Chapter Nine

GRAYSON

A loud alarm blares from my phone, instantly jerking me from a dead slumber. As I rise from the mattress, the curl of my finger digs into my exhaustion before silencing the painstaking melody. This is one of the only instances where anyone will hear sound emitting from my devices. Though my internal clock had been in tip-top shape in my thirties, twenty years later is a different story entirely. But for the first time since Monday night, I've found a decent five or six hours of sleep. I stretch my legs out from the bed while yawning as both feet grace the hotel room floor.

The roaring headache between my temples hasn't budged. Besides crying an entire ocean, it seems the nuisance is all I've had. Despite not consuming any more alcohol after leaving the bar yesterday. If this is going to persist like a fucking influenza, I'd be wise to remember buying more Motrin when I gas up the car in a few minutes. Gas, snacks, Red Bull for sure, Motrin.

Approaching the bathroom sink to brush my teeth, I continue compiling a mental list in my head. My toothbrush sweeps around both jaws as I glance into the mirror, surprising me to no end that there's a pimple rising to the surface of my forehead. Its aesthetic reminds me of Mt. Kilauea, and also the fact I haven't broken out since I was practically sixteen. No doubt this is stress induced.

As I finish brushing, minty goop swirls down the drain before gathering my toiletry items. They crowd each arm while shuffling out to my luggage. Only at this moment, does it occur to me that I've neglected to check on Boo Radley, our Scottish Terrier. Fuck. I mean, I guess he's just mine now. My head shakes with indignation at the simple, yet consequential detail of Julian's absence. It still hasn't clicked yet. Wednesday, I thought I'd be ambitious enough to work as if nothing happened. So, I had Wendy to take him. I must call to see if she'd keep him a few days longer.

Wendy has been our, I mean my— oh fuck it— our dog walker for the last year and a half. One day, I found her wandering the 14th Street Park with three dogs in tow. While conversing about her affinity for furry lovers, she graciously offered me her services. It took me no time at all to accept her invitation, as this was just after Julian's first major episode. Even thinking about that summer day in 2020 sends a major chill down my spine.

I'd just arrived home from the office at a quarter past six. Trailing from the elevator on the third floor of our apartment building left me curious why the door was locked. After letting myself in, I found it peculiar that I wasn't graced by Boo Radley's lively presence. Usually, he'd be perched impatiently in front of the door at the sound of footsteps or jangling keys from the hallway.

"Meus amor," I called out.

Traipsing around, I jangled my keys to the rhythm of each step. "Boo Bear."

Neither of them responded. I sauntered down the hallway to Julian's writer's nook only to discover a blinking cursor just below the words ‘Chapter Seventeen' on a new page in his manuscript. This alarmed me, especially after another shout throughout the apartment with no response. So, I dialed his phone. Perhaps he'd taken Boo Radley down to potty. Generally, I can hear his voice light up whenever I call. But, after three rings, he answered with much less enthusiasm than expected.

"Where are you, my love?" I asked concerningly.

His voice was flat. "I'm not really sure."

"Are you okay, Jules?" I asked, fright cloaked every syllable. "What's wrong—baby—what's the matter?" I questioned more, my ceaseless worry turning into an interrogation.

His response lacked the usual confidence I expected from him. "I guess so."

I shook my head as the panicked state escalated to full-on fear. "What do you mean—you're not sure?"

He didn't respond.

"Hang tight where you are, meus amor," I instructed him. "I'll come find you."

With no time to spare, I immediately ended the call to check our family phone locator tool. I knew it would pinpoint his location. To my surprise, the dot on the map disclosed coordinates all the way down in Lenox Hill. On the corner of 2nd Avenue and East 68th Street to be precise. Harried, I left the screen open while jogging down the hallway from our door. My legs rushed down the stairwell without the patience to wait on the elevator. And in a New York minute, I'd found myself pulling out from the parking garage. My sights set on Lower Manhattan.

Once I passed East 77th and 2nd Avenue, I double checked the locator to discover his location approaching Central Park Zoo. When my eyes returned to the road, I had to battle some dumbass with a Pennsylvania license plate—who apparently didn't realize New Yorkers have people to see and places to be. After heavily laying into the horn, I swerved lanes to cut him off at the first opportunity I could. Within minutes, I swiped my credit card at the parking garage at Madison Avenue. Then sprinted down 61st Street at the cheetah-like speed of my buddy, Miles, straight for Central Park.

My pace faltered on the main trail which veins off into multiple directions, before studying the map on my phone. I followed Julian's dot along the path, leading me to the Thomas Moore Statue, where I searched frantically. My right hand rested above both brows, as if it would help me locate him any better. After a minute of scanning the surroundings, I spotted what appeared to be the paisley print of Julian's backside, sitting on a bench. Boo Radley's blue leash intact, with our beloved canine lying in the grass beside him. A sigh of relief fell from my lips as I hurried down the winding path.

"What in the world are you doing all the way down here, meus amor?"

