Chapter Fifteen

GRAYSON

The bright sun accosts me as I rise from a slumber, my forehead pounding to the cadence of my heartbeat—both inside and out. I'm surprised to be waking outside. The last thing I remember, I'd just finished eating a burrito in my hotel room. My head turns, grinding through coarse dirt while I wince in agony. Once I come to, I realize I'm on shore of a lake. My hand instinctively touches the throbbing area above my eyebrow, causing me to flinch even more.

There's blood running down my fingers when I pull my hand away. Judging by the broken liquor bottle only inches away, I must've blacked out while falling over in a drunken stupor. I turn myself over, using my arms to push up from the ground as my stomach growls. That, combined with the pounding headache, is all evidence of tying one on good last night.

Once risen to my feet, I place my hands above my eyes, grimacing again when my fingers touch the injury. I scan around the shoreline to look for my red iPhone, since it's not in my pockets. It's nowhere to be found. Just perfect. My head shakes indignantly at the notion of needing to waste valuable time from my itinerary to go buy a new phone. If there's even an AT&T store in town. As much as I could continue my journey without it, I can't drive halfway across the country all by myself.

The motion of shaking my head pushes my nauseated stomach's desire to ralph beyond its limit. Within a flash, I lean forward while vomit climbs my esophagus. I heave directly into the lake with the force of a campground water spigot, feeling the burn of ethanol as an added bonus. God damn it! I scowl at the sun piercing my ever-loving soul—or lack thereof. Meanwhile, my tongue rejects the foul taste left behind. That shit does not taste better coming up than it does going down.

Up from shore, I approach what looks like the backend of my hotel. A sign on the rear door reading— Employees Only. Now I must shuffle around to the front. Inside the lobby, I feel inside both pockets for my room keycard. With no luck, I stagger to the front desk for a replacement. While I stand here waiting for a young lady to wrap a phone call, my bladder decides at this most inopportune time to remind me that it needs emptying. Tabitha finishes clacking various keys on her extremely loud keyboard before smiling in my direction.

"Oh Sir, are you okay?" She asks, pointing toward the side of her head. "You have a nasty gash on your forehead."

"Yeah," I reply with a wince. "I just fell, I'll be fine."

She shakes her head with a grimace, as if she can personally feel my pain.

I tap the counter lightly, leaving a small blood stain on its surface. "I do need help with a replacement keycard as I seemed to have lost mine."

Tabitha glances at the mess I've just left on her front desk before meeting my gaze with an obligatory friendliness. "Certainly," she states. "Which room are you staying in?"

Fuck if I know. If I can barely remember what happened last night, I damn sure can't recall my room number.

"You know, I actually can't remember," I admit. "Is there a way you can look it up?"

She smiles, but I can tell she's probably already annoyed. "Sure thing, and what name is your booking under?"

"Welles—Grayson C. Welles," I reply. "With my Mastercard ending in 5971."

"That's exactly what I was going to ask next," she replies. "Thank you for confirming that."

I snicker. "If I'm being honest, this happened to my husband about two years ago," I say. "I figured you'd ask."

"You're in room 212," she affirms. "If you can hang tight for a minute," she adds, turning around to step down the counter. "I'll go activate another."

Within minutes, Tabitha returns with a fresh new keycard. "This will do ya," she says, placing it on the counter in front of me.

"Thank you so much," I reply graciously.

In the elevator, I make a mental list of things I need to do before returning to the interstate. Shower, luggage, new phone, something greasy for breakfast, gas. Once I hear a ding at the second floor, I step out, immediately pacing to the door reading 212. I toss the new keycard on top of the bed which I didn't even sleep in, while traipsing straight to the toilet. The warm relief of conducting my morning business sends a tingle down my spine prior to washing my hands.

My condescending reflection in the mirror—more like a two-inch gash on my head—demands that I get my shit together. If I don't, I'll be headed straight down the rabbit hole of addiction. But as I stare back at the four red streaks inching down my face, a dark voice in my broken heart convinces me that nothing can drown away the noise of this world quite like booze and nicotine. I'm not an addict. It's just for a little while to deal with all the stress. Once I finish pleading my conscience, I turn around to prepare for a warm shower.

I flinch at the slightest touch of water raining down into my wound, shuddering at the thought that I might actually require stitches. My booze-soaked skin soaks up a soapy cloth while I decide against washing my hair today. When I step out from the tub, I reach for a clean towel, wrapping it around my waist.

