Chapter 12 #3
Eventually, Claire said she needed to beg off and called a cab. Desiree walked her out. Gabrielle once more insisted she should drive me to the airport in the morning. I declined again but swore to be in touch if any questions came up after I got home. “About anything,” she said. “Don’t be shy.”
I tagged along with Tommy and we headed deeper into the French Quarter.
Street after street of restaurants and bars, no signs of the night slowing down despite the late hour.
Balconies ran along the second floors, revelers draped over the rails, smoking, shouting down to friends gathered below, drinking on corners.
“You can just walk around with alcohol?”
“Literally you get them to go.”
“What is this place? I feel like I’ve left America.”
A drag queen in thigh-high patent leather boots, towering above the crowd, overheard and turned. She raised her arms as if balancing the world itself above her head. “Darling, you have. Welcome!”
We laughed. “I hate to be one of those people who shits on Ohio,” I said. “It’s beautiful in its way, it really is. But wow—I did not realize what I’ve been missing.”
We arrived at a bar, rainbow flag whipping from the balcony, men everywhere.
“Tommy!”
A few of his friends were sharing a smoke out front. Tommy asked after his boyfriend, “Where’s Brian?” but didn’t wait for a reply. He grabbed the cigarette, took a small puff, and passed it back. “That’s it! I quit!”
“Brian’s inside,” one of the guys said.
Another said, “Tommy”—but looked at me as he spoke—“you’ve been holding out on us.”
I smiled. “I’m just in town for the night.”
“A lot can happen in a night,” Tommy said. “Join us for a drink.”
“You go ahead. I think I might walk a bit more.” Everyone protested, as if I were their best friend, shipping to sea the next day. “Tonight’s been great, really. But I’m spent.”
“Okay,” Tommy said. “I’ll allow it. But you had fun, yes?”
“I don’t know if this is sad to admit, but this is the best night I’ve had in a very long time.”
I wandered in no direction, letting myself get lost. It was warm out and humid. I liked it. The air clung to me, like it, too, was trying to convince me to stay. After an hour or so, exhaustion set in. It had been a very long day. I flagged a cab and gave the driver the address.
“My granddaughter graduated from there last year.”
“You must be proud.”
“She’s got a lot of opinions, and is not afraid to express them. But she’s got the brains to back it up. You’re visiting?”
“I am.”
“Did New Orleans treat you right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good, good. That’s what we like to hear.” He had the radio on low and the deejay announced the next track. “Ah, mind if I turn it up?”
“Please. Play me out.”
He raised the volume and sang along as he drove. He had a sweet voice, low rich timbres. I watched the city roll by, logging each street, each corner, each person we passed. I wanted to remember it all.
The next morning, Saturday, I reversed my trip, flying to Dallas to connect for Cleveland.
I thought to work but decided I had earned some time off.
I got a coffee and beignet at the airport and then, passing a newsstand, spotted a paperback propped on display.
A gothic murder set in the South. It had been a huge deal when it came out.
They’d made a movie and everything. Claire had said something about it the night before.
“You haven’t read it?” she asked. “But it’s about psychopathic gays, exactly your thing.
” I bought it. I read on the first flight, stared out the window.
The second flight was delayed for hours, some kind of mechanical issue, and it was late afternoon by the time we left.
When we finally boarded, I fell almost immediately into a deep sleep, before we even took off.
I dreamt I was at my high school, but then in the dream I realized, it was not my high school at all.
It was Cassie’s. The halls were empty. I had the sense that the school was on break.
I couldn’t tell if it was winter or summer.
The ceiling lights reflected against the glossy linoleum tiles as I walked up and down each hallway, as if I were surveying the building.
I had something to do, but couldn’t grasp what.
I stopped at a wide set of double doors.
Somehow I knew it was the cafeteria. I pushed the doors open.
I stood outside in the bright afternoon light.
Rows of tables on a kind of patio, thick green vines hanging from above.
I heard a sound—not my name, but some other word that had to do with me.
I turned to look. There at a table, smiling: Safie.
I woke from the dream and knew exactly what it meant.
I couldn’t leave things a mess with Safie any longer.
I pulled out my phone. There was no service of course, but I wanted to draft a message right then, the glowy feeling of the dream still strong.
