Chapter Twenty Nine

GRAYSON

Violent sunrays hound my vision through the windshield, as I'm once again Felton bound for Harmony Memorial. Otherwise known as the family business. I reach up to the visor for my sunglasses, taking inventory of how I feel at this moment. Apart from the usual headache, surely something I'll acclimate to in a few more days, my stomach aches and gurgles. The foul taste of bile teases the back of my throat, ever since I vomited after my shower. No amount of grease seems to have been effective after all.

Facing my sperm donor is the second thing I've been dreading all weekend. Surely Jacob is running things by now, since he'd been away at LSU the year Julian and I made our great escape. Miles texted me as I was retreating from the hotel parking lot. He informed me that he, Alex, and Boo Radley had reached cruising altitude and will be here in a couple of hours. Which is great, if things go way South here in about ten minutes, my calvary's on the way.

Alex might appear soft and tender. But should anyone harass somebody in his inner circle, he can quickly transform into one mean son of a bitch. Kind of to the degree of those wolf shifters people read about in books.

I turn left on Stevens Road, preparing to confront Lucifer's personal assistant. That is if he hasn't keeled over from cirrhosis by now. Wouldn't that be grand! A few brain cells spasm at the simple fact it could be in the cards for me too, if I don't wrestle my own drinking problem. And smoking. But the cigarette in between my left grasp still serves a greater purpose, whether it's painting my lungs with a slow, torturous death or not.

As I advance into the parking area at my folks' funeral home, I lower my shades to note that the building has undergone massive renovations. In fact, the sign above the door now says New Horizons Mortuary.

My legs eagerly stretch as I climb up out of the car. I take my last drag from the cigarette before pitching the butt off to the side, on my trail to the door. The second I swing it open, a loud alarm wails throughout the building which announces a person's presence. My memory suffers a brief shock as I scan the lobby, looking nothing like it did three decades ago. An apple cinnamon aroma fills each nostril while I let the door swing shut behind me.

There's an older woman rounding a corner from a shallow hallway. Judging by the daylight shining through the surrounding windows, it's my mother. She stops in her tracks as if she's seen a ghost. Something not too uncommon in the undertaker industry. I remove the Ray Ban's from my awe-struck face, offering a gentle wave in her direction.

Her expression couldn't scream of surprise any louder. "Grayson?" She mutters.

"Yeah Ma," I nod. "It's me."

We stand as still as the oak trees outside for several minutes, before she breaks her pose to schlep down the hallway in my direction. Her arms expand once she gets closer. This will be the first hug from my mother in over three decades. Yet my inhibitions about human contact shepherds a slight flinch as if her touch is now foreign to my senses. In another moment, I throw caution to the wind and accept her embrace. I couldn't have been more wrong. Her hug feels just as the last one did from 1990. For seventy, her strength is on par.

Ma lets out a groan, brushing the back of her hand down my face. She grimaces as her fingers trace the edges of my stitched-up wound, probably feeling a sympathetic pain. The kind only a mother can have of their children no matter their age. A set of tears flutter from each glossed eye as she recoils her head from our embrace. Those mushroom brown strands covering it suits her well.

Her hands trail down my arms, as if taking note of my muscles and fully grown physique. "I figured I'd be seeing you," she admits through a crackly voice.

"How's that?" I ask.

"Ohhh, New York emailed us with transfer forms," she replies. "For a body, that had your name in the responsible party field."

I figured that would be the case. My mouth contorts an uncomfortable shape. She knows I'm gay, but I doubt she knew I ran away with Julian. I can't imagine the initial shock of seeing my name on paperwork after all this time. We hold hands on a short walk through a large opening, leading us to a family sitting room with two couches opposing each other. Her grip doesn't ease up until we find a spot next to each other on one of the beige sofas.

"Ma—Julian's—" I start to explain, pausing as soon as I feel another river of sorrow building within my tear ducts.

I clear my throat to try this again. "He was my husband," I admit. "He's the boy from the barn on the night of my eighteenth birthday."

Fully expecting to see my father, I scan the room before glancing over my shoulder.

"Sweetheart don't worry about him," Ma says assuredly, taking hold of my hand for a second time. "The same month you left," she adds, seething through gritted teeth. "I divorced that son of a bitch."

Disbelief cleanses my insides as I tilt my head. "Really?"

"I told him I wanted one after he scared off my youngest boy," she huffs.

"So where is he?" I ask curiously, not that I care to see him.

