Chapter Fourteen

GRAYSON

God damn him. If those are his last words to me, written at the bottom of this last crisp page, then I don't forgive him. How could I possibly begin to excuse him for breaking my heart into a million pieces, that even the loudest street sweeper in Manhattan could suck them up in their entirety? As I sit here at the edge of a queen-sized bed, my crossed hands pressing into my forehead, I can't help but feel the anger towards Julian's decision explode from within. The only burden he's brought my way is his eternal absence.

I spot the time on my phone to realize it's already four past five in the evening. Although I could stand to settle on some dinner, what I want most is the sweet surrender of feeling all which inflicts this pain beneath my skin vanish into the ether. Before I lock the device, there are two unread text messages waiting to be seen.

PHOEBE: Just checking in on you. Did you leave yet? Your inbox doesn't have any emails about a plane ticket, so I'm just wondering.

MILES: A woman named Wendy called earlier. Alex is meeting her tomorrow at 14th Street Park to take Boo Radley off her hands. Would you please let me know that you're okay? We're both just so worried about you.

I can respect everyone's concern. Before I head out to scour the streets for Hagerstown's finest single malt, I thumb a couple of responses to satisfy them both—starting with Phoebe.

I'm not doing stellar. Distraught over the information given to me this afternoon. I'm driving down to Felton instead of flying. It's gonna take me a few days to mentally prepare myself for facing that hellscape.

After I press send on my reply to her, I thumb over to my conversation with Miles.

Yeah, sorry I didn't warn you to expect her call. I'm also sorry for not being the most responsive these last few days. I'm driving down to Louisiana to tell Julian's parents about his passing, in person. Is it still considered passing away if it's suicide?

My thumb is quick to send the message when my brain questions whether I should have left that last part out or not. Just at the mention of suicide, my cheeks feel the perspiration raining down them from both of my lower eyelids. Fuck, I need something to drink. My head shakes away the self-pity while I step out to the hallway from my hotel room. Once outside, my chin meets my collarbone, while the curve of my palm shields a breeze from extinguishing the blue-orange flame from my lighter.

The plume of smoke wafts past my ears while I approach my black BMW, parked in the corner. Nicotine sets in quickly as I climb down behind the steering wheel. According to Apple Maps, there's a liquor store eight blocks down the road. What should be a two-minute drive through town turns into fifteen, as I must muddle my way around a literal circus. Seeing the elephants tromping along the perimeter of a long fence takes me back to Christmas Eve of 2017, when Julian and I went to see "The Greatest Showman" at the theater.

Julian sat beside me in the front row, cloaked by the darkness in a large auditorium. The ample bucket of popcorn between us couldn't block the connection of our clasped hands over the armrests. In the middle of the film, once the song "Never Enough" began playing, Julian reached for the popcorn to wedge it in the empty seat beside him. He stood, yanking on my arm to join him underneath the movie screen.

When I obliged, unsure if he needed my help with something in the bathroom, I felt him take my free hand into his. We swayed to the melody of the song in front of everyone in the theater. After years of practice, I'd gotten over my fear of his impassioned public displays of affection. We stepped side to side, then rocked forward and back in each other's arms. We took short periods of stepping away with only one hand locked to the other.

I could see dozens of people's faces by the glow of the illuminated screen, smiling at the two of us living in the moment. A few ‘oohs and awes' escaped some mouths each time our foreheads would meet. During the final bars of the song, my lips found Julian's in front of our own personal audience, as if we'd commandeered everyone's attention from the show. Some clapped, while others let out whistles in our favor before we returned to our seats.

"You little attention seeker," I joked into Julian's ear.

I felt the dampness of his lips form a seal against mine yet again, before he whispered back. "Just thank me and admit you enjoyed it too."

My hand flinches at the extreme burn of a finished cigarette between its fingers. I flick the butt out of the window while wallowing in the pain it has left me, having just become a victim of the past once more. It's ironic how seeing something as insignificant as an elephant can remind me of that night back home. But if that's what it'll take to console my every heartache, I'll take a thousand more.

After pulling into a parking spot, I step out to the blacktop in front of Scott's Liquors. My messenger bag wrestles my shoulder as I swing the door open. The weight of this damn thing is starting to drive me nuts. As of late, it's constantly falling down my arm. Judging by the line of customers, I'd wager that there's a huge party about to go down. That, or half the townspeople are alcoholics. Near the end of the line at the precise aisle I need, I'm forced to shimmy between a smelly old guy and a shelf of vodka. My parched determination gives me an extra nudge to stomach his mess, in order to reach my pot of gold.

Even though I find myself toward the end of the aisle, it takes everything within me to keep from choking on the foul odor, a direct result of the man lacking deodorant. With a pinched nose, I pull a bottle of Balvenie DoubleWood from the shelf. It's apparent they're out of Glenlivet. So long as it affords me an escape from the abysmal reality of my life, I give zero fucks about what gets the job done. After standing in line for twenty minutes, I'm confronted with another decision. Do I gag on this dipshit's body odor while reading the text message which just buzzed in my pocket? Or do I keep pinching my nostrils until he leaves? I choose the latter.

