Chapter Seventeen

GRAYSON

I'm stuck in a bathroom only twenty minutes from Hagerstown. Before leaving town, I'd swung through a Starbucks drive-thru for a quad shot Americano to aid both the aches in and outside my forehead. But my intestines started spasming ferociously once I crossed the Potomac. This isn't a filthy gas station stall, certainly not even close to the one back in Carlisle. And Julian's words about our impromptu trek across the Brooklyn Bridge, have distracted me from having a cow about there not being any paper towels in the dispenser here.

Once outside the bathroom, I trail the back aisle of the convenience store to retrieve a cold Red Bull from the wall of coolers. As if I haven't had enough caffeine already. My phone chirps annoyingly with an incoming text message, reminding me I've still not switched it to silent mode. Once the chilly aluminum nestles in my left palm, I toggle the button on the side of my phone to hush future notifications. Should've been the first goddamn thing I did when turning it on back at the store.

Walter at the front counter zeros in on the stitched wound above the frame of my sunglasses when I step up to pay.

"Looks like you've seen better days," he notes while the loud chime of his register pangs in my ears.

I've worked in grocery stores where there are constant beeps for an entire shift. If I weren't as hungover as I am, perhaps I'd be able to tolerate them. However, I've been short tempered since Monday. And everyone's pointing out my physical flaws, as if I'm not reminded of them by the physical and emotional turmoil. So, I honestly can't peg if the sounds are quite as aggravating.

"Yeah—I know it's there," I bite back. "You can stop gawking now," I add, inserting my credit card to pay.

Walter shakes his head as if he's embarrassed for me. "Sorry, it just looks painful is all."

I scoop the can of Red Bull off the counter to turn around, making a dramatic scraping sound from the can against the counter. I don't quite reach the doors before hearing Walter shout in my direction at the top of his lungs.

"Don't forget your card is stuck in the machine!"

Well fuck. My head isn't where it should be. I roll my eyes all the way back as I return to the counter to retrieve my Mastercard. Forgetting it would've been a fiasco.

"Thank you," I say somewhat graciously.

When I return to the car, I press to start the ignition. While my Black Beauty warms her engines, I reach into my bag for the small bottle of Motrin. A crisp sound from the Red Bull can hisses, giving my headache instant reprieve. Soon, I'll be re-caffeinated. And the sour taste going down is just as pleasant. It's no scotch, but it'll do in a pinch. Damn, listen to me. I do sound like an alcoholic.

I find my way back to the interstate while Siri reads the text messages I received earlier. It's from Miles.

Since you may need a place to sleep for the night, I told Jeffy you were headed south. He said he wants to save you from another hotel and is opening his guest bedroom to you. Give him a call to let him know where you are.

Oh, and Boo Radley is safe and sound here now. He's already peed on the fake palm planter in the corner. So, he's marked his territory.

Jeffrey fucking Horton. I'd rather endure five consecutive root canals than exist in the same room with that asshat. Well, he's not so much an asshole as he is a haughty, self-absorbed piece of work. We first met him seven years ago at The Lion's Den, a gay nightclub in Gramercy Park. Before he realized my husband was taking forever and a day in the bathroom, he'd hit on me twice after ordering bottle service for our entire brood.

After that night, Julian became enamored by his career as an A&R executive for 970 Records. So much so that it inspired a main character in his best-seller the following year, "Midnight Crescendo." While I've only tolerated the guy, his inspired character was brutally murdered towards the end. So I considered it fair and poetic justice. He relocated to Nashville two years back, leading me to believe I'd never be graced with his ugly fucking mug again. I will still call him, explaining that I don't plan on stopping that far away from I-81.

"Hey Siri," I yell throughout my car, interrupting the song playing on Spotify. "Call Jeffrey Horton."

She robotically replies. "Okay—calling Geoffrey Gordon—mobile."

Ugh. I immediately press the end call button. Since this is a new phone, it's apparent the new Siri doesn't recognize the deep Manhattanite accent I've developed over the years. I clear my throat after taking another large swig of my energy drink.

"Hey Siri, call Jeffrey Horton."

"Calling Geoffrey Gordon—mobile."

I reach down yet again to end the call. Geoff Gordon must think I'm on crack if these are ringing through.

"Gahhh, you fuckin' piece of shit!" I scream at my phone, all the while trying to not swerve the car uncontrollably.

Out of pure aggravation, I unhook the device from my dash to toss it in the backseat. As it lands, my Spotify starts up a random station based on the previously played song. Ironically—or not since this trip has been full of reminders—this re-recorded version takes me back to the moment the original played after my formal proposal to Julian on his birthday in 1997.

Julian took my hand as we skipped out over the ice at Wollman Rink. Our legs stroked in unison under the glow of many surrounding lights, gleaming down on us as we followed other people's lead in a large circle. After a few rotations, the manager caught up with me to pass me a small wireless microphone. Before Julian could turn his head around to see, I attached it to the lapel of my black pea coat.

The manager motioned to me from afar that ‘it is a go' after the current song finished. Just before it wrapped, I tugged on Julian's arm, leading him to the very center of the rink. He appeared confused as if he didn't know what I had up my sleeve. But I knew he couldn't be too surprised because I always had some romantic agenda.