Ma darts her eyes past my head while responding but pauses. "In town?—"

A baritone voice shouts from behind me. "Well, if it isn't Gravy Goober!"

This can be the only person on the planet who teases me with such a nickname, my brother Jake.

My head twists around to see Jacob standing taller than I remember, his hand poised at a hip. "Janky Jay?" I reply with a semi-smile before rising from the sofa.

I instinctively extend an arm to offer a handshake, but he attacks me with slender arms spread out for a hug. The squeeze is much tighter than Ma's. Understandably so, given he's only two years older than I am.

"We've been expecting you," Jake says, breaking away from the hug.

I wipe my eyes with a wrist. "It's been three decades," I announce. "Apart from getting taller, you've not changed a bit."

"Speaking of time," Jake replies. "We knew you'd come back to us eventually," he says. "I did a few Google searches on occasion and saw that you were married to a New York Times best-selling author," he admits. "And then a couple articles about some architectural achievement awards you received."

The question of why he didn't reach out swims to the surface of my mind. If our parents got divorced, then surely it would have been okay after all. And if only I'd known, maybe I would've reunited eons ago. And Julian wouldn't have been robbed of all the precious memories with his family either. But the past doesn't matter anymore. I shake my head at the very thought of all the fucking darkness that has ensconced my life. Jake hurries away to retrieve an iPad from a desk out in the lobby while I sit back down next to Ma.

When he returns, we start discussing the logistics of Julian's transfer. He guides me through the arrangements I should make, determining a funeral on Friday is reasonable since his body has been on ice longer than it needed to. I express Julian's wishes to be cremated, insisting on an open-casket funeral so I can respect his family's religious traditions. Even if it means forking over a couple grand just to be used for two or three hours. After he walks me through a summary of the arrangements, the three of us spark a conversation, catching up on so much lost time.

I spent the better part of three hours catching up with Jake and Ma. Since Miles and Alex planned on dinner with me tonight, I took the liberty of inviting them as well. And not only them, but I also want this to be a family affair. So, I texted Amelia, inviting her and Sophia as well. Amelia professed that Sophia is very fussy today, but said she'd have their neighbor stay over so that she could come meet Ma, Jake, Miles, and Alex.

I'm about to pull into a parking spot at the hotel when a song on Spotify plays at random. Yet another station playing similar artists relevant to the previous tune. It takes my memory back to the evening Julian finished typing the words The End —quintessentially for the very last time.

I sat in the living room with Boo Radley on my lap, a cold Heineken in my hand. I'd been streaming the latest episode of This Is Us while Julian finished up some work in the spare bedroom which we'd fashioned into a writing cave. Out of nowhere, I heard him shout out towards the living room.

"Meus amor, it's time!"

What was it time for? I questioned in my mind, pressing pause on Hulu. Boo Radley leapt from my lap as soon as I inched away from the sofa cushions. Once I stepped down the hallway, I saw Julian hunched over his rectangular filing cabinet with two whiskey glasses and a bottle of Macallan 18 in his grasp. The kind we only saved for special occasions. So, the bar had been set high that it was good news.

"It's finished," he said, pointing to his computer screen.

The pride I had for his accomplishments expelled from my heart as soon as I zeroed-in on two words displaying ‘The End.' His book "A Shot in The Dark" was officially completed. We'd had twenty-two of those moments in the past. And that would be the twenty-third time partaking in our tradition of an impromptu dance party celebrating the completion of a manuscript.

He edged towards me with both glasses, shooting a command to the Amazon Echo speaker on his desk.

"Alexa, play my spontaneous dance party playlist."

After a warm kiss, Julian transferred one of the crystal rocks glasses to my grip. P!nk's "Raise Your Glass" started blaring from the speaker. We bopped to the beat in between intermittent sips of the fancy scotch, letting it fuel our energy to dance it out for three full songs. I recorded his look of satisfaction within my memory bank. His contentment and accomplishments were the only thing that mattered in our impromptu momentous occasion.

I scan the hotel keycard above the door handle, stepping inside the suite to hear short barks ejecting from a very energetic Boo Radley. He makes a beeline straight towards me from the opposing room. After reaching down to pick him up, I raise my head to spot Alex shuffling into the sitting area.

He seems quite energetic, almost as if he's trying to mask what he's really feeling. It's a funeral after all, so I suppose it's understandable. "Hey," he greets me, shuffling towards me to give an elbow bump.

