Chapter Twenty Three

GRAYSON

My arms flail over the edge of this table after feeling a person's hand pressing into my shoulder. I'm so terribly exhausted that my eyes may need to be forcibly pried open. I raise my head—opening them anyway—to see a Hispanic man staring down. I glower back at him, shielding my eyes with the crook of my arm. The rays of sun peering through the window beside me are seriously too much to bear at whatever the fuck ‘o clock in the morning it is.

"Are you okay amigo?" He asks curiously.

"I take it I'm not dead?" I retort, glaring at him from beneath my elbow.

He shakes his head. "No," he replies. "You look pretty alive to me," he adds. "But you look like mierdo."

That tracks. Like the saying goes, "if it looks like shit, and feels like shit, it must be shit." Even though I have my days mixed up, I could accurately guess how long it's been since I slept in an actual bed. Judging by the time on my phone—displaying seven and two zeros—I'm going to wager around seventy-two hours. I unfold from the table with a scowl, lifting the messenger bag over my shoulder. Among the useless items inside, my sunglasses should take precedence over a bag of Werther's Original candies.

I wave to the restaurant worker as I approach the door to leave. On my trek up the road, the blinding light of day reminds me that I need to buy another bottle of Motrin. There's certainly more traffic at this hour than last night. But since I'm sober, my gait is much straighter and faster. It takes no time at all to reach my Black Beauty in the bar parking lot. I reach in the bag to retrieve my key fob so I can unlock the door before climbing into the seat.

My parched mouth longs for anything wet. I turn up the cup of gas station coffee from Nashville to discover there's not so much as a drop left. Which is fine, since I'm stopping at that truck stop to buy more smokes and ibuprofen anyway. I toss the empty cup behind me, allowing it to land where it may. I'll surely be giving my car a good detail once I'm back home. Fuck the mess, right?

Back in the bathroom at the truck stop, I stand before the urinal to empty my bladder. Then turn around to the automated sinks. While washing, I splash water up into my face. And when I raise my head, I catch a glimpse of the disheveled son of a bitch staring back at me. It's ironic how little I paid attention to my own reflection before Julian's death. But now it feels like all I've been able to do is look at the fa?ade gaping into my soul. This isn't the Grayson Welles I once knew. And I fear the old me is so far gone, just like my lover, he's down the pan forever.

I pat myself dry with the base of my shirt before dragging my feet out to the store part of the truck stop. No time is wasted filling a tall cup of freshly brewed coffee, certain to taste better than Dos Hombres. On the other end of the store is a personal needs shelf, brimming with a variety of products from caffeine tablets and pain relievers to condoms and lubricants. It is a truck stop after all. I shouldn't be shocked that a place such as this lives up to the stereotype. After retrieving a cold Red Bull from the cooler, I approach the front counter to see Chris is still here.

"You're still in town, eh?" He says, tallying my items.

I rub the side of my throbbing temple. "Well I drank a bit after leaving here last," I reply under the veil of a nauseous wave. "I waited to sober up before I hit the road again."

"That's fair," he says with a nod.

"And two packs of Camel Turkish Golds please," I add.

Chris raises his chin to the tobacco shelf hanging from the ceiling. "Sorry, it seems we're all out of the Turks," he informs. "I only have regular," he adds.

I shrug. "Guess it's time to graduate back to full flavor."

While he scans the smokes into his register, I insert my card to pay. Chris bags my items as I return my card to the wallet in my messenger bag.

I reply much more cordially than when I left this counter last night, nestling the cup of coffee in my left hand at the same time. "Have a good day."

"Safe travels, guy," he responds with a wave.

W ell over an hour after leaving Dickson, I find myself passing by the umpteenth sign announcing a cemetery in Tennessee. I've never driven past so many burial grounds all in a single day before. People here must not believe in cremation. Speaking of which, I need to try reaching Steve at the New York County Coroner's office. I'm curious how much longer I need to wait before Julian's body can be transported down to Felton. Since of course, it was his wish to have a viewing before a cremation. So I must respect some of his family's Catholic traditions.

No sooner do I formulate a command to Siri when I realize she's still not likely to recognize my deep accent. My eyes remain focused driving as I unhook the phone from its dash holder. By inputting my passcode, my thumb can hover over to the browser, in search of the coroner's office phone number. If I wasn't a crocked-up piece of shit, I wouldn't have lost my old phone. Thus, his contact would be stored in the call history. Before I can press the dial button, my phone vibrates while the Bluetooth incoming call tone blares from the car speakers.

"Hello?"

"Hey, where are you now?" Miles asks.

I return my phone to its holder. "Probably about an hour away from Memphis."

Miles lets out a very audible yawn. I can respect that sentiment so damn much.

"So you'll be back in Louisiana today then, right?" He asks.

"Accounting for a stop to get lunch and gas," I reply. "I suppose it's more than possible."

