Chapter Ten

GRAYSON

My trip has lasted four hours so far, yet I'm finding it difficult to concentrate on any piece of road before me. If I don't find a spot to use a restroom, my bladder will definitely burst. Not only that, but I also feel hungrier today than I have most of the week. As the cliché goes, my hunger doesn't measure up to eating the proverbial horse. But those two bites of burger certainly didn't stretch long. Doritos, Corn Nuts, beef jerky, and the whole lot of junk I've stocked up on, aren't satisfying my need for a substantial meal either.

Also, it occurs to me that I still haven't called Wendy to tell her I've left the city. The town I'm driving through is fields for days. The last sign I passed said the upcoming town of Carlisle is about five miles away. I glance down to my phone to check the signal while keeping a fair eye on the road. Three bars of service should hold up a short phone call.

"Hey Siri, call Wendy Cooper," I say aloud.

The only woman after my own heart finishes announcing the task she's been assigned, leaving me to several trills on the line throughout my car speakers. It rings twice, then a third. Finally, an answer greets the other end.

"Hey Wendy, it's Grayson."

"Oh, hello dear," she replies sweetly. "Is everything all right?"

"Well, they could be better," I reply sarcastically, though it may have sounded bitter. "Couldn't they?"

She clears her throat. "Yeah sorry, you've been dealt a shit hand right now."

Despite never playing a round of poker in my life, I can still appreciate the sentiment. Though the mere mention of my heartache summons the darkness all over again. After a morning of watching yellow and white lines pass me by, I thought confronting the horrors of reality would come easier. Is that so unrealistic?

My head wavers, pushing down the urge to cry. "Anyway, I know this might be an imposition," I reply, gritting my teeth. "But I'm on my way to Louisiana right now," I add. "And I'm terribly sorry for not asking you first, but would you mind keeping our pride and joy a few extra days?"

I hear a brief, silent pause. "Oh damn it, Grayson," she replies, leaving me to worry if she's truly upset. "We're headed out on that cruise at the end of the week," she adds. "Are you gonna be back by Thursday?"

My days seem to have been sloshed around inside a blender. I'm not quite sure what day of the week it is. As I'm experiencing, grief has a way of fucking up our ability to store information. And the truth is, I have no fucking clue how long I'll be stuck in the inner circle of Hell. I'd like very much to slither into Felton, achieve my mission, then make an even stealthier exit. But my conscience is jeering at me—reminding me of the ancient adage— man plans and God laughs.

"You know, Wendy," I reply, clearing my throat. "I wanna say it'll only be a couple of days," I add, while sulking internally over the snail's pace Pennsylvania driver ahead of me. What is it with people from there?

I continue my thought once I swerve into the left passing lane. "But I honestly don't know, why don't I text you my best friend's number?" I suggest. "He'll most likely take Boo off your hands if this takes longer than expected."

A sound of relief surfaces in her reply. "That'll work."

"He and Alex are in Tribeca," I add.

"Okay then, that sounds good," she obliges. "Try to be easy with yourself, Will and I are in your corner."

"Tha—"

Judging by the abrupt hang up, I'm undecided if she was quick to end my call, or if the cell service in Podunkville is just sparse. Text Wendy Miles' number. My brain finishes its mental reminder while the car finds its way into the right lane, so I can veer off into Exit 51. I turn into a truck stop, seeming like the only gateway into town. My legs quiver relentlessly as if I don't find a toilet right fuckin' now, it'll be monsoon season in my joggers. I step outside, immediately making a beeline for the door. My nearly empty gas tank will just have to wait.

This bathroom is disgusting. I'm not entirely sure that I'm the only living organism in here, but thankfully I can stand to piss without the need to pop a squat. It might be absolutely filthy in here, but my mind is focused on voiding a particularly pissed-off bladder. My face warms over with an abundance of relief. I'd been holding this in since Good Hope.

After a minute or two, I carefully find my way to the sink to wash my hands. Regardless if it seems counterintuitive or not, since I'll be forced to touch the germ-ridden faucet. If there is ever a suitable time to appreciate those annoying automatic kinds, it would be now. Instinctively, I use my elbow to push on the handle of the paper towel dispenser until a large enough piece rolls out. I tear it off to wipe my hands, dropping it into the trash bin which appears to haven't been changed even once in the last year.

Out in the store, I search for an aisle where I might find a cheap bottle of hand sanitizer. If I don't, I'll keep obsessing over these hands caked in microbes until I can wash them in a much cleaner environment. Sure enough, there's a shelf dedicated to a small array of personal hygiene products. Four dollars for one ounce of Purell seems like thievery. But it's far cheaper than treating a MRSA infection. I snag it from the bin before hurrying up to the counter. Only at this moment do I realize I'd been in such a hurry to pee, that I'd left my wallet in an unlocked car.

"I'll be right back," I blurt out, setting the bottle down on top of a glass lottery ticket counter.

