Page 56 of Imperfect Cadence

24. “Stick Season”

Grayson

3 Years Ago

“I’m not taking no for an answer this time!”

“Rem,” I sighed, shifting my cell from one ear to the other. “Not only do I not have any free time, but even if I did, the last place I would want to spend it is at some bar in St Louis.”

“Well tough shit, bro. You missed my birthday, which I forgave you for. But if you think I’m going to let you waste away the best years of your life sitting at home stewing in your misery, you have another thing coming. So you can either show up or I’m kidnapping you. Capisce?” Remy threatened.

“Except you haven’t forgiven me for missing your birthday. And why does my wanting to stay home mean I’m miserable?” I sighed, bracing myself for the lecture I’d heard way too many times at this point.

“Ah, because you are?”

“Or maybe I’m just being a responsible parent? Speaking of which, what do you suggest I do with Violet while we are bar hopping? I don’t know if you’re aware, but kids and bars don’t mix, and leaving children home alone while you go get drunk is frowned upon.”

“Gray, don’t worry so much. I’ve already cleared things with my mom and she and Violet will be having a lovely girls’ weekend at the Four Seasons, courtesy of moi. And before you protest more, she was on my side even before I bribed her. We both agree that you need some fun in your life.” Remy’s attempt at reassurance grated on me, sounding more patronizing than comforting.

The fact that he’d roped his own mother into his hairbrained scheme grated on my nerves even more. Suzy, or “Glam-Ma Suzy” as she affectionately insisted Violet call her, had been an unwavering pillar of support for me. She had filled the void left by my own mother, seamlessly slipping into the role of grandmother. Nevertheless, the idea of imposing on her to babysit just so that I could go out and get wasted left a sour taste in my mouth.

I wanted to continue arguing. Contrary to my friends’ perceptions, I did have fun. It just so happened that my definition of fun leaned towards coaching little league soccer rather than bar-hopping with my peers. I had simply been forced to mature at a faster pace than my friends, and I felt the divide between us widening with each passing day.

The monotony of early-child raising had long passed, and Violet and I actually had a blast together most of the time. I resented having to justify my choices simply because others were convinced I was missing out on my twenties. Apparently, opting to play Scrabble at home with my sister to help expand her vocabulary instead of getting wasted and hooking up with randoms was misconstrued as me being miserable.

I also felt particularly defensive because I knew that people viewed my situation with pity. They regarded me as some kind of martyr who should be applauded and saved from my unfortunate circumstances. It hurt knowing that if things were different, if Violet were my biological child, my desire to spend time with her wouldn’t be questioned. It felt so dismissive.

Violet was my child. I’d fucking raised her, and my love for her eclipsed all else. How dare people insinuate she was a burden I needed to escape from.

I was content. Sure, I still missed Colt. He was my other half and always would be, even though we didn’t get to spend our lives together. There were days when the loneliness threatened to consume me. But rather than a gaping wound, the ache now resembled the phantom pain of a missing limb. Despite what my friends thought, I didn’t spend my days wallowing in despair as I once did. Aside from my shameful little secret, Colt no longer monopolized my thoughts. The loss would always hurt, and occasionally, it felt like he was still there. However, I learned to adjust, allowing the pain to become a part of my identity. There would be moments I stumbled and fell, but surrender was never an option.

Which was why I wasn’t in the mood for Remy’s proposed night of “fun.” We’d had a handful of these events over the years, when my excuses wore thin and my choices dwindled to either showing up or risk losing my best friend. I knew he only wanted to lift my spirits, and I loved him for it. But just as an amputee would never regrow a lost limb, I knew I’d never fully be able to put Colt behind me.

For the sake of friendship though, I clenched my jaw and acquiesced, “Fine. I’ll be there.”

∞∞∞

The conspicuous absence of noise as I stepped into the bar served as my first clue that this evening wouldn’t unfold as Remy had advertised. Instead of the pulsating beats of dance music and the uproarious laughter of the intoxicated, the air was suffused with the mellow notes of smooth jazz. Accompanied by dim lighting and secluded tables shielded by high-backed partitions, the ambience screamed “intimate conversation.”

Also known as my own personal intervention.

As the slender, fair-haired hostess guided me to our table tucked away towards the rear, I had to repeatedly remind myself of Remy’s good intentions and my affection for him. I also had to simultaneously clench my fists to resist the urge to strangle him on sight.

It was bad enough that tonight I’d anticipated being nudged to move on by Remy forcing me to dance with strangers, in the hopes one of them sparked my interest. At least that I could endure with a forced smile and gritted teeth. I could endure the charade for one evening and return home as originally planned.

Being confronted by Remy wasn’t something I wanted to deal with. Frankly, nothing had fundamentally changed since the last time he had initiated the “move on” conversation. Yet, in some inexplicable manner, everything had.

I had found peace with my circumstances. Enjoyment even, and I was finally secure enough to admit that. Too bad my vision of contentment diverged sharply from the life Remy deemed acceptable for me. He had convinced himself that unless I forgot about my past and found a new partner to share my life with, and have them take over the child-rearing while I made a career for myself, that I couldn’t possibly be happy.

Remy sat hunched over the table, tapping away feverishly on his phone. Even after all these years, it still startled me to see first-hand the transformation of the carefree boy I once knew into the high-profile businessman donning a fitted sleek suit. And not just any suit, mind you. This one was Armani. Impeccably tailored. Paired with a fancy ass but conservative haircut that had replaced the shoulder-length mop that used to be in its place. And let’s not even start on the Rolex adorning his wrist, likely worth more than all my belongings combined.

I had to hand it to Rem. Credit where it’s due, he had played his cards exceptionally well. He may have been granted a hand up in life with his grandfather’s inheritance, but he had orchestrated a symphony of success with it. In a move that had seemed out of character, he had ventured into the construction industry, starting his own company straight out of high school. As it turns out, business was his forte. In less than a decade, he ascended to the ranks of the Forbes billionaires under thirty list, a feat achieved by a very small pool of individuals. After that, he’d diversified his portfolio, launching so many startups that I lost count. He’d also become a vocal advocate for LGBTQIA+ rights and had directed significant sums towards charitable causes.

Yet, the price of his achievements meant his phone was permanently glued to his hand. I swear, the man must have been allergic to sleep, judging by the number of emails I’d received from him at ungodly hours.

At my arrival, Remy glanced up and offered a smile that instantly transformed him from a stern businessman into my old pal—the guy who once believed fart jokes were the epitome of humor.

“Long time, no see stranger,” he greeted. “Can we get another bottle of this and an extra glass,” he requested of the hostess, indicating his half-empty glass of red wine.

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