by Lowe, T. I.
“Honey, are you okay?”
He takes off his hat and rubs his head in misery, but says nothing.
“Greyson?” I ask as I scoot to the edge of the bed to give him a better inspection. A fine sheen of perspiration glistens from his face and he looks downright miserable.
Before I can decide what to do, he bolts out of the chair and rushes to the bathroom. Instant sounds of him retching up all of that food fill the RV, and I actually feel pain for him.
I go over and knock on the door when he quiets down. “Greyson, honey, are you okay?” He only grunts for a response and it worries me. I stand by the door for what feels like forever, listening to him breathing laboriously, and then the sink water finally turns on and his electric toothbrush comes to life.
After the hum of his toothbrush silences, Greyson staggers out the door and almost plows right into me. I put my arm around him to help him steady. “You okay?” I whisper.
He nods his head and walks like a zombie to his bed. I help him lie down and then go grab him a bottle of water. Without thinking, I open the cabinet where he stores his vitamins and plunder for some antacids. There are prescription bottles I have no idea what are used for and it makes me uneasy. Has he begun to dabble in pills? They are just as bad as any street drug addiction. This is one thing I’ve learned. Addiction comes in all sorts of forms. I scan the bottles until I stumble across one for nausea. It’s Phenergan and the only label I recognize. I bring it along with the bottle of water, but he is already out. I set the water beside him and sit on the edge of the bed. I know he overindulged, but he seems so feeble too.
As I watch him sleep, questions swirl around my mind—is he coming off some drug, did he take up an eating disorder, is he sick? All I know is he doesn’t look good. I’ve just about talked myself into snatching his phone and calling his mom, but I think better of it. I wouldn’t want Greyson to call mine, so I leave him be for now.
Chapter Six
Greyson
This trip sucks. It really sucks! And it’s time to change that. We’ve been milling around the campground in Maine for over a week with me trying to get my act together and also constantly talking myself out of not shipping Julia away. She bickers that all I do is sleep and I ride her right back about her endless exercising and nonexistent eating. We need an adventure, whether I feel up to it or not.
So today it starts. I’m stoked with the anticipation of it, yet I’m also worried that neither one of us will be up for it. Nonetheless, I’ve already called and booked the boat charter. When I broke the news to Julia yesterday, she seemed sort of bummed that we will start this adventure catching fresh lobster. Seriously. You can’t go to Maine and not try this, so I told her to suck it up.
“How do you plan on getting us there?” she asked. Like I would plan this whole trip out and not have such details buttoned down. She knows me better than that.
“I have mopeds,” I tried to explain. Then she went to whining.
“I’m not riding around on some silly scooter. Rent a car or call a cab,” she demanded. I was itching to call her a cab to send her packing all the way back to New York, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. She had been well over a week with no alcohol and I know that’s not easy for her, so I tried to give her some slack.
I had scoffed at her lack of faith in me, but I forgot she had no idea how many hours I had clocked in with planning this trip out. I ushered her outside and with a handheld key fob I had remoted the large custom back compartment of the motorhome open to reveal two customized street mopeds.
“No way!” She gawked at them in what I think approval.
We both eyed the two sleek pieces of machinery sitting in wait. “Yep. Lucky for you, I ordered an extra one for backup. Mom made me promise not to get a motorcycle. She didn’t say anything against mopeds.” I smiled at being able to get something by my mom. Although I’m a grown man, I still respect my momma. God blessed me with a good one and I never want to let her down.
“Mrs. Barbara would have your hide if she knew this was what she agreed to, sir. They look mean,” Julia said approvingly. And I definitely agreed with her.
Those babies cost me a pretty penny to customize. They are top of the line Honda Silver Wings. Silver, black and sleek. I had lift kits added to accommodate my height. Julia’s just lucky she’s tall, too.
“I barely know how to drive a car, much less a slightly tamed motorcycle, Stone.” She looked pretty nervous, standing there worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
So I hauled them out and we set out driving test laps around the campground to familiarize her with the bike. She laid hers down twice, but picked it back up and tried again like a champ. It gave me hope that maybe Julia would eventually get on board with this adventure.
I’m even more hopeful this morning when I emerge from the bedroom and find my girl sitting with a cup of coffee and a protein shake. She is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with all of that hair tied back in a ponytail. Her bag and running shoes are waiting by the door. To avoid the smile I can barely contain, I duck into the bathroom to take care of morning business—smiling through it all.
My bowl of oatmeal, with a handful of dried fruit and nuts, is next on my morning to-do list. While I prepare this, Julia actually makes me a cup of coffee. I can’t help but smile some more. This is a woman that serves no one. Everyone else has always served her. “You want me to make you some oatmeal, Thorton?” I offer.
“No thanks, honey. I already had a shake.” She hands me my coffee and I shove the bowl of oatmeal in her empty hand.
“At least try it.” Julia shakes her head and tries to push it back into my hand. I set my coffee down and turn on my persuading skills. I push the spoon through the oatmeal and present it to her lips before she can back away. “Come on. I just want you to try it. Please. For me…” This cracks her up instead of wooing her. I don’t care. She’s laughing, so I take advantage of this and shove the spoon in her mouth.