I retrieve my messenger bag from the front seat, all the while unfurling a fiver from the pocket of my wallet as I step inside to pay. The clerk seems preoccupied with gossiping about a fellow coworker named Becky, and how she's after her man. A gurgle escapes my throat to subtly garner her attention.

"Oh, sorry about that," she says with a tilted head. "I didn't see you there," she adds, turning around to face the register.

After our brief interaction, I make my way back outside to gas up. As I wait for my tank to fill, a woman thirty paces away is screaming at her children to stop hitting each other, or she's going to leave them stranded in the parking lot. A dog barks from their backseat, reminding me to text Wendy with Miles' number. If I don't act on the thought now, there's no telling when it'll get done.

Once I've attached Miles' contact card in a text to her, I hear a loud thud of the gas pump. Twisting the gas cap, I find myself crawling back behind the wheel, paying attention to the rumble in my stomach. Since there's a Denny's across the street, it'll be as good of a place as any to eat a decent meal. Then I must make hay while the sun's still shining.

After a short drive across the street, I gather my messenger bag. On my step out of the car, I take a few drags from a freshly lit cigarette. Smoking may be the only thing right now to keep my nerves at bay, but I refuse to do so in the car. A quick fourth puff ensconces my lungs as I scan for an outdoor ashtray by the doors. With no place to dispose of the cherry, I flick it behind me on the way inside. Fuck them if they don't have a place for people to responsibly discard them.

There's a vibe in here giving me major nostalgia. As soon as the hostess shows me to a booth in the back of the dining area, the thought finally occurs to me. It's no wonder why this environment seems so eerily familiar—I've sat here in this exact place three decades ago.

The hostess offers me a warm smile. "Carrie Jo will be over in a minute, but can I get you something to drink?"

"Uhh," I mumble. "A Coke would be good," I say. "Thanks."

While perusing the menu, my mind flutters back to the summer of 1990 when Julian and I ran away to New York.

It was the week after graduation when I found myself holding both of Julian's hands across this table. In between slurps of our strawberry milkshakes, we discussed what we planned to do when we reached the Big Apple.

"I wanna get into the writing program at NYU," Julian spoke with confidence. "If you're gonna do something for yourself, what's it gonna be?"

For a moment, I thought quietly about my own personal aspirations. We were bolting to New York City to join the larger gay friendly community where we could finally be ourselves. But I hadn't paid much consideration to what I planned on doing with myself once we got there.

"I guess I'd like to study architecture," I replied cheerfully. "I really like how New York has so much history behind all the buildings," I added.

Julian smiled. "I think you'd be great at that," he replied, squeezing my hands with his devilishly charming smile on that equally adorable visage. "You're an excellent planner and you're good at math."

The strength in my fists matched his. "Just as you'd make a terrific writer," I affirmed. "Could you imagine being a future author selling millions of books?"

"You know I've always liked reading," he said. "Just knowing that one person held a book—that I wrote—in their hands," he added, momentarily glancing out the window with a grin. "Would feel amazing—but a million people?" He shrugged, his gaze returning to mine. "That would be a dream come true."

"So," I began. "You get into the writing program, and I'll start planning a skyscraper taller than the World Trade Center," I affirmed, imagining my name on a building sixty years in the future being recorded as a historical landmark.

Julian winked. "Deal."

I rose from the table to join Julian on his side of the booth, while I slid my right arm around his backside. He nuzzled into my ribs while we polished off the rest of our shakes. The crisp air conditioning bit at my ears as we stared out into the night sky. I leaned my head into his shoulder. Thoughts of our future selves rushed through my mind, interrupted by the hum of a passing semi on the interstate every few minutes. We'd just escaped a place with a known history of curses placed on its residents—foretelling that once they lived there—they'd be permanent residents until death.

A strong perfume smell shakes me out of the fog. Carrie Jo is standing next to the table with her pen and pad, ready to take my order. I'd just spent the last few minutes preoccupied. There's no way I've paid a thought to what I want. Since I must get back out on the road, I order generically based on Denny's well-known fare that's withstood the tests of time.

"Sorry," I say. "I'll take a Grand Slam with crispy bacon, and my eggs over medium."

She scribbles my request on her pad. "I'll put this in right away," she replies with a smile.

A generous guzzle of my ice-cold Coke affords me a minute to guess how much longer I'll be on the road. I'm usually better prepared and organized, so this jaunt down South goes against my anti-whimsical creed. If memory serves me, it took Julian and I two days to drive from the ass crack of Felton to New York.

But this time, it's different. The wrinkles on my face herald my advancing age, and exhaustion has already worn me down after only a single decent cluster of sleep. Assuming I lay my head down for just a night—and only stop to piss or eat—and refuel every two hundred miles or so—three days seem reasonable. Since I have the time while I wait for my food to arrive, I retrieve Julian's journal from my bag to read another entry. I sure could use some comfort from his pen right about now.