I lowered my body to one knee as the holiday song played its final notes, trying not to slip flat on my ass in the process. The cold surface nipped through my pant leg as I grabbed Julian's hand. My throat instinctively cleared before I opened my mouth to speak loud enough into the microphone. Surely everyone in the vicinity of Central Park could hear.

"Julian, the past seven years of my life have been filled with more joy than I probably ever deserved," I stated. "It's never a disappointment waking up next to your smiling face," I added under the lump in my throat, a tear streaming down my left cheek.

I continued. "And I don't know what I'd do with myself if there ever comes a day when your gentle grin doesn't greet me when I rise."

My eyes scanned the crowd to see everyone stopped in their tracks. Speaking in front of a crowd peaked my anxiety. But as nervous as I was, it seemed like the public declaration of my love was being appreciated. I reached into the inner pocket of my coat, pulling out a black velvet box.

"But you were my first love, and I hope you'll be my only love," I added, my creaky voice starting to falter.

Julian's scotch-soaked gaze intoxicated my heart as I stared up into it. The glint from the surrounding lights danced from corner to corner as he started to shed a tear. I lifted the lid of the box to reveal a silver ring with three blue topaz stones set diagonally in the center.

"Julian Tomás Torres, will you let me be your only love as long as we live?"

It took no time at all for an enthusiastic approval to exude from him as he nodded and smiled. His arms helped stabilize me while I rose to both skates, before I leaned in to plant a kiss, full of my love and gratitude for his commitment to be my first and only love. His arms wrapped around my neck while my hands gripped tightly around his shoulders. Our audience clapped and cheered us on while LeAnn Rimes' "How Do I Live" flowed from the speakers all around the rink.

Rain patters against my windshield, bringing my focus back to the stretch of road ahead of me. I know I still need to call Jeff to tell him I'm not passing through Nashville just to stay one night. Now it will need to wait until I stop, since my phone isn't within arm's reach.

T his storm hasn't eased up but once or twice over the last couple hundred miles. I made a quick stop to get out and stretch my legs, grab some lunch from Mickey D's, and pee. As much as I'd really enjoy polishing off a soft-serve cone, I was advised rather brusquely that their machine is out of service. I find it coincidental that two separate locations—four states apart—encounter the same issue each time I want a fucking ice cream. Since I'm stopped under a gazebo in the middle of a park behind the McDonald's, now is as good of a time as any to call Jeff. This time, I'm calling him from the contact list myself.

The line rings twice before I hear him answer.

"Grayson Welles," he answers with too much enthusiasm. "It's been a long time my friend."

We're not fucking friends, you dipshit. I clear my throat, obviously not audibly sharing my thoughts. "It's been a while indeed," I reply cordially. "But I'm probably not stopping in Nashville tonight," I add earnestly. "I'm trying to get down to Felton and?—"

He interrupts me. "Nonsense," Jeff grunts. "You can't drive safely on little sleep."

"I'm not terribly tired right now," I reply, taking a small bite from my Quarter Pounder.

It sounds like Jeff smacked the top of his desk on the other end. "Where are you now?"

I finish chewing my bite before responding. "I'm in Salem, Virginia, at the moment."

"So, it's almost three there?" He asks.

"I assume so," I reply, grabbing my throat in dire need of a drink. "By the time I reach Nashville, it'd basically be time to fall asleep even if I did stop."

"Just come on in, no matter the time," he replies somewhat convincingly. "Wouldn't a little friendly company be better than a lonely hotel room?"

I'm not in the mood for company, let alone be his company for that matter. But if I do decide to stop there, it'll be late enough where I won't have to feel obligated to go for some dinner. I'd just arrive, lay my head down, and shut my eyes.

"Fair enough," I reply. "Okay—fine," I surrender, all the while my gut is admonishing me for this hasty decision. "I'll stay there for the night."

"Perfect," he clamors. "I'll call Wallace to instruct that he prepare a room for you."

I clear my throat after a smooth slurp of my Coke. "Wallace?"

"My butler," he yatters. "Keeper of the keys," he adds. "I'm the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar record label, my yard from fence-to-fence would take up a whole city block in New York," he boasts. "I also have my own private chef and maid."

I roll my eyes. He hasn't changed a single bit. If anything, he seems to be more of a pompous dick than when he lived in the Big Apple.

"I see," I reply with zero enthusiasm.

"I'll text you the address, so you know how to find me once you reach Music City."

I toss my fast-food trash back inside the paper sack. "That's fair, I'll let you know when I get in so you can expect me."

"No need my man, just punch 3-8-2-5 on the keypad when you get to the front gate and it'll open right up," he instructs me.

"K, fine," I reply, already regretting my choice. "I'll see you later tonight then."

I end the call as soon as I possibly can. The less I talk to him, the better my nerves are. I don't even know why I agreed to stay with him. But I guess, it really will save me from wasting more money on a hotel. Before I return to the car, I light up another rewarding smoke to enjoy. Combining it with the sound of heavy rain landing over the roof of this gazebo will be a decent therapy session for today. I decide on staying put while reading another entry from Julian's New York journal.