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Chapter Four

GRAYSON

It's already a quarter past two in the afternoon. Reading Julian's entry about the first day we met leaves my already fragmented heart in a hundred more pieces. A river of emotion rains down my cheek, thinking back on how cruel the other kids at school were to him. All because he was different. Fuck. If they only knew I was just as different, I shudder to think how they would have treated me. But I do remember being protective of him. If anyone was going to step up to the plate and defend his honor, I personally saw to it that person was me.

However, reading the words about his first impressions of me—a future movie star—brings the faintest smile to my forlorn visage. In fact, it might very well be the first time I can feel it genuinely radiating from my soul in weeks. Though the ache is still very present, and I don't know how long it's going to last. Will it get any better at all?

The slightest vibration coming from the bed stand catches me off-guard, assuming it's a text message. As I unlock the main screen, the message from our adoptive brother, Miles, doesn't surprise me in the least.

Hey bud. Alex and I are so heartbroken to learn about Julian. You must be just beside yourself. It should go without saying, if you need anything at all, you can count on us to deliver. Be good to yourself and know there's a whole community of us in your corner.

Miles Langford and Alex Wilkins have been in my life since the first week Julian and I moved to the city. They're also at the forefront of the Rock Hudson community theater program, which Julian had regularly contributed his knack for writing. Before dementia held his beautiful mind captive, that is. In fact, it was Alex who officiated our civil union ceremony in May of 1998. Thinking back to that day seems like a distant shadow, after all we've been through and faced. But I remember the immense love I felt. A day hasn't gone by without feeling that same love. And it's still just as profound as when we said our vows.

While my phone is within grasp, I should call Sophia. But I'm so drained, my insufficient supply of energy prevents me from following through. Surely the longer I prolong the inevitable, the harder it will be. Yet, I still don't know what words I could possibly muster to convey how incredibly sorry I am—that their only son has departed. Let alone apologize for his absence from their lives the past three decades. God fucking damn it! These tears are going to be the death of me. Just when I thought my ducts had dried like Shakespeare's inkwell, here they are with an encore presentation. It's baffling how grief can make a person's mood shift so excessively.

My parched mouth leaves me feeling thirsty. As much as I want to open one of my Cokes, the gnawing pit in my stomach has returned. With my nerves rising back to the surface, the better choice to shove the fuckers back where they belong seems to be a stiff drink or two. With no thanks to the hotel maid, I've been robbed of my own hooch. Now I'm tasked with traipsing a block down the street to a nearby bar.

I gather Julian's journal from Felton, sticking it inside the side pocket of my bag, before shuffling out to the elevator. Once downstairs, I exit the lobby. After only a few paces away from the revolving door, I can instantly feel the drastic temperature change. It's so fucking muggy outside, I'd have a fair chance at slicing the humidity with a knife. My hand reaches into my shoulder bag to retrieve the pack of Camels and lighter. A quick tap against the base of my palm precedes unwrapping the flimsy cellophane wrapper.

Instinctively, I bow my head as my chin presses into my collarbone. Between pursed lips, my left hand positions in front of the cigarette, while a subtle flick of the lighter tingles my auditory senses. This is what my body has craved for two decades. With a deep inhale, smoke tickles the back of my throat, just as the sweet, leafy flavor of tobacco teases each taste bud. And after a prolonged exhale, the dense plume of smoke dances across my face, all the while approaching a crosswalk at Chrystie and Stanton.

At only a block away from the hotel, I find myself reaching the end of a short jaunt. I finish the last drags from my smoke before entering. This first cigarette in twenty years has propelled my senses into a fit of fury, as if the addiction has only suffered a short hiatus. No way should I light another. Okay one more for good measure. But the desire in my throat yearns for something smooth and wet. Something which even nineteen more of these bad boys can't mollify.

Tapping the cherry with my two fingers, I send the hot ashes to their demise amidst balmy pavement next to my foot. Instinctively, my foot extinguishes the embers before tossing the filter into a coffee can next to the door, aptly filled with sand.

A bartender greets me upon my entrance. He smiles enthusiastically while I find a seat at the end of the bar. It's dimly lit in here. And most of all, cloaked by whisper level silence.

"You're the first person today, so I don't have any of my fruits sliced yet," he says, seeming rushed. "But what'll you be having today, pal?"

These spur of the moment decisions rattle me to no end, summoning a hesitant shrug. That's why my go-to at Starbucks is usually an Americano, which Phoebe usually fetches for me anyway.

