Chapter Two

GRAYSON

A harsh morning light peeks through my hotel window, summoning me alive for the day. Despite heavy curtains, the wide sliver of sunshine is quite blinding. As I wipe away the exhaustion, I reach for my phone. It's holding strong on a twenty-two percent charge. It's paramount that I remember to grab my charging cable when I stop by the apartment today. Surely, taking a few steps inside won't be as haunting of an experience during daylight hours. As opposed to anytime after sundown, dusk swallowing the Big Apple like the universe has my aching heart.

There's a voicemail demanding my attention, in addition to an unread text message. It's not so surprising that I didn't answer Phoebe's call an hour ago, since I usually keep my phone on vibrate only. If there's another thing that I can't stand in this world, it's weird noises. And ringtones rank high on the list of audible disturbances. Plus, if the remainder of my Glenlivet is any indication, I may have achieved REM sleep for at least a little while.

"Hey Gray, I found a few people who could potentially be whom you're looking for. Will you call me back when you have a chance? I'm hoping you didn't answer because you finally got some sleep. Talk with you later."

Since I'll be stopping by the office today to sign a zoning contract, I'll just speak with her then. The text message is from a good friend of ours, Rick Abernathy. It's one of several condolence messages I've received since yesterday. Judging by the rate of how fast word spreads in our thriving gay community, I'll see a dozen more of these by the end of the day. If there's one thing that can be counted on in our humble circle of chums, it's an abundance of support. When one soldier is down on the field, twenty others sprint to the rescue.

The intensity of my bladder begs me for a good emptying, so I waste no time hurrying to the bathroom to take care of business. As I pass the large mirror, my unkempt violet oxford reminds me that I need to grab a couple more outfit changes. And my deodorant as well, based on the smell seeping through my pores which reek of a brewery. These are yet more things to slip my mind before leaving the apartment Wednesday morning. As for a shower, it'll just need to wait until later.

Moving around combined with the lingering odor of my poison laced sweat, causes me to retch inconceivably. At least I'm already in the bathroom. A split-second later, I lurch toward the toilet as vomit propels Linda Blair style into its bowl. My head bobs with one heave after another, causing every blood vessel in and around my eyes to throb even worse—now from my oxygen starved brain. I flush before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. If the booze-soaked stench wasn't displeasing enough, the bitter taste of bile certainly pushes the envelope. And once my waist returns to a ninety-degree angle, I can finally take that fucking piss.

Flushing the toilet for a second time, I make a mental note of the growing list of things which I need to grab. Phone cord, fresh clothes, deodorant. Meds, too. Well, no. While fleeting, the realization Julian is gone still hasn't sunk into my thick skull. When making mental notes of things to grab prior to now, his medication was usually the most vital thing I found myself constantly needing to remember. My head shakes with a hue of contention, wondering when this bitter pill will finally settle in my stomach. That Julian's taken another trip out of town, only this time he's never coming back.

Out in the room, I raise the messenger bag over my shoulder before collecting my phone. With a few steps down the hallway, I set out for the elevator and allow the door to swing shut behind me. Once I reach the parking garage down below, I rack my brain amidst the backdrop of a thundering headache. Now where the fuck did I park my BMW? Searching up one lane off to the far left leaves little to be discovered. Only at this moment do I get a visual reminder of a large round cement column in the center of the lot.

I toss my bag over the center console, letting it fall freely in my passenger seat. Behind the wheel, my door slams shut while powering on the ignition button. This wretched sun isn't doing my hangover any favors as I cruise down 3rd Avenue, leaving me to feel around the visor for my sunglasses. Traffic is horrendous as it usually is in the heart of the city. With my office building on 49th Street practically two miles away, it should take only five minutes. Yet this morning, my attention to detail clocks the commute at twenty-four. I pull into the nearby parking garage, then trek through a crosswalk for the main entrance.