A smile combats my fatigue and nausea. Mainly because seeing him and Miles is the best thing to happen to me all week. Even though reuniting with Ma and Jake exceeded my expectations, these jokers have been my chosen brothers longer than my own family has been a part of my life. I guess that's my own fucking fault though, so I guess I need to accept blame when it's warranted.

Miles joins us in the sitting area. "There's the guy we've been waiting to see."

I nod my head, matching his sentiments. "Hey pal," I reply, but I detect a look of worry in those narrowed eyes of his.

My fingers comb Boo Radley's perfectly groomed, snowy fur. "How long have you been waiting around?"

Alex shrugs. "Not long, an hour maybe?" He responds, seeming irritated.

Boo Radley licks at my chin as I jet into my room. I let my messenger bag fall onto the bench at the foot of the bed, noticing my bottle of Glenmorangie is not in the spot that I last left it. Instead, there's a hundred-dollar bill in its place. Are you fucking kidding me? Before I go storming out of the room in a fit of fury about them confiscating the scotch, I force a deep breath with a shaken head. They're my friends. They only care about me. Try as I might convince myself that this isn't a big deal, the demons inflicting havoc deep inside would beg to differ.

Instead of acting on my incensed frustration, I let Boo Radley roam freely while slipping another cigarette from my bag. And on the balcony, once again fallen prey to the South's temperate conditions. I hastily light my cancer stick, taking in a massive inhale. The smoke tickles every fiber of my lungs as I flick the ashes out over the side of the ledge where I've found a spot to lean into.

Miles can be heard shouting from the other side of the door. "Gray?"

Another rush of nicotine hits my bloodstream while Miles twists the knob, gracing my presence. He rests his arms on the ledge with a loud sigh. We stand for a minute in complete silence, building up quite a sweat. Well, it's not completely hushed. The rambunctious noises coming from a nearby metal fabrication warehouse are razing my eardrums. By the twelfth drip of sweat down my back, Miles interrupts our silent and insignificant moment.

"I know it's really hard right now," he says. "But?—"

Annoyed, flick the smoke before turning my head. "But what?" I bite back. "You think you can just take my property away from me?"

"It's not like tha—" he responds, but I interrupt him.

"It's not like that?" I counter. "Jesus fucking Christ, Miles!" I exclaim, rotating the hand holding my cigarette for emphasis. "I'm not ten goddamn years old," I huff. "I don't need you to parent me."

That outburst immediately punctures my conscience. Perhaps I was a little harsh. But I have a right to be perturbed.

Miles places his hand on my left shoulder. "Come on, I'm the last person who can judge anyone," he admits. "But I know if you keep the liquor up, you're going to turn into your father," his threat isn't entirely off-base. "Alcoholism is genetic, I know firsthand—remember nine-eleven?"

He has a point. And I've tried reminding myself of this fact a couple of times this weekend. Though, my unremitting thirst seems to win every time I try to combat it. I do remember his affliction all too well. Not only booze, but he'd be found eating pills like they were goddamn Mike & Ike's. I should apologize for speaking rashly.

"Fuckin-a I do," I say, taking a drag from my smoke. I hold my breath as I deliberate how best to apologize. On my exhale, the plume of smoke waltzes through the air past Miles' nostrils.

"You're right," I add. "I'm sorry for snapping at you."

His hand rubs deep into my shoulder before those strong hands of his knead on trouble spot between my neck and shoulder. I take in another puff.

"Hey, bud," he replies softly. "You don't need to apologize," he affirms. "What you're dealing with fucking sucks, and I'm sorry to hear about the firm," he adds.

"Yeeahhhh," I say upon another exhale. "I figured you probably knew about that."

Miles clicks his tongue. "What the fuck happened with that, eh?"

I shrug. "No clue," I reply, curing an itch at my wounded brow before flicking more ashes over the railing. "I haven't heard back from Phoebe about it."

It's only at this moment when I realize Phoebe doesn't know that I know. My drunken text message was accidentally sent to Miles instead of her. And that may be a blessing in disguise. I shouldn't entertain that fuckstorm until I return home. The amber burn from my cigarette distinguishes when I scrape it against the railing. I toss it over, quickly returning a genuine hug to Miles.

We retreat to the sitting area with one of Julian's New York City journals, settling into a comfortable spot with a chilled San Pellegrino. After enduring the heat for that extended period, this is a welcome treat to my parched mouth. Boo Radley jumps up to the sofa next to me as I prepare to read one of the next journal entries aloud to my brood.