A fresh pair of clothes awaits me in my suitcase back out in the room. I dress quickly so I can check out of here, all the while hoping to hell there's an AT&T store in town. It'd be a miracle if it's already open. And the greasiest breakfast on the planet to soak up this hangover. I hover the weighted messenger bag over my shoulder as I hoist the packed suitcases at my waist. Down in the lobby, Tabitha greets me at the front desk for a second time.

"You really should get that gash looked at, my friend," she says while I slide the keycard back in her direction. "Are you checking out?"

"Yes," I reply, touching my wound only to see blood stained fingers. "Also, do you have an AT&T store in town?"

Tabitha nods. "We have a couple of them, actually," she says, clicking her tongue. "But I don't think either will be open for another half hour or so."

I start to reply just as soon as she opens her trap to speak again.

"Which would give you enough time to stop at the urgent care around the corner."

Tabitha has a point. I don't necessarily want to dawdle here in Hagerstown. But I really should tend to my wound, so it doesn't get infected or anything. I sign my name on the page she slides in my direction before reaching down for my luggage. The messenger bag slides directly off my arm in the process. I let out a growl as I lift the strap over my shoulder once again.

"I sure hope your day gets better, Mr. Welles," she says, waving me off.

I turn around to reply. "It's only uphill from here, right?"

Once I've settled behind the steering wheel, I reach over to the passenger seat. My hand fusses inside the messenger bag trying to feel for the rectangular shape of a cigarette pack. While I wait for traffic to pass me by on the street, I yank the bag into my lap to look inside. They're not here either. I let out a hiss, tossing the bag back over the center console. I'd be willing to bet they're in the same damn place as my missing phone. In order to kill two birds with a single stone, I decide to gas up before stopping at the urgent care. A smoke certainly outranks the wound above my right eyebrow.

Upon arriving at the Conoco station down the street, my gas tank fills quickly. And once the heavy fumes are done exacerbating my headache, I hurry inside. There's a boy behind the counter who seems barely old enough to sell tobacco products. He waves in my direction as I approach the counter.

"Can I get two packs of Camel Turkish Gold," I ask politely, scanning the vicinity for lighters, since mine was nestled inside the last open pack. "And a lighter?"

Trevor nods. "Yeah," he whistles. "We keep ‘em back here because they were getting stolen so often."

"Makes sense," I reply with a shrug.

He hands me my purchases once I slip my wallet back into my bag. Back in the car, I click my seatbelt into place to begin pulling out from the gas station. In the process, I tap a fresh pack of the Camels against my wrist. I rip the plastic wrapping around the top, letting it fall where it may, while my bottom lip grips hold of a cigarette to pull it out. My mouth wraps around the filter as an orange-yellow flame ignites from my lighter. Finally. I swat the smoke from in front of my face while rolling down the window.

Back down the street, I remain in my parking spot to finish my last few drags of a cigarette before stepping inside the urgent care. The clock on my dashboard says it's almost ten. Surely once I've been seen here, I'll be able to quickly replace my missing phone. The door swings shut behind me once I approach the front desk. There's a receptionist sitting behind the counter flipping through an US Weekly. Once I clear my throat to get her attention, she sets it open-faced down next to her computer, shooting a grimacing stare in the direction of my cut.

"I hope you won the fight," she tries joking, handing me a clipboard of forms to fill out.

I'm in no mood to joke around so I flash my half-cocked smile while reaching for the clipboard. I grab a pen with a plastic flower taped around it, from a glass vase on the counter.

"If you have an insurance card I can photocopy, I'll get you put in the computer while you complete those two forms."

There's a small row of chairs behind me where I take a seat to scribble down my information. After a couple minutes of focus, I return the clipboard to the receptionist as she slides my insurance card back across the counter.

"It should be no time at all, Grayson," she informs me. "We're not that busy this morning."

I nod my head. "Okay, thanks."

T he urgent care didn't take a terribly long time. Twelve stitches later, I'm sitting inside a small diner waiting for an order of over medium eggs with greasy bacon and hash browns. With a fresh new iPhone at full price in my hands, I thumb through the screen trying to remember what apps I must redownload once I reach an adequate Wi-Fi connection. To be honest, I don't care about downloading Facebook right now, since I don't need to see the dozens of sympathy posts likely plastered all over my profile.