Bells from the elevator ding once it reaches the seventeenth floor, sending me to a quick pace out from the doors before they slide shut. As I tread through a maze of cubicles leading to my office, I can hear a cacophony of multiple phone lines ringing throughout the main workspace. I tap my fingers against the strap of my bag, counting each repetition so I can focus on something else. This keeps my shit intact, mollified from every ear-splitting noise.

I'm one of five partners at Spellman & Associates, the tenth leading architectural firm in the nation. On a typical day, I enjoy my job. There's a team of eager junior architects who work under me. And though I sometimes doubt my managerial abilities, I've only lost one person in the last eleven years. Everyone else seems satisfied with their jobs. I push the glass door ahead of me while spotting Phoebe behind her desk, nursing a Starbucks latte in her grasp. Probably a Venti Caramel Macchiato, since she's just as much a creature of habit as I am.

"Gray, I was just about to call you!" She exclaims. "But I'm kinda glad to see you instead."

I shake my head, contending with a bedeviling throb around both temples. Despite the large tinted window behind me, its main use seems highly ineffective. So, these shades remain on for now. Likely a prudent idea anyhow, as I'd hate for my dingy eyes to fuel more gossip around the water cooler.

"What did you find?" I ask.

Phoebe scoots her office chair, allowing room for me to stand beside, studying the dual computer screens. "I found one Sophia Torres in Felton, and three others in surrounding areas."

I click my tongue. "Felton is kinda like jury duty," I admit, scratching at the bristles already surfacing on my chin. "Apart from a few determined schmucks, you just can't escape it, so the listing in town should be Jules' mom," I add. "Does it give an address?" I ask curiously, yet I can assume his parents never moved.

Phoebe points to a listing on the screen. "An address on Tamarack Street?"

"Yep, that's the one," I nod. "Can you text me the number, so I have it?"

The tone on her face screams of worry. "Did you get any sleep, Sweetheart?"

My fellow partners, Kraig Winslow included, don't allow their assistants or subordinates to call them cute little terms of endearment. But unlike the rest of those entitled dipshits, I don't have an inflated ego. Nor does my ass house a giant stick. So, I welcome anything which doesn't sound like an insult.

I sluggishly shrug my shoulders. "I guess a little bit," I reply indecisively. "Maybe an hour—two tops."

Phoebe shakes her head with discontent. "I'm just so sorry you're going through this, Gray," she replies. "I can only guess how you must be feeling right now," she adds, her finger sliding the rim of her Starbucks cup. "Julian was a real gemstone of a man."

My palm can't stop fussing with the headache currently assaulting me. "Aside from the shooting pains in my forehead— well —pretty fuckin' awful."

Phoebe frowns. "I have some Midol in my purse," she offers, rifling through her top desk drawer.

"Nah—I have some ibuprofen in my bag," I reject the offer with a wave, though Julian's previous pharmacy expertise would deem Midol just as effective. "I really don't have anything to wash it down."

"Here," she replies, passing me her latte. "I'm not scared of your germs."

My shoulders shrug without hesitation, reaching out to grab her cup. Meanwhile, I retrieve the bottle of Motrin from my bag. "Thanks, Pheebs."

A quick sip allows me to test the temperature. Indeed, I was right. She's drinking a Caramel Macchiato. I take another small gulp to wash down the tablets, then set the beverage back on her desk. My phone vibrates from Phoebe's text, including Sophia Torres' updated phone number. On the short walk to my office door, I look through the adjoining glass partition exposing Kraig's ugly fucking mug. He's on a conference call. But when he raises his head to witness my vacant stare, he immediately averts his attention elsewhere.

At my desk, there's a kraft paper envelope with my name written in cursive on the front. Beside it are my stacking trays with sorted file folders for prospective projects not yet scanned into our database. Inside the top folder is the form I need to sign—a zoning contract for a future build in the pre-planning stages. A quick signature affords me precisely enough time to open the envelope someone has thoughtfully left for me. It's a sympathy card from Angela in legal. While this is very early in the tropical storm of my life, it brings me comfort to know people in this office care so much. I can't fathom where I'll be once the tropical storm has been upgraded to a full-fledged hurricane.