He raised his head with a mystified gaze locking with mine. The innocent smile adorning his visage told me he didn't entirely understand. While it melted my heart, it vexed me just as much. I sat down on the bench next to my lover, concurrently stroking his shoulders and indulging Boo Radley in my lap. The gentle breeze rustled through Julian's evolving brown hair—with flecks of gray throughout—while quacking ducks could be heard from the pond behind us. My frighted soul could finally afford a breath. At least he was all right.

In between pulling on a comfortable outfit, my other straggling items left out of the luggage are returned. At least this is something worthy of lasting the many miles I must trek today. And I know damn well that's not going to be a shirt and tie. After I toss my phone charger into the suitcase, I raise the messenger bag over my shoulder. With a piece of luggage in both hands, I make my way down to the front desk to check out.

At the desk, Jennifer smiles ardently in my direction upon signing their electronic pad confirming my charges. "Thank you so much, Mr. Welles," she says. "I hope you had a very pleasant stay with us."

Hardly pleasant by any stretch of the fucking definition. If she thinks unremittingly bawling until all which is left is a migraine—a fun time—then I've had the time of my life. If only she knew I've just lost my whole reason for breathing, she wouldn't assume such a trifling belief. But she doesn't. So, I flash the best faux smile I can muster, on the take for my first Oscar nod. Step aside, Brando. There's a new sheriff in town!

"Have a good day," she waves me off as I waddle over to the elevator leading down to a parking garage.

Under a dim light bouncing off rows of windshield, I load the luggage into my trunk. Then fling the messenger bag into my passenger seat, closing the door beside me. Within a few minutes, I'm already zeroing-in on a lane at the gas station on 8th Avenue. I step out to unlock the gas cap before inserting my Mastercard as payment. The strong fumes exacerbate a throbbing sensation in my head as the pump clicks and hisses behind me. All I can seem to do is recount my mental list from earlier, of things to grab for the road. Motrin, snacks, Red Bull.

Seventy painstaking dollars later, I hurry into the gas station for the items on my list. In the snack aisle, I grab a bag of Doritos, two packs of beef jerky, some vanilla Zingers, and a bag of Corn Nuts. In the back of the store are the refrigerated beverages, where I reach in for a sixteen ounce can of Red Bull. Steadying the items in my arms, I totter up to the counter so I can pay. Once the items fall freely before the clerk, I realize I've forgotten about the most important thing to rescue me—ibuprofen. Oh fuck me.

"Hang on just a second," I instruct Josh behind the counter, my forefinger raised between him and I.

Shuffling quickly along the counter, I realize there's a limited selection of over-the-counter pain relievers. Everything's in such a pissant sized bottle with an extortionate price tag. The mere thought of spending more than a product is worth, sends my blood to a fine boil. For the price of only twenty generic ibuprofen, I could buy a whole hundred count bottle of brand name Motrin at CVS.

Don't mistake me for a poor man. While I make an excellent living, I'm ever the cautious spender. Josh is standing at the register tapping his fingers against the counter, waiting for me to make up my goddamn mind. A raucous grunt escapes my throat while I take a consequential moment to decide if my discomfort is worth being robbed blindly. In a split-second, I slide the remedy off its hook. I guess that's how the cookie's gonna fuckin' crumble today.

Josh rings me for my haul of garbage food, all the while my attention focuses beyond his seemingly pointed ears towards a tobacco shelf. Since I chain smoked a good ten—or twelve—on the hotel roof yesterday evening, I figure I might as well purchase a new pack. It'll help pave some relief in my shattered soul as I drive the fourteen-hundred miles to my very own hellscape that is Felton, Louisiana.

"Oh and—a pack of Camel Turkish Gold please," I say, my finger pointing to the shelf.

I don't have another smoking problem. I have a sad and stressful problem. Oh fuck it!

"Just go ahead and make it two," I clarify.

Josh clears his throat before telling me my damage. "52.47 today, Sir."

"Christ, that's almost as much as my gas," I mention, inserting the chip of my card into the terminal by his register. Surely, he must get tired of hearing that all day.

He tears off my receipt, sticking it in the bag with my items before waving a friendly ‘goodbye' from his register.

Given I'm already halfway outside, I can't make out exactly what Josh says. Most likely some form of, "have a good day."

I didn't even attempt returning in kind, since I know it won't do any good. I'm not having a good day. And I'm certainly not happy. I honestly don't even know if I'll ever feel that way again. When you've lost everything that matters, life's simple pleasures become of no consequence.

S omeone's high beams shine directly through my rear window on Interstate 78, just past Newark. A glint of light bounces directly from the sheen surface of a small teddy bear dangling from a cord, wrapped around my rearview mirror. My very first birthday present from Julian. God damn it. I thought I'd get a few miles under my tires before I fell prey to sorrow again. It might also be the fact that this Ed Sheeran song, "Lego House" doesn't help either.