My waitress, Marsha, rounds the corner of tables down from me with my breakfast in hand. She smiles as she sets it down in front of me.

"Anything else I can get you, Darlin'?"

I shake my head. "No, this should be fine, thank you."

As soon as I return the pepper to its cradle on the table, the sting of an annoying ringtone sends imaginary nails through my ear canals. It's brand new, so I obviously forgot to turn it on silent mode. The screen displays Miles . I answer him since I've been dodging him the last few days.

His worried tone swims through the line. "Gray?"

"Yeah?" I reply.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he says, sounding relieved. "I've been trying to reach you all morning, that reply last night had Alex and I pretty fuckin' worried."

I fight through the sludge of my brain to remember what I could have possibly sent him. Not much of anything from last night surfaces, besides fumbling my way down to the lake. And I remember seeing a reflection of the honey-glazed moon rippling across the water. But that's about it.

"What did I say?" I ask. "To be honest, I couldn't find my phone this morning."

I struggle to tell him the real truth. That I woke up outside my hotel with a huge cut across the side of my forehead. Or that I was more shitfaced than the four guys in the blockbuster-hit, "The Hangover."

A tinge of bewilderment paints Miles' words when he replies. "Well—I actually have no earthly idea since it was just a cluster of letters that didn't form any actual words."

At the mention of a jumbled message, my mind traces back to the moment when I remember seeing a flash of light in the corner of my blurred vision. Then a second later, I recall thrashing my arms around when I swore that I'd seen Julian standing at the edge of the water. That must have been when I dropped my phone. Surely Miles would think I'm crazy just mentioning seeing Julian—or his ghost.

I scratch the side of my scalp, trying to assemble a reasonable excuse. "I probably butt texted you or something."

"Well, you obviously found your phone," he replies. "Since you answered just now."

"Yeah—" I stammer. "I ended up finding it."

Liar. Since Miles doesn't need to know the truth, I can only hope that satisfies his concern. I pierce the eggs over my hash browns while holding my phone into my ear with my left shoulder. Seeing the yolk oozing through the cracks of fried potato strings immediately flips the nausea switch in my gut. But I must eat something so I'm well enough for the next leg of driving ahead of me.

Miles seems content with my excuse, given his profession deems him a human lie detector after all. "That's good," he says. "I know you probably don't wanna talk about it—but—" he adds with a pause. "How do you know Julian?—"

He's right. I don't want to talk about it. About the suicide, that is. I know where his words are heading without the need for him to finish another thought.

I interject him. "Killed himself?"

There's a small, awkward pause drowned out by the raspy voice of Macy Gray playing overhead. Some two decades later, radio stations are still playing this song as if it just hit the airwaves.

"Yeah—" Miles responds.

My lungs warrant an immediate gust of wind, in order to keep my eyes from spewing buckets with my response. "The coroner said he had an overdose of Wellbutrin in his blood," I say.

But the deep breath seems thwarting. Just remembering my internal reaction to Steve's news yesterday, makes the nausea in my stomach intensify. And with it, a solitary tear wells up at the base of my eyelid before escaping down my cheek.

"Christ, Grayson!" Miles shouts through the phone. "I'm so sorry," he adds. "I know the word sorry doesn't mean much right now, because it won't bring him back," he pauses. "But beyond that, I'm just fuckin' speechless."

My thumb meets my lower lids to wipe away the stinging tears forming. "Well, I read the last journal entry he ever wrote," I reply behind the veil of my grief. "And he did it because—" more tears escape the levees of my soul. "Because he felt he was a huge burden on me."

Miles lets out a sigh, his opportunity for a reply now depleted.

I yammer on as if he's waiting for me to come back with the punchline. As if the Hell of my life is now some big fucking joke. "He wrote that he didn't want another day to come where he'd worry if it would be the very last one that he'd ever remember again."

Miles excuses himself from the call after another ten minutes of our exchanged words. None of which would improve my situation, nor bring my lover back to me. I finish chewing the last piece of crispy bacon between my fingers before retrieving my credit card to pay Marsha up at the front counter. As I'm graced with the pithy of mid-morning heat outside, I use my mouth to retrieve another cigarette from the pack. I bow my head briefly to light it before unlocking my door from the key fob.