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His brain was on overdrive. He was asking himself so many questions, so quickly; that he could barely answer one before another was on its heels. He began questioning everything, from his life and chosen profession, to his ridiculous behavior of falling in love with a man so far out of his league it was comical.
He thought they’d both overcome a major hurdle and had learned to trust each other. Cayson even made love to him. Quick had to feel it, right? Before he knew it, his walk to clear his head was over and he was at his gate, unlocking it. He let himself inside, pretending not to see his little old neighbor waving at him. He simply wasn’t in the mood for a conversation about perennials. He wanted to get in his bed, close all the shades and put on some sad ass love ballads. He’d never got to experience real heartbreak, and he had to admit, they didn’t exaggerate on those Lifetime movies, because this shit hurt worse than anything imaginable.
He didn’t bother to turn on his television, instead heading straight to his vinyls. His chest ached right along with his head. He picked an Al Green album from 1975 and placed it gently on the turntable. It’d been his dad’s favorite. As soon as the first sounds of crackling emerged from speaker, Cayson thought he’d lose it. Why couldn’t he just be left alone to be happy? “Goddamnit!” Cayson picked up the ceramic bowl on his coffee table and threw it with all his might against the wall, shattering it into a zillion pieces, which he was too fucking tired to clean up. Smart, Cayson.
His stomach churned and convulsed like he was going to be sick, but he fought it. There wasn’t a damn thing in there to bring up but stomach lining; he hadn’t eaten since his English muffin breakfast. He couldn’t imagine eating anything right now. I’m just going to bed. This was going to be it… this was his life… again. He shouldn’t be that upset, because it was only a few weeks ago that it’d been his normal routine. And he was okay with it then. He could’ve done that forever. But now. Now look at him. He was alone, heartbroken, and probably wanted by the police for questioning, if what Dana said was right. He’d unleashed a madman into his friends’ lives. There was no recovering from that.
He wasn’t on the second step when his doorbell rang. Sweat popped up on Cayson’s temples and leaked down his cheeks as he shook nervously all the way to the door. Was it the police? The knock sounded official.
“W-who’s there?” Cayson stammered.
“FedEx with a package.” A woman’s voice answered.
Cayson opened the door, peeking his head out. He saw the large white truck parked outside his gate and opened the door a little wider.
“For a Dr. Chauncey. I need your signature, sir.”
“Um, who’s it from?” Cayson already had one return to sender package, and didn’t need two. She could take it right back if it was from Joe.
“Last name, Webb. That’s all I got on here.”
Webb. Cayson breath hitched. It was from Quick. He squinted at her hand-held gadget and accepted the stylus, scribbling his illegible doctor’s signature before handing it back to her. “You guys usually come earlier.”
“Sorry, new to the route. Running a little behind. Have a good evening.” She handed him the flat package and hurried back to her vehicle.
Cayson flipped the square envelope over and saw it wasn’t from Quick, but from Vaughan. Why was he sending him a package? He inquisitively ripped the tab and looked inside, almost knocked off his feet. It was an actual record. An old vinyl record, but he didn’t recognize the name. He barely closed his front door, still studying the cover. Jeffrey Osborne? Stopping Al Green, Cayson pulled out the record and placed it on his antique record player. He sat down on his couch and listened for the first few notes to start. He wondered what kind of album Vaughan would think to get him. They never discussed music together.
Oh, how he wished he hadn’t put on that record. He immediately recognized what it was after the first few beautiful lines.
I don’t even know how to love you
Just the way you want me to
But I’m ready to love,
Yes, I’m ready to love.
It was their song. The one Vaughan had chosen especially for them on their first official date out. He’d bought the record for them to have, to probably share together. Cayson rubbed his hands over his face, not realizing he was crying until he had to wipe his wet hands on his pants leg. He was torturing himself by listening to every note, every word. Punishing himself. He held his hand to his chest and tried to breathe through the pain. He was ready. He’d been ready. And before he could enjoy it fully, it was ripped away from him. The story of his life.
