Chapter Twelve

GRAYSON

Farther down Interstate 81, I find myself falling victim to fatigue. Despite the music coming from my speakers and the wind blowing in through my window. I haven't consumed nearly enough caffeine over this past week, so this doesn't surprise me. The last green sign announcing select dining options which I passed about a minute or two ago, indicated there is a Starbucks coming up on the journey. But I forgot exactly how many miles away. Just as soon as I open my mouth to shout at Siri, my phone rings. While it's a New York 212 area code, I don't exactly recognize the number. I almost hit the button to send it to voicemail when I remember it could be the coroner who I've been expecting.

"Hello?" I answer.

A man's voice responds in a solemn demeanor. "Is this Grayson Welles?"

I nod even though I'm the only one in the car. "Yeah."

"I'm Steve Tallman from the Uptown New York County Coroner's office."

I hesitate to respond while swallowing whatever spit is left in my dry mouth. This is it. In a moment my heart will likely break all over again. Knowing the cause of Julian's death might shed some light into what happened, but I know this insight will summon the darkness to swell from my heart. Though I speak, I'm unsure I'm ready for the news—but fuck it—it's gonna happen one way or the other.

"Ookkkayy."

Steve clears his throat to speak. "Well, I don't have a bunch of information," he says. "A full autopsy report might take a couple of months," he adds, clicking his tongue. "To that end, I wanted to touch base with you on something which triggered my radar."

Ughhh. This sounds bad.

His news persists. "Our preliminary toxicology report shows a very high level of bupropion—generic Wellbutrin—from your husband's blood."

"What do you mean by that?" I ask.

"In fact, this level is three times the lethal amount for that particular medication—" he pauses for a quick breath. "Which tells me that this wasn't accidental, and combined with the other medication detected in his body, memantine—or generic Namenda, I'm led to believe this caused his heart to arrest."

Not an accident? Like he was poisoned?

"Not accidental?" I ask.

"We don't jump to conclusions here," he replies. "We're just the guys who do the science-y stuff behind the scenes," he adds with a beat. "But maybe the word intentional is more applicable."

Intentional. On purpose. Deliberate. Calculated. Planned. The list of synonyms starts thrashing through my brain. I'm no author like Julian, but I'm a smart enough guy to arrive at a conclusion.

I'm already nervous that my hand slips from the wheel, causing the car to swerve. "Like suicide?" I blurt out into the phone.

Steve's hesitant stammer confirms it, but he speaks anyway. "I'm saying it's more than a possibility."

Fuck. He killed himself? I'm flabbergasted at the mere thought of my lover doing something so unconscionable. There's no way in a million years that Julian Torres—the man who loved life itself—would be the one to end it.

He tries to cut the silence. "Mr. Welles?"

But I can't speak. My words are landlocked. Just the mere thought of Julian deciding to end his life, ushers me beyond the breaking point. I want to cry, but I'm so angry that I want to hit something as well.

"Uh—" I try to speak, but nothing is rolling off my tongue.

Steve continues his spiel. "After researching his medical records—this sort of situation isn't entirely uncommon," he adds. "You know, given his recent circumstances."

"And what else did you have for me?" I ask. "Or was that it?"

Steve clicks his tongue a second time. "That's about all I have right now, I know this isn't going to bring any comfort, but it's my job to present the facts."

"Yeah, okay." I reply with a shallow sigh. "I appreciate it," I add, although I don't appreciate having my complete day ruined all over again.

There's not a single morsel inside my entire fucking body which values this information. I might have been better off not knowing— ever .

"Is there anything I can answer for you while we're on the phone?" He asks.

"No, that's pretty much enough of a blow to the gut for me today," I respond.

We end the call quickly, as a tidal wave of emotions crash against the shores of my soul. It saddens me to my whole goddamn core that Julian would commit suicide. Things weren't bad, at least I don't think so. He had more lucid days than not. I can't imagine what he must have been thinking. Whatever led him to believe ending his life was the only solution to whatever problem he was facing, is beyond me. God fucking damn it!

