We are quiet as we make our way back to London. I fall into some sort of stupor. Tom packs up our things, though there’s not much. He forces me to eat a scone of some sort, which he shoves in a napkin from the tray that Mr. Williams drops off at our room in the morning. Tom is calm and quiet the whole time, which I appreciate. My mind is spinning, and I feel as if I’m not even really there.
How can he be dead? How? When did I last speak to him? What was our last conversation? I can only remember telling him I didn’t know when I’d next be in New York. And yet, I’d been in DC…only a 3 hour drive away and I had decided not to go. All my memories of him seem to be covered in a fog, slipping away so quickly. I feel my stomach churn, as Tom hurtles us down the road in the little tin can. He’s driving so fast, as if he thinks he can change the past if he makes it back to London in time.
“Tom, pull over. Please.” I say softly, my hands gripping the car door, my mouth watering unhappily. Tom pulls over, and I make it out just in time to lose my breakfast on the side of the dirt road. He parks and turns off the car, and a few moments later, he’s at my side with a bottle of water.
“Take deep breaths.” He says softly, and I nod, hunched over and squatting by the side of the road. His hand comes down on my back. I don’t look up, but I take the water and rinse out my mouth. I can feel tears threatening to fall, but my whole body is tense, and they don’t come.
“I didn’t…I didn’t…” I can barely speak.
“Ok, Gracie. It’s okay. Breathe or you’re going to hyperventilate.” He says gently. Tom leans down and pulls me toward him, into his side and I let him. I lean against him, and tuck my head into his neck and shoulder. I can’t relax though. I stare straight ahead, my eyes burning and unseeing.
“I’m sorry, Gracie girl.” He whispers. I nod but I don’t respond.
After a minute, I pull away and we get back in the car. I don’t have anything to say. I have more regrets about my father than I do happy memories. I can’t remember the last time I saw him. And now, the thought of going back to New York and seeing my family, it fills me with a sick sense of dread.
The seven hours home seem to fly by, which is surprising. I’m not quite there during the car ride, and Tom stays quiet, though I can feel his eyes on me.
I make a few phone calls. The first being to Santos. He’s stunned into silence, and though our conversation is quick, he nearly brings me to tears. Of course he would. He tells me he will get plane tickets in order, and not to worry. And that he’ll see me in New York. I thank him, and while I’m speaking I can’t help but think that my voice sounds strange. Our conversation is all of five minutes long, but I feel a slight sense of calm after I’m done talking to him. He’s the closest I have to family. Next comes Mary, who is apologetic and sympathetic, and tells me not to even mention work. Our conversation is even shorter.
And then…that’s it. There’s no one else for me to call. I have no other family. No other friends that I feel need to know about this loss. I feel an emptiness spread in my chest. A widening hole that is only enhanced by the fact that I’ve lost one of the last bonds to any real family.
****
New York is as I left it. Autumn has nearly shifted to winter, and there’s a cold, bone chattering wind that sweeps through when I get out of the cab in front of the hotel. The flight had been a good one. Santos, bless him, had booked me first class, and I had managed to get some sleep for the first time in 24 hours.
After finally getting into London late on Sunday, Tom had taken me to my apartment. He didn’t stay for long, but only because I had forced him to leave.
“I’m coming with you.” He said, widening his stance, ready for a fight. I squinted at him, my head buzzing.
“No.” I turned and walked toward my bedroom, which was really just the other side of the small apartment.
“Gracie. Let me come with you.” He followed me over as I began shoving things into a suitcase. I dumped out my small bag from the Alwinton trip and simply put most of it’s contents—toiletries and a sweater, into my open suitcase. Living out of bags.
“No, no. I don’t…it’s not a good idea.” I shook my head, distracted. It wasn’t. I didn’t want him there. God, I could only imagine him mixing with my family. My horrid Aunt and Uncle. I didn’t even know who else would show up. Some of my father’s delinquent friends? My mother? I didn’t even know how to get a hold of my mother. I wasn’t sure she even knew he’d died, or if she’d care. My stomach flipped as I continued putting clothes in my suitcase.