I return to Phoebe's desk with the folder in hand. "Can you scan this with other documents for the Hillcrest Development project and assign them a folder in the cloud?" I ask, placing the manilla contents in the top tier of her inbox.

She nods. "Sure thing, I'll get to it in just a few minutes."

Hobbling towards the glass door which leads to rowdy chaos, I hear Phoebe adding more sentiments.

"If you need anything, just call me," she says. "Even if it isn't work related—you're like my brother from a different mother."

An awkward smile warms my face, yet genuinely moved by her generosity. She's not wrong. We've been friends longer than she's been on the payroll. "Thanks Pheebs, I'll keep you in mind."

I'd already decided yesterday that I was going to take some time off for a proper bereavement. I'm waiting on a call from the New York County Coroner, who said he'd be calling any time before Saturday. That timeline nears an end tomorrow. And when I do get that call, I'll be forced to make all the necessary arrangements. Two weeks, to me, seems most fair.

W hile empty, the apartment doesn't feel too eerie. The worst of it—and I'd avoid it like the plague if it meant not needing my toothbrush and deodorant—is going to be the bathroom. The door is shut on purpose, because I closed it when I came home from the hospital just after midnight on Wednesday. As a matter of fact, I'd rather stop at the drug store to purchase new toiletries if it means I won't need to go in there now. A former therapist, Elizabeth, instilled a new motto in me years ago. "Avoidance equals disaster," she always says. Well, this is one disaster I full fucking well choose to stomach in the future.

I shuffle into the guest bedroom to retrieve my luggage from the spare closet. As I round the foot of the bed, my attention takes notice of the shutter style closet doors. There's an open gap where the panels part ways. One of them is pushed out by a couple of inches. I slide it over, revealing one of Julian's vintage suitcases has seemingly fallen from the shelf up above. The weight seems much heavier than I remember, as I hoist it above my head. Instead, I lug it over to the guest bed, intent on investigating the contents.

Opening the lid leaves me in a world of surprise. Several leather-bound journals are piled inside. Some with months and years. A few others with locations— Felton, New York City, and Boston. I had no idea until just now that meus amor— my love in Latin—kept journals. Not that this should be surprising in the least, as he's an author of twenty New York Times bestsellers. With four additional books from early on in his career. Fuck. I mean, he was . As much as I want to curl up in the fetal position on this bed, weeping to every handwritten word he's ever penned, I'd rather not fall into such a grief trap. Being in this apartment by myself is starting to give me the willies as it is. A sniffle joins me as I close the suitcase shut, then reach back into the closet for mine from the shelf.

In the master bedroom, I've piled four days of outfit changes inside. They're stacked neatly for being as grief stricken as I am. I saunter over to my nightstand on the left side, unplugging my phone charger from behind, quickly tossing it on a clothes pile. After a short sneeze—likely from the dust on the lid of my suitcase—I circle the zipper around the edges to secure its contents. Out in the hall, some type of instinct persuades me to bring his luggage full of journals with me to the car.

A hot minute allows me to choose whether I want to lose my shit or not. My gut says I might find some comfort having pieces of Julian with me. What could possibly be better than reading his inner thoughts from when his mind was as bright as his spirit?

At the drugstore, I find myself in the quandary of deciding between deodorant brands—Arm & Hammer or Degree. They're seemingly out of stock in the variety I've used for the last six years, the shelf laid bare just as my aching heart. It pisses me off to no end when a store doesn't keep my regularly purchased brands. Especially since I've been shopping here since 2012 when we moved to Washington Heights.