Tears rain down my cheeks at an accelerated speed, much like if someone had fired a round of bullets into the side of this town's water tower. My eyes blur quickly from the sobbing. And no matter how often I swipe the tears away, the apertures of my spirit gloss over a split-second later. My car swerves on the interstate from left to right, while my shaky hands feel close to going numb. I pull over to the side of the road, and not a moment later, I'm running in the direction of an empty field with outstretched arms. I yowl so loudly that an entire flock of birds ascend the sky in every which way.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCKKKKKK!!!!"

After nearly damaging my vocal cords, I fall to my knees in the dirt, sobbing relentlessly into the palms of my hands. Why? Why couldn't it have been an accident? Why couldn't it have been from natural causes? I question my heart, because it seems the demons thronging my chest are the only ones with any real answer. If I was so clueless as to not pick up on his depression getting worse, then maybe I'm the one who deserves to die instead. If I couldn't protect Julian from being consumed by the darkness, I've absofuckinglutely failed as a lover—and as a person.

Even though I'm several paces away from my car, it's so eerily quiet on the interstate at this time of day, that I can hear it dinging. The alarm only wails because the key fob is still inside the cabin with the door swung wide open. But I choose to ignore my car's cry for attention. Instead, I choose to endure the filthy dirt mucking my knees while banging both fists into my temples. This hurts so fucking much, I don't even remember which state I've stopped in. Hell, my mind is so erased that I barely remember my own name.

I eventually rise to my feet at the loud blare from a semi-truck passing my car. The noise pierces my eardrums, but everything inside me hurts, what's another dollop of pain? As I slowly stagger back to the car, I'm surprised to find its battery hadn't completely drained. I wipe my eyes free of saltwater, whilst looking at my pathetic aspect in the rearview mirror. Then a flash bounces from the teddy bear pendant dangling just below. Though my throat is dry and raw, I let out a smaller scream, pounding both palms into the steering wheel.

"God damn you, Julian!" I shriek. "How could you do this to me?"

After throwing my second fit within a matter of a half hour, I take a deep breath to gather my shit. I need something to drink and as much as I want to take to the bottle again. But I have enough wits about me to know driving impaired isn't the answer. My hand reaches for the phone to look up the nearest Starbucks. According to Apple Maps, it's right up ahead in Greencastle, Pennsylvania. Perfect—I'm in my favorite fucking state.

It only takes me a couple of minutes before my car rounds a sharp corner into a parking lot. I'm graced by a sign with the most beloved green and white Siren on the planet. My right hand is on the steering wheel, while my left flicks cigarette ashes out of the window. If I can't have a real drink, I'm damn well going to soothe the agony by way of nicotine. If this will keep me from having another breakdown, then fuck my lungs. And fuck the inside of my car for that matter.

The line in the drive-thru is astonishingly empty. This would be unheard of in New York. It takes damn near an hour just waiting in line on the inside. But I figure walking in is a better choice, since my bladder can appreciate the opportunity to empty. And if there's another thing about Starbucks earning my staunch support, it's their standards in bathroom cleanliness.

A barista standing at the register greets me with a smile. While I'm in no mood to return the sentiment, my lips instinctively form a shape it's used to making. I can only hope it appears to be happy in nature, regardless of the shrouded and crumbling heart firing on its last piston. Since I don't look directly in their eyes, my attention focuses on the name tag, Shy, and a pin attached to the apron. It gives the preferred pronouns of He/Him/They.

"Hi there, what can I get started for you?" He asks.

"Uhhh—" I drone, stalling with a quick glance up at the menu.

I always know what I want to order. But it's only out of a force of habit that I drown in their sea of drink options regardless.

"A Venti Americano with an extra shot."

The fact it sounded more like a demand than a request crosses my mind, even though I didn't mean to sound like the major dick they're likely used to dealing with daily.

"Please." I add.

"Sure, and what's your name?" He asks politely.

"Grayson."

"Perfect, it'll be $5.74," he concludes.

