Olive Juice
By TJ Klune
It begins with a message that David cannot ignore:
I want to see you.
He agrees, and on a cold winter’s night, David and Phillip will come together to sift through the wreckage of the memory of a life no longer lived.
David is burdened, carrying with him the heavy guilt of the past six years upon his shoulders.
Phillip offers redemption.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Epigraph
Olive Juice
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By TJ Klune
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Copyright
For those trying to find their way home.
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow.
Speak gently, she can hear.
The daisies grow.
Lily-like, white as snow
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
“Requiescat” Oscar Wilde
Olive Juice
YOU BREATHE.
You ache.
You live.
You die inside, sometimes. These little deaths. It’s how you know you’re still living. That hurt, that damnable pain in your chest that never really goes away, is meant to burn to show you that you’re human. After all, you have these little deaths because you live. You ache, but you’re able to breathe. And if you can breathe, then you can take another step. You can push yourself up and you can take another step.
His psychiatrist had told him that during one of their sessions.
He’d laughed.
She hadn’t laughed with him. Instead, she’d asked him why he found that funny, her chrome Tiffany T-Clip ballpoint pen scratching along a yellow legal pad. He’d tried to see what she was writing about him, but she’d smiled and angled it away. He probably hadn’t wanted to know, anyway. It couldn’t have been anything good.
“Why was that funny, David?” she had asked again.
He’d shaken his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I breathe because I have to. It’s an involuntary action. I ache because it’s all I have. I live because I don’t know how to do anything but. And the deaths aren’t little. They’re big. They’re bigger than you could ever know. I take steps because if I don’t, the bigger deaths will catch up to me, and I can’t have that.”
“Why is that?” she’d asked.
David had learned early on that therapy was like having a small child because it was always why, why, why.
He didn’t remember what he’d told her.
She’d nodded and then offered him a prescription for Zoloft.
He’d declined graciously.
That was… what. Two years ago now? Maybe even three. He’d gone back a few more times after that because it’d seemed like the right thing to do, but he wasn’t much for talking to people he didn’t know. Especially about himself. No, David hadn’t liked that at all. He’d thought he could push through it, but in the end, it was a waste of his time, especially when his attention was needed elsewhere. There were more important things that needed to be done.
So, no. He hadn’t gone back.
He regretted it sometimes. Especially now.
He stared through the rain at the windshield wipers moving back and forth. He was early, but then he didn’t have anywhere else to be.
He glanced down at his phone, telling himself not to look at it again, but he couldn’t help it. The screen was bright in the dark as he pulled up the message tree for the hundredth time in the last three days. The last text was from him and it said ok and the one before that was Would nine work? On Friday? The hotel? And the one before was him saying I’d like that in response to I want to see you. It had come out of nowhere, startling him when he’d received it, like I want to see you hadn’t been something he’d typed over and over again the past couple of years, deleting it before he could do something foolish like actually send it.
But that was Phillip for you. He always liked to do the unexpected. Like saying I want to see you.
Or I can’t do this anymore.
That one had hurt. Another big death on top of all the big deaths that had come before.
Maybe he should leave.
Just go home.
If he left now, he could make it home in time to be settled in his chair by the time the ten o’clock news came on.
Maybe they’d say something about her since the anniversary was coming up.
He didn’t hold out much hope.
He sighed.
Looked at his phone again.
I want to see you.
He was about to reach for the push-button start on the SUV. Instead, he opened the door into the rain.
It was cold. He could see his breath.
He took the umbrella and opened it through the partially ajar car door before he stepped out of the SUV. He felt some droplets on his ear and reached up to brush them away. He rolled his shoulders, trying to will away the stiffness. He tightened the scarf around his neck and closed the door behind him. The lights blinked as he pressed the button on the fob, and he turned back toward the hotel.
He stood there, just for a little while.
When was the last time he’d been here? It’d been… before. A weekend away. A staycation Phillip always called it, that funny little smile on his face. This is our staycation. Just a couple of days, you and me. Clothing optional. That sound okay?
And yeah, that’d been okay. That’d always been okay by David.
Not tonight, though.
They should have picked somewhere else to go tonight.
Unless that’d been the whole point.
He looked down at his hand, at the ring on his finger.
He’d forgotten he had it on, as he sometimes did. He could go days without even being aware of it, only to have it catch his eye and bring everything around him to a halt. It was scuffed and scratched, worn with time. The gold band was thin, the inscription on the inside faded. He knew what it said. He tried to forget it sometimes. Just to see if he could do it. And there were days he had. He didn’t know if today could be one of those days.
He should’ve taken it off. He didn’t want Phillip to see it. It wouldn’t do. There’d be… questions that he was not ready to answer.