“You need someone—“
“Santos is meeting me at the airport.” I looked up at him, and was met with worried blue eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, and I could see he was really concerned.
“Santos is meeting me. I’ll be fine.” I said sternly, and then I promptly started pushing him out the door. Having him there would be too much. It would mean too much. As much as I’d like to lean on him, to lie to myself and pretend that he was mine to lean on, I knew it was a bad idea.
So I made him leave. I didn’t say much, but a door in the face is pretty self explanatory.
I’m in love with him. I’m not over him. And I don’t want him there to see me at my absolute worst. We were a one night stand. And I’ve got to close that door. So I did, literally.
****
The funeral is Friday morning. Santos and I spend the next few days holed up in a 37th floor New York hotel room, drinking wine and ordering room service. We don’t open the curtains. We don’t leave the room. He’s not in mourning, but he’s doing it for me. I’m not sure I’m in mourning either, to be honest. At least not in the normal sense. I’m confused, and angry, and somewhere in that boiling mess, I’m also sad. Deeply, deeply sad. Being with Santos for a few days helps, and though I don’t cry and we don’t talk about it much, I know I will find a way to handle it.
“Gracie, you know I love you, right? You ice queen, you.” Santos says to me, the night before the funeral. The room is dark, but we are watching reruns of bad reality tv. He grabs my hand. We’re sharing a bed, even though the room has two big beds.
“I love you too.” I whisper.
“You can’t change the relationship you had with your father. But don’t beat yourself up over it. None of it was your fault, you know.” He blinks at me in the dark, and I nod, feeling hot tears run down the sides of my face.
“I know.”
“I’m sort of grateful he was a shitty dad, anyway.” Santos says with such a flippant nature that it makes me laugh.
“Why?” I grin, waiting.
“Because it’s what made us become friends. Shitty dads, man. Bringing gay men and lonely ladies together since…well…the beginning of time, I suppose.” He laughs, his voice echoing through the room. I giggle as well, and reach over, patting him gently on the cheek.
“Thank you for always being my family.” Santos says softly, his voice full of surprising emotion. I grab him into a hug. We hug for a moment, and then he begins to fake sob, wailing loudly enough that I’m sure the hotel is going to get a complaint. We break into laughter, rolling around on the bed and hitting each other as I feel something inside of me let loose.
****
Things start off bad from the start, Friday morning. We get to the church on time, and there’s a small reception being held ahead of time for just family. It’s in a small room off the main chapel, and I see my aunt right away. She looks the same. Rail thin, older than her actual years, dark hair and crepe skin. Her husband, my uncle Danny is there as well. He’s gained weight, his dark stubble scraggly and unkempt on his face. Their two kids run the room, despite being too old for that sort of behavior.
We don’t talk much. I feel the weight in the room. There’s a few other people there, but I don’t recognize them. Aunt Tara introduces me, though begrudgingly, and I find they are distant cousins or friends of my father. My father. My father. I haven’t seen him yet, I know I won’t. He requested to be cremated.
Santos stays by my side the whole, the strong and silent type for once. He only cracks one or two jokes, and they are perfectly timed to pull me back from the dark side whenever he can see I’m getting too close. He’s always been such a good friend to me, and I’m so grateful he’s there.
“We’ll have a bit of a lunch reception at our house after the funeral, if you’d like to come.” Aunt Tara says, though she doesn’t look enthusiastic. I nod. I don’t think I’m truly invited, but I’m still surprised she mentioned it.
“Thanks.”
“Your father really wished you could have come to see him more often.” She says, her small eyes boring into mine. I feel my stomach clench and I bite my lip, tasting blood.
“I’m sorry I didn’t.” I manage.
“Well, what’s done is done.” She nods and then turns, walking away. Santos grips my elbow, and makes a grunting noise.
“Maybe your father should have been a dad for one, instead of making you be the adult all the time.” He whispers, his voice angry. I roll my shoulders, trying to break the tension in my back.