“Stone,” she sputters around a mouthful of oatmeal.
I ignore her and shovel in my own bite. “You ready for the boat ride?”
After she swallows, she grumbles in true prissy Julia fashion. “If we have to.”
“Yes, we have to, so suck it up and try not to be the fun police.” I throw her saying at her and she rolls those big beautiful eyes at me.
It takes us only thirty minutes to reach the boat docks. This is another part of my plan—to have the excursions no farther than thirty minutes from the RV. I pop a nondrowsy motion sickness tab for precaution as soon as we park. Julia eyes me suspiciously. “Dramamine. You need one?” I offer.
“I’ve boated before,” she rebukes, looking at me like I’m a pansy. Again. I don’t care. All I want to do is enjoy this and I’m not sure I can handle it all at the same time.
“Suit yourself,” I say, before grabbing her hand and walking over to the tour office.
I’ve been holding Julia’s hand since we were teenagers. We’ve never kissed or anything, but it’s like we have always been tethered together. She needs me, and honestly, I’ve always needed her. I felt starved for her these past two years, but there’s absolutely no way I could have ever dragged her down that dark road I had taken. It was the worst time of my life and I’m glad she was spared. I just want to move forward.
And so that’s what we are doing. Moving forward. At the moment along the Maine coast in this incredibly cool lobster boat with four others plus the captain and the guide—all clad in yellow fishing bibs with the exception of Miss Difficult. Julia refused to wear them, saying that they were tacky. So be it. This tour includes the two hour chartered ride where we will haul lobster traps and then the fun concludes with a lobster bake right on the beach back at the boat docks.
As we ride along the choppy water, our guide comes over and stands near the rear where we are all hanging out. I think he’s close to my age of thirty-one, but living on this water has aged him before his time. My years as a model have taught
me to never start the day without sunblock. My little princess knows this too, and I watch as she is already lathering on another coat of it as we speak.
This weathered dude gives us a pretty interesting history lesson on lobster. “Lobster didn’t start out as glamorous as they are today. They were so plentiful back when the settlers took over the North American shores that these crustaceans were actually used as fishing bait and crop fertilizer. Lobsters would just wash up on shore back then and all the settlers had to do was walk along the beach and scoop them up. In the late seventeen hundreds, the introduction of Smacks came about first right here in Maine. These specially-designed boats housed large tanks to transport live lobster. Lobster traps also made their debut in Maine by the mid-nineteen hundreds. Some may be surprised to know that lobster began with the name of the poor man’s protein. The underprivileged and prisoners were fed the crustaceans.”
The crowd seems amazed at this admission with some murmurings. Except Julia. She just keeps staring off over the ocean as if she’s completely bored. I try not to worry about her fun level and focus on enjoying myself. No nausea. No headache. I feel pretty great and am starting to get antsy with wanting to haul some lobster.
The guide continues after answering a few questions that I didn’t catch. “Lobster can weigh more than forty pounds and reach up to three feet long. The largest on record was caught off Nova Scotia in nineteen eighty-eight. It weighed in at a hefty forty-four pounds and clocked in at three and a half feet long.”
Julia yawns and drums the side of the boat, but perks up at the mention of low calories. The guide explains that lobster is less in calories than an equal portion of skinless chicken breast. Maybe I can get her to enjoy our bounty later this evening.
He wraps up another round of questions as we reach the first traps. I let the others go first, hoping Julia will get in the spirit of things and want to give it a try. When I offer her the next turn, she just flutters her prim hand in the air and tells me, “You just go ahead, honey.”
I give up and haul in both our pods and am rewarded with three good-sized lobsters. Perfect, because I’m starving by the time we reach the beach.
The beach is surprisingly smooth and sandy. I had imagined a rocky shore when I planned the trip. It’s really nice. There’s a fire pit already crackling away with a low table set up right beside it. The guide turns our lobsters over to a thick chef that met us on the beach when we returned. He gets busy with the meal preparations while a waitress walks around the small group for drink orders.
“I’ll have a bottle of water, please,” I answer the little brunette when she reaches me.
“White wine,” Julia answers, but I shake my head.
“She’ll have water as well.”
“I’m a grown woman. I can order whatever I want.” She’s glaring at me, and I don’t want a scene.
I dismiss the waitress and lead Julia away from the group out of earshot. “You can’t drink. You’re driving,” I remind her.
“It’s just one glass of wine, Stone,” she snaps as she pulls her arm out of my grasp. “The food will suck it right up.”
Julia is trying to sell it, but I’m not buying. For one, I’m not so sure she will even eat and more importantly, I’ve never seen Julia stop with just one drink. “Please don’t drink tonight. I’ll worry the whole way back to the campground.”
I see the slight tremor to her hands so I grab them firmly in mine and drag her to the edge of the water to distract her. We are already barefooted and have our jeans rolled up so I don’t stop until the edges of our pants skim the water and she’s squealing from the icy rush of the water.
“Let me go, you jerk,” she demands between laughs. I think about scooping her up and going farther, but I’m still too weak. I banish the thought before I get mad about it and set out to kicking small sprays of water up her leg. This continues until we are both more wet than not and the chef is saying the feast is ready.
