29. Dylan
29
DYLAN
“ I think I want to go see Jim Morrison’s grave,” I said as we sat around having breakfast. I loved the Doors, and there was something beautiful about seeing people’s final resting places. In LA, there’s a cemetery with a ton of celebrity graves, and sometimes I went there just to observe. Something about it was calming, in a way.
Shane took a drink of his coffee and hummed. “Might be fun.”
He probably meant maybe for me, but not for him. I knew he and Alex said something about going to the Eiffel Tower, which I didn’t want to intrude on or taint the experience I had with Brad yesterday.
Everything still felt lighter than air. It felt like Brad having feelings for me wasn’t even real, but it was — the hand on my knee under the table reminded me. I’d never felt such a sensation of lightness.
“You coming?” I asked Brad, knowing that most likely everyone else had their own thing they were busy doing. Even if Shane had spun it as a trip for all of us as friends, we sure didn’t seem to do a lot of things altogether.
“Ah…no, I don’t think so, not today,” Brad said, flashing his usual smile.
I frowned a little, curious. Of all people, Brad wasn’t coming either? Not like him. “Oh? What are you gonna do?” I didn’t mind going off alone if needed. It was just that it hadn’t happened yet. Brad and I were the extras on this trip, thrown together because no one could reasonably exclude us.
“Ah, this trip is pretty…indulgent, let’s just say,” he laughed, “I think I need to workout.”
“Oh, is this interfering with your training program?” Charlie asked with a frown, his face so genuine.
“Something like that,” Brad agreed, taking another bite of apple.
“Ah, dude, come on, it’s vacation,” Jason said with a distinct groan in his voice, like he hated being reminded.
Brad shrugged. “Sorry, man. Maybe for you it’s no big deal, but I have to make sure I don’t fumble, y’know?”
Was that some kind of football joke? Hell, I didn’t know. Something felt a little strange about it, but I was trying to keep my panicked thoughts at bay. Now wasn’t the time to get anxious. We were happy, life was good. What more could I ask for?
“Cool, no worries. I can go see the Lizard King myself,” I shrugged. Not that anyone was paying much attention to what I was doing, anyway.
Under the table, Brad’s hand moved from my knee and brushed across mine, squeezing as though reassuring me. I kept my face neutral, but squeezed back. I wasn’t upset, not really — I understood Brad had goals he wanted to accomplish, and he had his sights set on things bigger than SVU. Part of me wondered for a moment what life would be like once Brad got drafted. It was a when question more than an if question, at least to those of us who knew how good he was and how much he worked for this shit.
Okay, so maybe I didn’t know the ins and outs of the game to have anything to compare his playing to, but everyone said so. Even if I didn’t know what he was doing, when I watched his jersey out there on the field, I could feel that he was great.
He wanted to be with me, and that was more than enough.
The grave was full of graffiti and different gifts when I arrived. I stood at the fence — blocked off from all the damage it had taken over the years — and watched for a moment, taking in the array of flowers and things people still left on the recessed grave. All these words in different languages professing their love or signing their own names, all so they could have a little piece. Half-burned candles, wilted bouquets, bottles of alcohol, hand written letters. Something about it was empty and sad, but another part was so beautiful.
Had Frankie ever come? Would he have cared? Did he ever leave the US?
Maybe it didn’t matter. Not really. I had someone who cared about me, someone who talked to me and not through me. Someone who wouldn’t leave me despite my fears and worries, despite everything he knew about me.
Frankie walked out on us, walked out on my dad and me both without so much as a note. So he didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want us to understand.
I never would. There was nothing to understand, ultimately. He was gone and my dad was left hopeless, a shell of a man where a great dad had once stood. I wouldn’t turn into that. I wouldn’t allow myself to.
If Frankie was ever here or if I’d ever run into him again was irrelevant now. It had been years since I saw him, and he had no desire to get back into contact with us, so I needed to let it go.
Somehow, as I sat there, looking at the grave of Jim Morrison, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. Maybe it was the reminder that things could always be so much bigger. Maybe it was remembering things were good right now. Maybe it was just that I was tired of having to deal with all the thoughts weighing on my heart.
Tears spilled down over my cheeks almost before I realized they accumulated, but it wasn’t a sense of despair or loss that I felt as I sat there. It was just that same sensation of pure and utter calm. Like things had finally begun to make sense.