Since Phoebe always keeps the physical copy of my Starbucks Gold card, I unlock my phone screen to use the barcode from the app. The red laser beeps after a couple of attempts to position it at just the right angle.

"Thanks, Grayson," he nods. "It'll be ready in just a couple of minutes."

While the baristas hustle behind the bar perfecting my beverage, I've taken an opportunity to use the facilities. I didn't necessarily need to go. But the less exposure to dirty restrooms, the better. As I step over to the sink, I can see my eyelids are grey and puffy, taking to the aesthetic of scorched popcorn. And the whites are redder than they are any other shade. My pitiable reflection stares at me while I feel the gnawing in my stomach start intensifying. With each beat of my heart, I swear I can hear the vile laughter of the devil, as my blood sludges through each vein. That son of a bitch, he won this time.

I shake my head before splashing a palm of water against my face. The coolness feels so refreshing, I repeat this a couple times. A paper towel pats across my forehead and cheeks just before I swing the door open. Back out at the counter, steam from my beverage pirouettes up into the air. I reposition my messenger bag before lifting the drink from the counter. I'm almost halfway out the door when Shy hollers out at me.

"Don't forget your treat," he says.

I shake my head. "I didn't order anything else."

"I know, I just thought you needed a little extra something today," he insists, holding the paper bag over the counter.

My feet shuffle back to the counter. "Okay, well," I reply, surprised. "Thanks."

I slam my door shut while taking a small sip. My tongue burns from the scorching temperature, but I'm so dead on the inside that it doesn't faze me. The cup almost nestles into the holder, when I see a note written in black Sharpie on the side—followed by a smiley face.

Whatever's going on, it'll get better.

How kind of him to try cheering up a poor slob like me. My brain tells me it worked—if even just a little—while my heart heckles that it was of no consequence. Shy's blueberry muffin inside the bag tastes sweet and satisfies my clusterfuck of nerves. As I pull out from the parking lot, I wonder how much farther I can get before darkness swallows the Eastern states.

T he drive down Interstate 81 is boring and uneventful. While the towns I pass by may hold more history than I have time to explore, this trip just keeps taking me down memory lane in more ways than one. If not from Julian's journal entries, it's my own flashbacks to earlier moments in our relationship. A few minutes ago, I declined an incoming call from Miles. I'm still not up to talking with anyone. Especially after my Achilles heel was demonstrably torn this afternoon in a matter of one fucking phone call.

I know he and Alex are just worried about me. If the tables were turned and one of them were in my predicament, I'd be just as concerned. This is what sets them apart from the rest of our group of gays back in the city. They've been paramount in mine and Julian's life. The first thing we did when we arrived in New York thirty-two years ago was respond to an ad in The Villager. Alex placed a classified ad looking for another couple to be their roommates.

Meeting them was our destiny. The day after we called them, Miles and Alex found Julian and I to be exactly what they were looking for in roommates. And the rent was more than reasonable also. Their request in return for letting us stay in their NoHo flat was contributing to the weekly groceries. Alex Wilkins comes from a well-to-do family, full of politicians and finance moguls. They explained to us, "we need the kinship more than we do money." That being said, I consider us the lucky bastards to have been in the right place at the right time.

Thinking about our chosen brothers seems coincidental, because the song currently playing in the car takes me back to our first party thrown after Julian and I moved into their fifth floor Bond Street condo.

It was two weeks after our introduction to the New York scene, when Julian sprung from the couch in excitement. Once the opening beats to MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This" blared from the living room stereo, my fear of dancing in front of others had become tested. The look on his face was part inebriation, part energy, and the rest lust. Julian backed his ass up into the air to each slide of a synthesized instrument after the chorus. And his zealous aspect propelled beyond my hesitation to jump up and join him. Though I'd never been a huge party person, I couldn't resist his warm visage. How could a person tell their adorable man ‘No' after the flash of such puppy dog eyes?

Timidly, I rose to my feet as the strength in his arms helped pull me up the rest of the way. What must have the other ten or twelve people bouncing around to the beat have thought of my incoordination and rigid, trunk-like stem of a body. Had I not consumed three Heineken's, I might've been even stiffer. But I obliged at Miles' suggestion to let loose and enjoy the party.

