. “That’s one generous friend you’ve got.”
Thinking of Bianca, I smile. “She’s a generous person. Impulsive, but generous.” Casting him a sidelong glance, I muse, “You’d probably get along well.”
Aaron’s chuckle is low and sexy. “You’re not suggesting that my offer to share my room was impulsive, are you?”