“Don’t worry about her, Santos. She’s always like that.” I manage, though her words sting extra this time. Santos grunts again. We wait a few more minutes, before heading into the church.
The service is short. The church is hardly full. There’s maybe two dozen people there. I don’t recognize most of them, but halfway through, I do recognize one. She comes in late, and thankfully doesn’t make much noise. I don’t even know it’s her at first when she sits down a few pews ahead of me, but I feel Santos stiffen. And then she turns around and it’s like being smacked in the face. My mother.
She looks so much different than I can remember. I had a vision of her in my head—a version of her really. A compilation of memories and pictures, sewn together. I haven’t seen her since early high school. She looks…she looks terrible. Drugs, and years of partying will do that. Her hair is the same color as mine—a dark strawberry blond. She’s short and petite like me, but somewhat overweight. Her face is deeply lined, her eyes slightly sunken in under dark circles.
“Oh god.” Santos whispers, unable to help it. I feel my eyes burn and I look at him.
“We’re not going to that reception after. I can’t do this. We are leaving as soon as we can.” I turn my head, whispering softly into his shoulder. My mother turns around again, and this time she looks directly at me. I freeze, holding my breath. I can hear the preacher droning on in the background, but I’m locked in her gaze.
“Ok. No reception. Lots of alcohol.” Santos agrees.
The funeral ends with prayer and a song. I can feel my mother watching me as much as she can, and when we stand to leave, I can tell she wants to speak to me. I don’t know where she has been or what she has been doing for the last ten or so years of my life, but I have no desire to find out. I may have just lost my father today, but I let go of her a long time ago.
“Let’s go. Let’s go.” I murmur hurriedly to Santos, pushing him softly toward the doors. I hide slightly behind him, using him like a battering ram so we can leave as fast as possible. It seems to work until suddenly, he stops dead.
“Santos!” I say in a loud whisper. I stand up straight, peak around his shoulder to see what is holding us up.
It’s not a what. It’s a who.
“Tom!” Santos exclaims, and my blood runs cold. It is Tom. He’s standing about two feet in front of us, hands in his pockets, wearing a dark blue suit. I feel about a thousand emotions run through me, before everything starts to happen so quickly.
I hear shouting over my shoulder, behind me. Shouting. In a church. That’s never good. It’s followed by a loud rush of exclamations, and more shouting. I turn quickly, just in time to see my mother and my Aunt, fighting. It’s not just a verbal fight either, it’s turned into something physical. Hair flying, punches being thrown. In a church. During a funeral. It would be funny if it weren’t my life. It would be funny if it weren’t sad and embarrassing and heartbreaking.
My father’s sister and my mother never got along. Apparently not even a death can change that.
“Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph Gordon Levitt.” Santos says breathlessly, as the two women keep fighting. A few men step in, trying to pry them off, but they are wily and screaming mad. My uncle stands to the side, watching them, not bothering to try and help. I want to hit him, myself.
“You whore! You killed him, you know! With all the shit you did! You fucking bitch!” My aunt screams, her voice ringing through the high ceilings.
“I did not! You’re the one who wouldn’t leave us the fuck alone! To live our lives, you meddling cunt!” My mother screeches, and at that point I know I’m going to be sick if I don’t leave. I move quickly, turning away from the sight of them, on the ground and clawing at each other. I nearly run into Tom, who I’ve almost forgotten was there. Almost. The humiliation, the realization that he is seeing all of this, hits me in the gut and I rush past him, wishing that this was all a huge, terrible nightmare.
I run outside, the cool air hitting my hot face as I move as quick as I can down the stairs. I hate all this. I hate it so much. I hate that I can’t control it or how I feel. I hate that my father is gone, and things were never good. That I will never get to say goodbye. Or tell him how mad I am at him, and disappointed and hurt. And I hate that none of that even matters anymore. How I feel, or what happened. Because he’s gone, and with his life goes everything else that happened on that timeline.