I pulled up our text thread. The last message, sent from her, in December.
The night of the Walton Walk, telling me to meet at her office.
Safie, I’ve missed you so much. I’m ashamed of my behavior.
The night we broke up, Stephen called me a coward and he was right.
I understand if you don’t want to speak with me, but if you’re open to it, I would love to see you.
Please know the only thing as deep as my regret is my affection for you.
I slid the phone back into my bag and resolved, when I got home, I would send it.
I drove from the Cleveland airport back to Sawyer.
It was a gray and dismal evening after the vibrance of New Orleans and I wondered how that place and this place could exist in the same reality.
It felt like all of northeast Ohio had been wrapped in a shroud, blotting out color and life.
A rainstorm broke out, battering the windshield with a hard torrent.
I turned up the wipers. Visibility was shot. Traffic slowed and we crept along.
The storm did not ease up. The potholed parking lot behind my apartment was full of soupy brown puddles.
I dashed out, fat drops of rain pelting me.
I was drenched by the time I made it around the corner and into the building’s foyer.
I stood dripping onto the floor and couldn’t help but laugh.
What a welcome home. Fucking Ohio. I climbed the stairs, rewriting the text to Safie in my head.
I wanted to make sure I got it right. I reached my apartment and dug around for my keys and noticed—in front of my door, a small puddle.
I searched the ceiling—there had been a leak the year before.
But there was nothing. It must be the rainwater dripping off me.
I grabbed the doorknob—it shifted under my hand and the door edged open. Had I forgotten to lock it when I left? I waited a moment and listened. Nothing, just silence. “Hello?” No reply. I eased in and turned on the lights.
There on the couch, folded over and unmoving, soaked through.
“Tyler?”
He turned his head but said nothing. His eyes were swollen and though his face was wet with rain I could see he’d been crying.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He seemed smaller than I remembered, drawn in on himself. I took a breath and imagined myself cemented in place. The space between us was the one thing I could control: I can maintain this distance; I can keep myself from crossing this threshold.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I had to leave. I didn’t know what to do.” His face crumpled and he started to cry. “I’m sorry.”
I pressed my heels to the floor.
“You can’t just show up like this.”
“I know, I know.” The words stuttered, caught in his throat.
He looked small, tender, broken. His body shook, all of it at once.
I had fantasized about this moment so many times, his return to me.
In these many weeks of silence, all I wanted was to know he missed me more than he could bear. And now here he was.
“Get out.”
He recoiled, like I’d raised a fist.
“What?”
“Leave, Tyler. Go away. Leave me alone.”
“Please. It’s Addison.”
“Addison?” Rage swelled in me. “Your shit with Addison isn’t my problem anymore. I’m done with this. I’m done with Sawyer—”
“Please.”
“You’re not going to fuck this up for me, Tyler. Get out.”
“Mark, please.” He was trembling, face frantic, searching the room like someone else might be there, someone who would help.
“Tyler—”
He cried out—“Addison’s dead.”
“You—wait, what?”
I dropped my bag and went to him. He buried his face, sobbing.
He was sopping wet; he must be freezing.
I thought back to the last time I’d seen Addison.
We’d run into each once after Columbus. I was headed to a parking lot and saw him, walking alone.
I froze in place. I’m not sure what I was afraid of, what I thought he might do.
He stopped; across the distance, he raised a hand and nodded.
A salute, a reprieve. What could have happened to him?
I ran my fingers through the back of Tyler’s hair, soft under the wet layers.
His breathing slowed. He raised his face, eyes ringed in red, irises twisting green and yellow coils beneath the scrim of tears.
He looked rubbed raw, like his skin would be sore to the touch.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I’m not sure—I … We were in our room, hanging out. Things were okay. They were great … And then we got in this fight. It was stupid, I don’t even understand how it started.”
He trailed off and a dull pressure expanded from my gut and up.
“What?”
“I didn’t mean for anything to happen. It just … I was so upset.”
He burst into tears, a horrible rending sound. My heart slammed against my chest.
“Tyler, what are you talking about?”
“I killed him, Mark. He’s dead. Please, can you help me? I killed Addison.”