Chapter 8 Reason One
The flashing orange gas light on the car’s dashboard had been taunting me for thirty miles. I put off refueling for half an hour, but as the mileage indicator dropped from a ten to a nine, I knew it was a wrap.
The drive from Atlanta took thirteen hours, and in that time, I only had to stop for gas once.
Luckily, I found a full-service station in Mississippi where a surly man in oil-stained sweatpants topped me off.
When he asked me if there were any other tanks needing filled, I scowled at him and sped away.
Two miles later, I realized I forgot to pay.
Stupidly, I turned around. Had I known those two miles would have been the difference between making it home or risking an impromptu panic attack, I would have simply mailed the man a check.
Six hours later, I pulled into Bernice’s Quick Stop on the outskirts of West Clark.
I put the car in park and took a deep breath, holding it in as I stepped out and jogged across the empty lot.
As I walked into the store, a bell above the door chimed, and the door hadn’t even completely shut when a woman’s voice called out to me.
“Well, Kent Fox, as I live and breathe.” Bernice Holden sat on a wooden stool behind the counter. She waved me over, her arms flailing in the air like she was slayed in the spirit. “Sugar, come on over here. Let me get my hands on you.”
My entire body tensed as memories of evangelicals rubbing anointing oil on my forehead while shouting ridiculous, made-up words of praise swirled inside my head. My expression must have given me away, because she held her hands to her chest in mock surrender.
“Honey, no.” She shook her head, and her mountain of fried red hair somehow remained structurally sound.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I'm not trying to pray anything through, I promise.” She rose from her stool and hobbled over to me, carrying a bedazzled, hot-pink cane.
The rubber was so worn at the end, metal poked through, clicking and clacking against the floor each time it touched down.
The denim skirt she wore hung well past her ankles, and I worried if she wasn't careful she might trip on the hem and crack her skull against the gummy floor tiles.
When she reached me, she pulled me in for a hug, but the scent of gasoline clung to her like cheap perfume, leaving me dizzied.
“Your momma told us all about you coming home. It’s so good to see you. Says you’ll be looking for work now that you’re home. I told her I didn’t have a spot for you here at the moment, but with your history, I’m sure you’ll find something quick.”
“Mrs. Holden, I’m not—”
She rolled her eyes. “Goodness gracious, baby. You’re a grown man. No more of this Mrs. Holden foolishness. Just call me Bernice.”
“Well, Mrs. Hol—Bernice, I don’t plan on staying long. I’m just visiting.”
“Oh. Catalina said you were coming home to stay. In any case, it sure is good to get a chance to see you. You’ve grown into such a handsome young man, haven’t you?
Slimmed up real nice. Finally grew into that nose of yours.
Have you run into anyone else yet? I know Kate will be glad to see you.
The Denim Debs as well. Grayson lives in Cobb now, but I’m sure you’ll—”
I didn’t hear a word she said after that. Not after she mentioned him.
The scent of gas and matches was overwhelming.
“Sweetie, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” She frowned.
“Not that I believe in ghosts. Nasty little demons that need to be driven out, all of them. Is that what’s got you so frazzled?
Have you got yourself a demon?” She turned toward the counter, searching.
“I don’t think I have a prayer cloth with me, and I’m all out of anointing oil.
” She lifted her index finger to her face and tapped the side of her cheek.
“I think we’ve got a bottle of Merlot in the stockroom.
I don’t know if it’s strong enough to drive out a demon, but if it was good enough for Jesus, it has to be good enough for you. ”
“A demon?” If I still had control of my facial muscles, I might have scoffed. I watched my father perform enough exorcisms to know I would be taking no part in one, particularly at the hands of a wine-wielding maniac who was dressed from head to toe in all denim.
“I still can’t believe you’re home. I was talking to Sister Collins the other day. She said Grayson was—”
Gray Collins. Stop talking about him.
I had to get out of there. Fishing a twenty out of my pocket, I flung it at her and made my way to the door. “Sorry, I just—Mom’s going to be worried if I don’t get home soon.”
The closer I got to the pumps, the heavier the pressure in my chest pressed down. Standing in the center of the empty parking lot, I tried to breathe, but it was like sucking air through a straw.
Dammit, Grayson.