I make it down the stairs, somehow without falling, though I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t have a car here, since we took a cab, so I just keep walking. Away from the terrible vision of my mother’s aged, drawn face. And my Aunt’s horrible, screeching yell. I cross the street in front of the church, toward what looks like a park, feeling drawn to the green grass and the orange and red tinged trees.
I’m nearly under the safety of the trees, when I hear him call my name.
“Gracie.” Tom’s voice, so out of place in this world. He should have stayed where he belonged. With beaches and palm trees, and stolen nights. Where family, and shitty parents, and bad relationships don’t exist. Where all you need was a smile and a cold drink, and all your problems could melt away. Not here. He didn’t belong here. He belonged with his perfect family, and his parade of girlfriends, and his complete and utter lack of awareness of me.
“Please, go away.” I moan and I feel anger burst through me. I spin around, and I nearly come nose to chest with him. I shove him away, hard, and it catches him off balance so that he stumbles back.
“Please, Gracie.” He says softly. I look at him, his hands up slightly in surrender.
“What are you doing here?!” I sob. He looks up, his blue eyes full. I clutch my hands at my sides, my whole body tense.
“I wanted to be here for you—“ He starts, but I cut him off. My rage is blinding, angry and bursting at the seams. It’s not just angry at him, but a lot of it is for him, and so I let him have it.
“You want to be here for me? You want to help me?! Then leave me the fuck alone, Tom! For god’s sake…please, let me be! I can’t do this. It hurts to look at you, to be near you. I don’t want you…to see this! To see any of this—my family, my life. I spent the last three years convincing myself I didn’t love you, and I just….I have nothing else to give to you. You’ve taken it all. So please, leave me! I’m fine alone!” I am crying, and my arms are so tightly at my sides, my knees locked, that I sway slightly.
“Gracie, you don’t have any reason to forgive me. But I can’t leave you like this. I can’t.” His voice breaks, and I fight the urge to slap him. How dare he? He wasn’t allowed to be upset. Not now.
“Leave, Tom. Everyone leaves. My parents. Richard. You. All you did was leave. I never even had you and you left.” I say with such venom, such anger in my voice, that it even scares me. Tom’s eyes seem to come to life, and I know I’ve angered him now.
“Gracie, you never asked me to stay!” He shouts this, and his voice rings through the trees.
We are both quiet for a moment stunned by each other.
“Not everyone leaves. I’m prepared to stay.” His voice is steadier, quiet and carefully guarded. He speaks through a clenched jaw, and I can see how much he is hurting.
“I love you, Gracie. How long have I been in love with you? I don’t know. A week? A month? Three years? But it doesn’t matter, really. Because I’m here now. I know I don’t deserve it, but if you’ll forgive me, if you’ll let me stay, then I won’t ever leave again. But tell me to go now, and I’ll listen. I’ll go back to being Will, and you can be Jamie, and I’ll just be some guy you knew for a night. Pineapple.” He shrugs, and then wipes at his eyes.
I crumble forward, and he is there to catch me. I am suddenly crying so hard that I can barely stand and I can’t seem to catch my breath. He holds me like I might break, and then he holds me so fiercely that I don’t know where I end and he starts. We stand, embracing for some time.
“I forgive you. I’m sorry. Please, stay. Please stay.” I murmur breathlessly. I hold him closer, crushed against him, and nothing else seems to matter. We stay that way for some time, until my heart starts to settle, my breath comes back.
I don’t know how much time has passed before we are interrupted, by a soft, slow clapping noise behind us. We let go, turning toward the noise, Tom’s hand wrapped tight around mine.
“Slow clap for you two, idiots. You terribly messed up people. Slow clap because you’ve finally pulled your head out of your bums.” Santos raises his hands up and claps. Slowly and then fast, before yelling loudly, happily. We all laugh and Tom grabs me, pulling me into another hug, kissing me fully, hard and passionate.
I can’t let him go, and I finally, for the first time feel as if I don’t need to.