Being forced to use a new brand makes my skin crawl. Ughhh. I should've just opened that goddamn door. After a few minutes of fighting my staunch disapproval for change, I finally decide on the Degree deodorant. Now onto the opposing aisle to select a toothbrush and toothpaste. So long as my Pronamel is in stock, I'll be slightly happier. Well, that might not be entirely true.

The cashier up front is ringing a gentleman's items in front of me at a snail's pace. But I'm not necessarily in a huge rush. Over the last few days, I'm beginning to realize when a person encounters a major loss, they don't hold much emphasis on the concept of time. At least so far, being grief stricken has taken so much from me, that I couldn't hurry anywhere if I tried.

While waiting in line, the vibrant colors of cigarette pack varieties catch my eye. And with it, a sudden urge to taste nicotine hits my brain like lightning. Despite having abstained from tobacco twenty years ago, I can taste it as I'm being escorted to yesteryear.

Trisha scowls as she waves me up to the counter, shooting a disgruntled smirk when the items fall from my arms. She grunts ravenously, scanning each item as if she's having a bad day. Me too, Trish. Me too. No sooner does she scan the two bottles of cold Coke, when I point to the wall of temptation behind her.

"And I'll take a pack of the Camel Turkish Gold please," I request, fumbling a lighter from a hook inches away from my shoulder.

"Do you have your ID?" She asks with a hint of indignation.

Are you kidding me? Do these wrinkles on my forehead make me look like I've swallowed the fountain of fuckin' youth?

As much as I desire clapping back with my haughty thoughts, I flip open my wallet to reveal my driver's license. My jaws clench tightly while I try to fish the goddamn thing from its slip. There's no good reason they should make them more difficult to remove than sliding inside. Passing the identification doesn't go without flashing a pseudo smile. I'm pretending to not be fazed by her tone, but I'm certain I appear rather bitter.

Once she returns the proof that I attended school with Jesus Christ, I insert my credit card into the terminal to pay. Seconds whizz by as we wait on a spinning wheel, followed by a mechanical beep like it hasn't recognized my card. Yet another element making this interaction even more unnerving.

Trisha huffs. "You put it in too soon."

I roll my eyes, inserting it for another try. Finally, I see the words approved. I drop my wallet back into the messenger bag, then grab the plastic bag and my receipt.

My hotel door has me wedging halfway through, juggling both suitcases, the bag from the drugstore, and a paper McDonald's takeout sack cinched between my teeth. The weight of Julian's old-style suitcase slams into my right knee, causing me to trip. A flash of light blinds me as I heave forward, accompanied by a ripping sound from the paper sack. Meanwhile, dozens of french fries sprinkle over the carpet. God damn it!

I'm not terribly hungry, but I figured I'd try eating something anyway to settle the pit in my stomach. At least my double cheeseburger is wrapped in paper. I unload the suitcases to a chair in the corner of the room, before returning to the scene of the crime. All the while feeling my soul rip to shreds because the fries are now inedible.

Only two bites of the burger finds my gut satiated. So, I toss it in the trash can with the most anticipated portion of my meal. My phone screen flashes a low battery warning for the third time today, forcing me to waste no time plugging it into an outlet next to the bed. Thoughts of Julian's journals flourish in my mind. Since I'm due for some quiet time, it's a no brainer that I should pull one from his luggage. Written in black Sharpie across the sheen of brown leather, is the singular word which threatens to haunt my memory— Felton.

It takes me all of a few moments finding a comfortable position among the freshly made bed. The maid must have cleaned while I was out. Then I'm caught off-guard as my vision zeros-in on the nightstand where I discover she's taken my remaining Glenlivet. Seriously? What the actual fuck?

Annoyed, my eyes roll straight back as I lean against the headboard. The journal slowly makes its way up to my nostrils. While somewhat dilapidated, the pages seem to have withstood the tests of time. They're still crisp, but fetid. An exhale escapes my lungs as my mind resets, traveling back in time to recall where I was when Julian penned this entry.