And boy is it ever. Julia and I curl up in beach towels as close to the cozy fire pit as is safe. We are each presented with small individual steam pots with tags to identify who’s who. Man, is it cool to catch your very own supper. It’s heavenly when I open the pot and find not one but two perfectly steamed lobsters surrounded by small new potatoes and corn on the cob. We are perched on big pillows that surround a low driftwood table. The two other sets of couples seem to not want to socialize so much. I tried on the boat ride, but eventually gave up.
The waitress walks around and gives each of us small ceramic containers of melted butter. Everyone digs in with Julia inspecting her food with apprehension. I grab her hand and whisper a prayer of thanks for the food and opportunity of this day. I raise my head and see that everyone paused in reverence. Good. These folks need to remember to give thanks. I release Julia’s hand and dig in.
“How much did my lobster weigh?” she asks while she taps away on her phone.
“A pound and a fourth,” I answer as I crack open my first lobster. I am mentally reminding myself to take it slow and enjoy the lobster first. If I have room after that, I’ll work on the sides.
“Humph. That’s only forty-five calories. You think that’s right?” she asks as she reenters the information to recalculate the calories. I look over and sure enough, the screen says only forty-five calories.
“Good news, Thorton. You can eat the whole thing,” I say encouragingly. I start in on my food and let her stew over eating or not. Right now, all I want to do is relish in this meal. I’m able to polish off both lobsters with my melted butter as well as Julia’s. She eats the meat of the tail and one claw. I consider this a success, so I don’t push her or me to finish the rest of the meal. S’mores ends the meal. I do end up eating both mine and Julia’s. I can’t say no to anything chocolate. It’s my weakness.
As we ride back to the campground, I declare the day a triumph. We both survived it without getting sick or on each other’s nerves too badly. We reach the RV at dusk and before I can reload the mopeds, Julia has changed and set out on a run. Great. That one thing just about knocks the wind right out of my sails. This chick is so stubborn.
“Really?” I say harshly towards her back.
“Just three quick miles and I’ll be right back,” she calls out over her shoulder.
That just makes me tired thinking about it. I give up and go grab my travel journal.
Chapter Seven
Julia
Three quick miles and I’m feeling great. The food gave me so much stamina that I’m back to the RV in less than twenty minutes. I’m surprised when I reach the yard and find Greyson at the picnic table. It’s almost eight. He’s hardly seen a time past eight since we’ve started this trip.
“Isn’t it your bedtime, big boy?” I ask as I walk a few cool-down laps around our little yard.
“Not yet,” he mumbles, distracted. He’s scribbling away in what looks like a diary.
After grabbing a bottle of water, I join him on the opposite side of the picnic table. “Whatcha doing?” I ask.
He looks up and does that darn head tilt thing that makes any warm blooded female’s heart flutter. I’m still not immune to this, even after all of these years. He still pulls it off in this state of puniness. He raises the pen along with an eyebrow as to say, isn’t it obvious? He goes back to writing without a word.
“I didn’t take you as a diary keeper,” I tease, trying to distract him. He just grunts in response. I continue on, “So… What do you write about?”
“Stuff,” Greyson mutters.
“What kind of stuff?” I’m getting frustrated.
Greyson seems to be getting close to frustrated, too. After expelling a deep sigh, he gets up and goes inside the RV. Before I can grab his journal and be nosy, he is back with another leather book. As he sits back down, he hands it and a pen over to me.
My nose wrinkles at it in disdain. “I’m not a diary kind of girl, honey.”
He shakes his head and rolls those green eyes at m
e. “It’s a travel journal, honey. You can document our adventure.” I scoff at this so he adds with a shoulder shrug, “Or write about everything you’ve hated so far.”
“Well… Maybe I can do that,” I mumble, but he’s already back to writing and ignoring me. I crack open the new journal and place the point of the pen on the blank page. Now, what to write? My pen moves on its own accord and when I’m done I look up and find myself alone at the picnic table. I was so engrossed in writing that I didn’t even notice when Greyson left.
~~~~
I almost died once. I thought I had it all buttoned up too until my little sister, Savannah, got in the way. I’ve not quite forgiven her for it either. My heart was so close to completely stopping and all I could think in those shadowy days was that it would all be over soon and I would be free. No more hurt. No more nightmares.
I have aches I cannot turn off. Each day I wake up and find the pain is ever present. It eats at me. I seek ways to numb it so I can survive it. Drugs do the trick but they have such nasty side effects and it is way too easy to slip and overdose. I thought for a while that was what I wanted, but I couldn’t go through with it. Drugs take complete control, and I’m always more damaged when I resurface. I’ve given drugs up. I should be proud of myself.
I hate myself. This honestly isn’t easy to admit, but it’s the truth. I look in the mirror and what I see reflecting back makes me feel nauseated and nasty.
People pay to look at me, which I still find completely ridiculous. They are blind or see only what they want to see from a distance. It blows my mind at what is considered beauty. I’m a hollow shell that is heavily weighed down and stained by repulsive sin and vulgarity. But hey, it pays the bills and then some. So I just go with it and allow the public to covet me naively.