He propped the umbrella under his arm, ducking when it hit the top of his head. He reached over to take the ring off. Of course it was stuck. His fingers were a little thicker than they’d been twenty-odd years ago when it’d been slid on in a ceremony in a backyard in the spring of 1997. The cherry blossoms had been blooming along the Tidal Basin, the sun had been shining, and everything felt right. There had been a smile on both their faces, and it’d been right. It’d been beautiful. And she had been so pretty in her dress—
No. No. No. No.
Not her. Nothing about her. Not now. Not tonight.
He ground his teeth together and grunted as he pulled on the ring. For a moment, he thought it wouldn’t budge, and he’d either have to wear gloves for the rest of the night or he’d just need to go home. Yes. Yes, that sounded best. He could just go home and the ring would stay on and—
It slid over his knuckle, rubbing the skin a little raw. His elbow bumped the SUV and his arm went numb. He hissed out a low breath, the umbrella canting to the left, his shoulder getting wet from the rain.
It’d been raining for a week now. The weather reports said there was no end in sight.
He slid the ring into his coat pocket, buttoning it up to keep it safe and sound. When he got home later, he could put it back on again. No one would be the wiser, and Phillip—
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David shook his head. Best not to think about it now. Phillip always had a way of figuring those things out.
He walked toward the brightly lit hotel. It was ten stories, the height of which had been restricted by the Height of Buildings Act of 1910, something all of Washington DC had to abide by. There had been talk a few years back of amending the act, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. He probably should’ve just taken the Metro in, but the thought of being surrounded by people on a train hadn’t appealed to him. Besides, the trains were always late. At least now he could be the first one here and allow himself to get used to being back in this place.
They’d held the reception here after that spring day in 1997. It’d been nice. Everyone had been happy. There’d been music and dancing, food and booze. Speeches had been given, and tears had been shed. And hadn’t everyone talked about how beautiful she’d been? They had. Oh, David, you’re handsome, and Phillip, you aren’t so bad, but would you look at her. She’s radiant.
His steps faltered.
His knees felt weak.
He told himself it was because he was fifty-four now. Knees were one of the first things to go.
He felt like a liar.
I could turn around, he told himself. I really could.
The automatic doors slid open. A burst of manufactured air rolled over him. It was warm. There were still Christmas decorations in the lobby, though the holidays were two weeks past. He’d turned his phone off during those days. It was easier than hearing the incessant beeping of messages received that he would ignore.
This was it, wasn’t it? His last chance to turn back around. Phillip would understand.
Sure, he was curious about why Phillip wanted to see him. And yes, David wanted to see him almost more than he wanted anything else, but with Phillip came things he hadn’t wanted to think about. The words he’d said. The things he’d done. The accusations he’d made.
He’d never felt more ashamed of anything in his life, even while it was happening. But that hadn’t been enough to stop him, had it? Because Phillip was there and it was so easy to lash out at him, to make him take everything he hadn’t been able to give to anyone else. Phillip had been the only one who’d understood, and David had laid into him with all of his might.
So, no, part of him didn’t want to see Phillip. Part of him was so embarrassed at the way he’d acted that, even now, it caused the breath to hitch in his chest. He’d been scared, sure, and it hadn’t been getting any better, but Phillip had too. And it wasn’t fair of him to take it out on Phillip. An apology had burned like bile in the back of his throat, and he’d swallowed it back down.
It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The devastated look on Phillip’s face had shown him that.
Yes. He could leave.
But the why of it wouldn’t let him.
David had always been a curious sort. As a kid, he’d gotten into everything, wanting to know as much as he could. It’d followed him all his life, and even after it’d all gone to shit, that need still burned through him. If anything, it got worse, because if there was one thing David hated, it was the unknown. It was the mystery. It was the infuriating secrets that might never be whispered in his ear to give him the relief he wanted to be able to sleep the whole night through again without needing to pop an Ambien. And those Ambien nights were the worst, because he’d wake up the next day, buried deep in a fog that wouldn’t lift until late afternoon, and by then, he wouldn’t be quite sure how he’d gotten through the day.
Sometimes he thought about staying lost in that fog.
But those thoughts were far and few between. They only came on the bad days.
He’d been standing in front of the automatic doors for a good three minutes. The two women at the front desk were staring at him strangely.
Great. Just how he wanted this evening to start.
He forced a smile on his face, the one that usually charmed everyone who could see it.
They smiled back at him.
I could leave, he thought again.
Instead, he went inside.
Holiday music played on the speakers overhead. He shook his umbrella out in the vestibule, scuffing his feet along the mat on the floor. A second set of automatic doors opened, and the music became louder, a string rendition of “What Child is This?” and oh, the fucking irony. How it almost choked him.
His smile widened, brittle though it was.