All things considered, my brain can't help dialing back to the very moment I skittered out of the barn that night of my eighteenth birthday. With one hand on the wheel, I reach over to my bag in the passenger seat to retrieve a cigarette and my lighter. It ignites with a spark, the promise for solace. A long drag soothes my worry much like a drug addict feels with that initial push of heroin striking their bloodstream. Meanwhile, my mind revives the first devastating moment that Julian and I ever experienced together.

At the very suggestion of my father's temper, I hightailed my ass out of the barn. But there was no chance I'd leave my boyfriend behind. My whole raison d'etre was to protect Julian, despite being ordered to go to my room. At that moment, I recalled a building flaw in the structure of our barn. A small, yet ever so insignificant crack in the wall on the side of the barn. It took me half a moment to hunch over, peeping through.

My jaw dropped to the ground the second my father smacked Julian as if he were a punching bag. It was so hard, I practically heard the joint in his neck cracking upon impact. I'd never seen my father get so drunk to the point he'd hit another person. He'd always been known to lunge objects across a room, yes. But physical assault, that was a first.

Julian remained frightfully pressed into the wall, motionless, while my father continued punching him in the stomach. He cried out in the most horrific pain as his face quickly grew a deep cocktail of red and blue. I could see the gloss from his tear-struck eyes by the glow of our kerosene lamp flickering from a distance. What took the cake for my broken heart, was being threatened with his life if he ever contacted me again. Emotions all too consuming, I couldn't help but break out in silent tears right along with the poor baby.

After my father sent him running for his life, I stood straight, pushed my shoulders back with an air of vengeance. There's no way I'd signal to Julian that I was standing nearby, nor that I saw the whole fucking thing with my own eyes. No, I remained motionless until he passed the oak tree a few yards from the corner of our house.

Before my father turned around to leave, I sprinted through the backyard. The kitchen door slammed behind me on a quick dash to the staircase. By the time I leapt to the surface of my bed upstairs, I heard the kitchen door slam shut yet again. To follow, were the heavy footfalls as he ascended each step.

Fear welled inside the furrows of my soul while my fight-or-flight response kicked into overdrive. Within a moment, my bedroom door swung open. The look on my father's visage intensified from just moments before in the barn. His eyes took the appearance of a total monster, those seemingly reddened pupils only quantified his rage. Like he was about to beat the living shit out of me. And a second later, my suspicions were confirmed by the swing of his arm into my left temple. As a result of his force, my neck popped and twisted.

He shouted so loudly that I'd just knew my mom probably shot straight out of bed. "YOU SON OF A BITCH GONNA TELL ME YOU'RE A FUCKING QUEER NOW, ARE YA?"

I couldn't respond. The ability to utter a single word froze right with the rhythm of my heart. I also knew that no matter what response I could engineer, it wouldn't be enough to defuse his temper. When he got drunk—which was damn near every day—everyone had better have a shelter-in-place plan. The growls which escaped his throat were disgustingly similar to a wolf defending her pup against an intruder. He bunched the ringed hem of my shirt in his hand, yanking me up off the bed.

"WELL WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF, FAGGOT?"

My mother rushed to the doorframe, covering her mouth with both hands. I knew she didn't have the courage to stand up to the piece of shit, out of fear that he'd send her body flying across the room. She stood there helpless, staring solemnly into my soul with a tacit apology, meanwhile allowing my father to keep tearing into me with fire and fury. I stared back into my own personal mirage of Satan, trying to say one fucking word—anything at all. I knew if I didn't at least respond with one or two words, he might finish beating me into the next Tuesday.

"I—I—" I stammered unintelligibly. No real words or genuine thought could break the ice.

My instincts were spot on. And for a second time, his fist heaved forward with the velocity of a speeding missile. It landed square on my nose, disjointing it. I felt the blood gush down just as quickly as my throat tasted it trickling through my windpipes. Murderous screams ejected from my voice box while a river of agony crashed from my eyes. Aside from breaking my arm in the fifth grade, I'd never been in so much agony.

In that single moment, I glanced over his shoulder to notice my mother shaking her pale forehead with fright. The tears streaming down her face were trivial at best. And in the presence of her abandonment, I knew they wouldn't do a goddamn thing to rescue me from the torment.

"I'M NOT GAY!" I screamed out—blood splattering into the face of the devil—fully cognizant that it was a major lie. But he relented his grasp, sending me backwards onto my bed. "OKAY?!?"

His reddened face eased up while he wiped away the blood and foam protruding from the corner of his mouth like a rabid dog. He turned around in the middle of my room to stomp towards the doorway, yelling at my mother to go back to bed in the process. Before leaving, he twisted his head back around with a death stare, catching me straight in the eye.

"Damn right you're not," he snickered. "And you're never going to see that beaner again, you got it?"

Just remembering the horror which came from that night sends me into a rage. Even though I haven't spoken to him in thirty-two years, I still think poorly of him. Elizabeth was the first therapist who helped me overcome all the traumas of growing up in a home with alcoholism via E.M.D.R. therapy. But in these moments—when I remember him so vividly—I can't help but breathe fire.