"Come on, man," he coaxed me. "We might as well have some fun now before I get into the police academy next month," he added. "Once I'm a cop, I can't very well condone underage drinking, can I?"

Amidst the chaos of other drunk partygoers, I bounced my hips, grinding against Julian's frontside. The sensation excited my cock as the fabric of my shorts brushed up against his crotch. The intensity exploding within me couldn't resist pulling his shoulders into mine and kissing him in front of every other gay in the flat. His lips seemed dryer than usual, but after consuming my first beer at eighteen, I was only learning the effects alcohol has on a person.

We spun our bodies away from each other towards the close of the song, while the next one played with a much slower tempo. I tugged on Julian's arm, pulling him back into my embrace as we clasped our hands together, to sway with the rhythm of "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx. While the song seemed to have a sadder context, it evoked so much emotion.

I might have been two brews past my first buzz, but the lyrics swam through my ears while a solitary tear fell from my right eye. We'd already begun a new moment in our lives. I felt blessed to have quickly found a job, in yet another market, yet swankier than Piggly Wiggly. And the warmth radiating from Julian's sweaty body, combined with his pure happiness, lit a fire within me. The only other thing to force my throbbing cock into a fury, escaped his mouth.

"Amo te tam multo—I love you so much," he whispered at the base of my left ear.

It didn't matter that it was in Latin, I picked up on the ‘I love' part. Not a moment later, I took his hand, ushering him down the hallway to our bedroom. I kicked the door shut behind me before lifting his t-shirt above his head. Within seconds, I undressed while concurrently working on Julian's belt from out around his waist. I pushed his backside, sending him to the top of the full-sized bed, while locking my lips with his.

We passionately kissed as my thumping dick begged to be slid inside Julian's ass. I backed away from the bed, all the while sliding his underwear down his legs, before I stepped out of mine. A look of pure agony—his urges to be fucked—danced across his flush mien. I licked my hand with as much spit as I could muster, then stroked it around my cock as Julian pumped his.

Wet and ready, I teased his tight hole with the tip of my dick. I swirled it around a few times while he curled his bottom lip. My young lover's eyes closed, seemingly enjoying the sensation. And within another moment, my cock inched deeper into his hole as far as it could go. Julian moaned delightfully while I bucked my hips forward and back. The thrusts inside him seemed to be almost poetical—matching the bumping music coming from out in the living room.

It was at that moment when I realized that it was the first time experiencing my dick plunging within him. His eyes grew big as melons while his mouth cowered intermittently. For no formal training on the matter, I must have been doing something right. After what seemed like a long time of my head pushing back and forth in harmony with my slithery cock, I felt a rush of euphoria stream down my spine. And within a split-second, I pulled my cock away from his hole to give into my climax.

Quick and long lines of cum landed all over Julian's exposed torso. I thought masturbating might have felt good. But having an orgasm with the person I loved was like ice cream on a balmy afternoon. Julian's rapid stroking resulted in his own release, spilling from the tip of his dick. It landed in my face, even mixed in with drops of my own against his stomach. My head hovered above his, about to wrap our fervorous exchange with another kiss. Followed by feeling his tongue stick out to scoop the drip of cum from my chin. As he tasted the warm release, our lips formed another seal. Then I could taste the salty flavor when my tongue slid against his.

In a flash, my vision remains on the stretch of road ahead. According to a green highway sign a minute ago, Hagerstown, Maryland, is the next place that I'll be passing through. I feel depleted of all my energy resources. And that's after I flushed two hundred milligrams of caffeine down my hatch. When I stop, I plan to find a liquor store. Only second to finding a hotel for tonight, because my body is ready to send reality into an ocean of obscurity. The thought has occurred to me though, when I find a cool pillow, I'm digging out Julian's journal labeled New York City . There's a loud voice screaming deep through the mire of my chest, encouraging me to read its last entry. The last one he'd ever write again.