I scolded myself for renting a car. I could have just taken the bus—I should have just taken the bus.
For God’s sake, I hadn’t even pumped gas on my own in almost a decade.
What the hell made me think a seven-hundred-mile trip was a good idea?
A year ago, this wouldn’t have even been an issue.
I drove a Tesla for almost a decade just to avoid situations like this, pre-Elon-downfall era, obviously.
I unlocked my phone and scrolled through my short list of contacts. Once I found my mother’s smiling face, I clicked the call button, praying to a God I didn’t believe in she would answer. It rang twice, and then the sound of running water and clanking dishes came through the speaker.
“Kent—”
“Mom. Sorry, I’m running late. I had to stop for gas.” I stared down at my feet, feeling like a toddler. A grown-ass man who couldn’t even smell gas without needing to be coddled.
The background noise died down and my mother assumed the role of therapist, just as she had every day for the last seven months.
“It’s going to be fine, baby. Won’t last long. Just keep saying it, okay? It won't last long.”
“Won’t last long,” I repeated, unscrewing the gas cap. Another whiff hit me, and I reached for my shirt, bringing it over my face to cover my nose and mouth. I hit the grade selection and shoved the nozzle into the car. “Just keep talking, It helps.”
“I’m here. Now, focus on your breathing.
In, two-three-four.” She paused. “Out, two-three-four. Good, sweetie. You’re doing good.
Keep going.” She went silent, making sure I was following her instructions.
“I got your room fixed up real nice. I put up some of your old posters. There was one with that girl band you liked so much. I washed all your old covers and sheets. I even threw in some wax melts I thought you might like. You’re going to love it.
” The bell chimed behind me, and Bernice teetered toward the pump.
Once she was at my side, she squeezed my shoulder with one hand, brushing my hand away from the nozzle with the other.
“Why don’t you just get in the car, sugar?
I’ll finish up here.” Feathering her fingers through the disheveled mound of dark curls on my head, she grinned.
Her front tooth was missing, and when she spoke, a whistle accented the edges of her words.
“It sure was good to see you. And don’t you worry about that demon.
We’ll send that son of a gun back to the fiery flames of Hell where he belongs.
” Bernice delivered an uppercut to the air before pressing her palm against the center of my forehead.
She didn’t comment on the makeshift facemask I’d jury-rigged with my shirt, but she did unleash a string of words in God’s language to put me at ease.
It didn’t.
It never did.
There were quite a few things I didn’t miss about the city that brought me up. Grayson Collins sat at the very top, but evangelicals speaking in tongues at the drop of a hat were a close second. I gave Bernice a nod and turned around, hurling myself into the front seat and slamming the door.
My mother must have sent her a text when she heard me spiraling.
Another way for her to take care of me, like the care packages she’d been sending since I lost my job.
Treats and trinkets meant to lift my spirit.
All they lifted were the levels of shame I hoarded following the ill-fated Grindr chat with a man calling himself Mr. Fister.
The name … well, let’s be honest, the name was less than ideal, but it wasn't his revolting choice of kink that drew me in. It was his face. Dark hair parted at the side. Brown eyes with unnecessarily long lashes. A light dusting of freckles spread out like poorly planned constellations. He looked just like Gray. At first, I thought it had been him. I didn’t know why the hell Gray Collins would be in Atlanta, but it didn’t stop me from sending the man a message. I even called him Two-liter.
“Did you tell her? Does she know about the lake? About me and Gray?”
“Not about Gray,” Mom said, her voice barely even a whisper.
If she hadn’t told Bernice about us, she must have at least told her about the lake.
The sympathy in her eyes when she took the nozzle out of my hand had been undeniable.
If Bernice knew about what Gray’s brother did to me, it meant The Denim Debutantes knew as well, and if they knew …
Shit.
They say when you die, you see flashes of your life play out in front of you like a movie.
This had been a death of sorts. The death of my dignity.
The death of my career. Of my independence.
As I traveled through West Clark, memories of Gray flashed endlessly.
Gray and I standing outside Bronson’s Bakery, sharing a bag of white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies, minus the nuts.
Us standing outside of the movie theater, waiting to see a scary movie.
At the park, Gray giving me a Spice Girls album while I stared at him like he was Jesus.