"No worries," I respond. "I'll just take a double Glenlivet 12—neat."

"You got it," he nods.

As I wait for him to pour my drink, there's a few moments to transfer Sophia's number from Phoebe's text to the keypad screen. Then again, more reluctance endures, preventing me from this simple task. If I lost a kid—regardless of having talked all the time or never—I'd probably hate to find out over the phone. These thoughts come rushing through my mind as I set the device down in front of me. All the while, its keypad screen heckles my conscience. It joins a somber tune in the crux of my plight—delivering me into a dark world of doubt.

Minutes which seemed like hours pass by when the bartender finally returns with my drink. Its wet, oaky flavor sates the thirst in my mouth. I take an extra gulp because—screw it—I'm allowed right now. Surely it won't turn into a huge problem. And if I'm going to be burying my fucking husband soon, I know damn well I won't be able to do it dry.

Speaking of burial, this is a moment where I find myself scouring the recesses of my memory. A moment almost four years ago when we spoke to each other on the subject.

Julian nestled his head into my bare chest, partially laid under the warm blankets of our bed. He'd been entombing his fingers into the short hairs on my chest, while a draft of December air blew in from the bedroom window. It was such a welcome treat after working up a sweat from forty minutes of non-stop love making. My left hand stroked his shoulders as we discussed making the hard decisions when our expiration date would arrive.

"Do you wanna be cremated or buried?" He asked.

What a way to spoil a night of sex with such a depressing question. It took me a solid minute to reply, since it'd been the first time that we ever mentioned something so grim as our end-of-life wishes. Even though the very subject was my family's meal ticket, I've always found it to be too gloomy.

"I don't know," I replied. "I don't really like the idea of being stuck in the ground—left to rot like some leftover apple core."

"Yeah, I can relate," Julian agreed. "But my family is so Catholic," he added, pausing to let out a sigh. "They'd want me buried."

Hearing him comply with what his family expected of him—especially after having absconded from the Hellscape of Felton—made my skin crawl. Determined to soothe him, I gently brushed my fingers through the tresses of his greying mane. "Who gives a damn what they want, meus amor?"

"Don't hate me," Julian replied, ostensibly under the impression that I'd object to what he was about to say. "But even though we've removed our families from our lives, I want them to have the opportunity of being present at my funeral," he affirmed with a hard gulp of air.

And after a long sigh, he continued explaining his position on the matter. "I feel as if my soul wouldn't be at total peace if they didn't get the opportunity for some sort of closure."

A contentious grunt escaped my lips as Julian met my prickly gaze. "After what my father did to us, he'd better hope he dies long before I do," I avowed. "That son of a bitch would rather drive a nail through his eyes, before he'd decide to appear at my funeral."

Julian placed his forefinger to my lips. "That's why I wanna go before you, meus amor," he professed. "As hard as it would be losing you," he added, pausing briefly to glance up at the ceiling. "Being in the same town as your father might be the bigger challenge."

"Oh lover, shhh," I shushed him quickly. There was no way in Hell that I wanted to give the conversation more weight over my soul. "Don't make me spoil our fantastic night by fuckin' crying."

A rattle of clinking bar glasses provides a sharp jolt back to the present moment. My vision shifts from the group of Edison lights dangling above shelves of liquor bottles, down to the bartender in front of me.

"You all right over there?" He asks, extending an open palm.

I wipe a river of burden escaping the dams of my soul with the back of my hand. Fuck. In public now too?

"Oh yeah," I reply, surely not very convincingly. "Just fine."

He nods. "Mmmm hmmm, yeah sure looks like it."

Most of the time, I take things literally. But this time, I can detect his hint of sarcasm. After letting out a sigh, I raise the drink to my lips for another swig. "I'm gonna need another one of these motherfuckers if you expect the truth out of me."

"I can do that, my friend," he obliges, instantly reaching for a clean glass. "But it's none of my business either way."

While he pours me another glass of courage, my mind starts to digest Julian's wishes from our conversation. And with the very notion of returning to Felton, I polish off the remaining booze in my grasp. But if it's what my lover wanted, I must respect it. I don't think I'd be able to live with myself if I don't. Within moments, the bartender slides a refill in my direction. My lips contort amidst a satisfied grunt. Then after another fresh gulp, feeling the euphoric tingle of intoxication scatter through my body like scarabs in Cairo. I remove Julian's journal from my bag, all the while fanning my flush fa?ade with my free hand. The hooch is full fucking well doing a top-notch job at masking reality.

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