“Welcome to Hotel Madison,” one of the ladies behind the front desk said, her voice bright and cheerful. Her makeup was perfectly applied, her hair buzzed closer to her scalp like kids these days did sometimes. She had wide, innocent eyes and the perfect customer service smile. A consummate professional. “Did you have a reservation to stay with us?” She looked down to see that he wasn’t carrying any luggage. “Or are you dining with us this evening?”
He said, “Dining,” but it came out rough and low, like he hadn’t spoken in a while. And that caused him to pause because when had he spoken to an actual person last? He worked from home, and everything was done via e-mail, so it wasn’t as if he had coworkers. He hadn’t picked up the phone when friends had called, so eventually they just stopped calling. Family? Not hardly. His brother was in Phoenix, and they hadn’t spoken in… Jesus. He couldn’t even remember how long.
He thought back, a little panicky, through Thursday (no) and Wednesday (no) and Tuesday (no) and Monday—yes. There it was. Monday. His weekly phone call to—Christ, that couldn’t be healthy because when had he spoken to someone before that? Groceries were self-checkout these days, limiting any interaction. He got coffee, but they knew him so well by now, he didn’t even have to say anything before they’d have his order up. He’d smile at the kids behind the counter and tip them nicely, but it could all be done without saying a damn thing. So, Monday had been the last time he’d actually spoken with another human being. And then the Monday before that. And possibly the Monday before that. Like clockwork. Every Monday at three, his call was expected. And unless there was an emergency, every Monday at three, his call was answered.
He’d texted with Phillip a few days ago, but other than that….
No wonder it sounded like he was choking on his words.
The women stared at him expectantly.
He smiled again. He wondered if he looked manic.
“Dining,” he said again, forcing the words to be louder. “Meeting a… friend. At the bar.”
The woman with the buzz cut nodded. “Of course. Please let us know if we can do anything to make your time at Hotel Madison a five-star experience.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
So he didn’t say anything at all.
He stood there, dripping on expensive imported tile as if he was unsure of what he should do next.
Lady buzz cut started to look concerned.
Time to move on.
The lobby was bright and festive, garlands hung along the walls, a large, stone fireplace roaring and inviting. “What Child is This?” gave way to Dean Martin, and he thought maybe he could breathe clearly again. A Christmas tree blinked in the corner. A wreath of pine and ribbons and holly hung over the entrance to the restaurant. He tried to think if they’d ever been here during the holidays before, sure there must have been sometime they’d gone on one of their staycations, just for a couple of days, just you and me, David, doesn’t that sound nice? But he didn’t think they’d had. It’d been harder to get away during the holidays. They’d both had obligations that couldn’t be ignored. Not like when they were younger. Maybe it hadn’t always been easy, but they’d managed.
Hadn’t they?
There was a hostess at the entrance, a pretty young thing who probably hadn’t even known life outside her parents’ house yet. Maybe she’d be graduating this year. Looking forward to college next year. George Washington University? Somewhere on the other side of the country so she could stretch her wings, Dad, I know GWU is a good school, but so is UCLA, and you know I’ve always
wanted to go to California. You know this, Daddy.
Yeah. It seemed like that’s how she was. This little hostess.
“Hi,” she said. “Welcome to Ubi Sunt. Table for one?”
“No,” he said, trying not to stumble over his words. He never used to be like this. “There’s a reservation. I… I’m a little early. I’d like to sit at the bar.”
“Name for the reservation?” she asked, blonde curls around her face.
“Um. Phillip? It’s… Phillip Greengrass.”
She frowned as she looked down at the tablet in front of her, tracing her finger across the screen. “Greengrass…,” she said. “Greengrass.”
Maybe it wasn’t there.
Maybe there wasn’t a reservation.
Maybe he wasn’t coming at all.
Or maybe, a little voice whispered in the back of the mind, that’s not the right name.
“Greengrass,” she said again.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. Oh! Here it is. My apologies. I must have skipped right over it.” She looked up at him and smiled. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “It’s been one of those nights, you know?”
His heart pounded furiously in his chest. “I know.”
“Are you sure you want to sit at the bar? I can get your table if you want. We’re not too busy tonight, so there’d be no wait.”
That… didn’t sound like what he wanted. Tables were intimate, especially the ones they’d had here in the past, where they’d be tucked off in a corner, out of sight from everyone. It had been exciting, doing something they shouldn’t, holding hands underneath the table, Phillip’s thumb rubbing over the jittery pulse in David’s wrist, the tablecloth hiding them so they wouldn’t be caught. Especially at the beginning, because in those days, they were just two men, out on the town for a night, isn’t that right, buddy? Phillip would always have a devilish smirk on his face as he said that, buddy rolling off his tongue like it was a sinful thing. And yeah, David would say, that’s right, but his would come out like a croak, his throat dry, skin hot.
“Sir?”