Up at the register, I slide the bottle of hooch towards Randy. He smirks in my direction while I rifle the disaster zone that is my messenger bag. I really ought to clean this out, since I surely don't need Julian's fidget toys or a jar of Vicks VapoRub.

"It'll be $84.17 today," Randy informs me blankly.

I shake my head. "No, I also need a pack of Camel Turkish Gold please."

"Need?" He questions with a raised eyebrow.

I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have to admonish a liquor store employee for judging his customer base by their choice in vices. And I'm also certain that smoking and drinking rank well within the confines of the law, as opposed to taking my anger out on this piece of shit's arrogance. But I don't reply with anything but a botched grin and the wave of my stainless-steel Mastercard. Randy bags the booze and smokes in a paper sack, while I sign the receipt with a blue ball-point pen. Of course, it keeps skipping ink after each loop of my signature.

Outside, there's a Taco Bell on the other side of the lot. It takes me only a moment to decide on a burrito supreme or not. Since I haven't had Taco Bell in a few months, I come to a positive resolution. In the drive-thru, I'm stuck behind five cars. It's apparent I'll be waiting until Halley's Comet visits Earth's atmosphere, so another lit smoke finds its way between my lips. When it's my turn, I pull ahead to order. It takes just as long waiting for my food as it did to order. At this point, I should be numb to the world by nine.

I 'm sure the temperature inside my hotel room is chilled to a perfect degree. Though, I'm only an eighth of the way into this single malt and I'm sweating puddles through my I love NY t-shirt. The thought of some fresh air sounds enticing. So, I waste no time gathering my phone, smokes, and bottle of courage before staggering out to the elevator. Downstairs in the lobby, I get the sensation of being on a large disco ball. Surely this is only the buzz teasing my equilibrium.

As I teeter out the doors, I fumble along the short path to a raised flower bed with a brick ledge. I set my scotch on the surface while lighting another cigarette. A long drag allows the tobacco flavor to hastily tease my lungs. On my exhale, I turn the bottle up to my nose, forcing another swig down my gullet. In another moment, I find myself around the back end of the hotel. The dark sky has hushed the town, giving me a glance of the moon's reflection above the rippling surface of a large lake.

The allure of its murky water draws me closer as I puff on my smoke. One last drag before I toss it over my shoulders. There's a slight breeze brushing against my clammy skin which feels refreshing. I still have four unread texts, persuading me to unlock the screen. I must fight through each vicious brain cell to remember my passcode, since FaceID isn't wanting to fucking cooperate tonight. It takes me a minute to recall the five digits, but quickly remember 5-8-5-4-2-6 , spelling out J-U-L-I-A-N .

My blurred vision makes out that the messages are from Miles, in reply to the shocking revelation I faced earlier.

HE WHAT???

Oh my God, Gray. That had to be horrible for you to find out.

How in the hell did that happen?

Gray? It's been a couple hours with no reply. Are you okay?

The phone almost slips through my fingers as I use my right thumb to type a short reply. But the gyrating earth is throwing me off-balance. I raise my head at the slightest flash of light zooming through my peripheral vision. I think I finished pressing send before pulling my head around to investigate what I just saw.

My front teeth clank against the glass ridge of the liquor bottle before welcoming another gulp. The deep amber liquid sloshes down the pipe when my eyes focus on the shoreline several feet ahead of me. And for a brief second, I could swear I just saw Julian. Another swig later, I rub my eyes with my free hand, my attention set solely on the man's backside.

"Wait!" I scream. "Hold on."

Despite how much I plead for him to stop and turn around, he continues to tread around the lake's shoreline under the irradiating moon.

"I said—hang on—God damn it!"

Once I curse at him, he turns around to reveal his face. It is in fact Julian. Surely, this can't be real. I must be three sheets to the wind. My vision tries refocusing as I wipe at the corners of my eyes once more. Surely, they're playing tricks on me. Through as clear sights as possible, I see him closer than before. It fucking is too Julian. But how?

I fling my hand ahead, as a loud gasp escapes me. "How can you be here?" I question loudly. "You're dead."

The figure places his hand above his chest but doesn't speak. It's at this point, my brain registers that I'm seeing his ghost, if anything at all.

"Why'd you fucking do it, Jules?" I cry out quickly, tears spewing from my eyes. "I loved you so goddamn much!"

Still no words. The apparition's gaze continues in my direction. It penetrates my core as if I'm supposed to receive some telepathic message. But all my hearing can detect is the sound of wind blowing into my eardrums. I can't help but run closer, hoping the distance between him and I can amplify my ability to hear him. After I've dashed a few paces, my left foot trips over a rock, face planting my drunk ass into the dirt. Intense pain throbs in my head while my eyes close to a void of obscurity.