"Well, I'm calling because I don't understand another one of your texts," he says. "Alex and I are so worried about you."

I rack my memory to recall what I could've sent him. In fact, I don't remember talking to him since back in Maryland, I think sometime early yesterday.

"I don't remember texting you anything recently," I say. "But I do remember Jeffrey fucking Horton trying to make a pass at me in his pool last night."

Miles gasps. "He WHAT??"

"Yeah, that fool thought I was so down and out needing—" I begin but pause for effect. "—Consoling."

"You're kidding me," he replies.

I shake my head. "Nope, so I high tailed it out of there and ended up?—"

Another awkward pause interrupts the conversation. I'm uncertain how to say what I need to without thinking about the truck stop where I learned of Spellman & Associates' demise. Or conversely, without confessing that I got a tiny-bit drunk again last night to obscure the detriment.

"Hello?" Miles speaks. "Did the call drop?"

"No I'm here," I cut back to him. "I just lost my thought, it's been happening a lot lately."

Without skipping another beat, Miles hones in on his suspicion. "Have you been drinking a lot lately?"

Fuck. Do I tell him the truth, or do I make up an incredibly absurd lie that will inevitably just expose itself later?

"Uhhh—" I stammer. "Yeah I mean—wouldn't you if the tables were turned?"

"Perhaps," he admits. "But you know I've been down that fuckin' road before," he adds anecdotally. "So I might know my limits by now."

So he thinks. Until someone is in my shoes, nobody really knows the depths of which their inner demons will sink, to check themselves out of reality if for even a couple of hours.

A small cough escapes my lungs. "Until someone walks in my shoes, they don't know what this feels like."

Miles clears his throat. "According to Elisabeth Kubler Ross, the stages of grief don't come in the same order for everyone. But?—"

"Well," I reply. "She can kiss my queer white ass," I add with indignation. "I'll grieve how I want to."

I want to tell him that my company's about to lose its stature in the architectural world. Undeniably, if it's been in the news, he already knows and just doesn't want to add more undue stress. Much like Pheobe. Oh, fuuuuuccckk me! Once my brain lands on her name, it occurs to me that I have texted someone in the early inebriated hours of this morning. And now I'm almost certain that I mistakenly sent it to Miles instead of her.

"Are you sure there isn't anything Alex or I can do?"

"No, I'm about to call the coroner because I need to arrange for Julian's body to be flown down to Felton," I respond. "Just thinking about that brings undue stress, because you know that means I'll not only be forced to confront Julian's family—" I add. "It means I gotta contend with my own fucking sperm donor."

Miles clicks his tongue, I assume sympathetically. "Would you be terribly opposed to Alex and I flying down there for the funeral?"

"That's not necessary," I say.

"We'd like to be there to give our respects," he replies. "I even think the Wilkins jet is available this week."

I can deal with this all on my own. I'm sure if I've made it this far, albeit a few drunken nights and a head wound later, it's likely I'll survive making all the arrangements on my lonesome. But far be it from me to prevent our very best friends from paying their respects to my departed Jules. I hear Miles' muffled voice as if he's pulled his phone away from his face to converse with Alex.

A moment later, I hear the microphone reacquaint with his chin. "Okay, if you want to come," I say. "I'll let you know when exactly."

"I'll go ahead and put in for immediate time off at the station and we'll pack a bag," Miles says. "Alex just said we can probably be down there as early as tomorrow."

"Well alright, I haven't booked a hotel room yet," I reply. "So I don't even know where I'm gonna stay."

Miles' voice becomes unintelligible another time whilst my attention remains on Interstate 40. The sign I'm about to pass says Memphis is fifty-five miles away. Just as I see I'm passing through Willis, Miles' words become intelligible once again. While he starts talking, I light another cigarette.

"We're looking up hotels right now," Miles returns to the call. "And given all your circumstances, why don't you just let us book a suite we can all share?" He insists. "You'd check-in and stay tonight, then it's already done for our arrival."

I think I understood all that. What I'm most curious about is the fact he probably already knows about Spellman & Associates. And he's just not wanting to bring it up because he knows it will agonize me even more. Too late, brother. I'm well past that.

My throat clears from the tickle of smoke. "Sure, I guess that sounds fine," I agree. "And I'll cover our meals for as long as we're down in Satan's butthole."

"We'll see," Miles replies.

"Well, I gotta call the coroner," I respond. "I was about to call him when yours came through."

"That's fine, I'll text you with what hotel to check into," he says. "And try to stay away from the booze tonight?"

I flick the ashes from the end of my smoke as I end the call, while thoughts about abstaining from alcohol tonight rises to the surface. If I'm already dreading the extremely arduous task of meeting Julian's parents for the first time, it's going to twice as hard telling them his presence ceases to exist. I won't be placing any bets on if I will drink tonight. Quite frankly, I'd have a better chance of winning the lottery.