When Love Takes Over Ch. 04

Sorry this chapter took so long. I ran into a bit of writer's block, and this story has kept developing in ways I was not prepared for.

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When I got in my truck and drove away, I had no destination in mind. I just knew I needed to be alone. Anger is not the only thing that makes me want to be alone; though I'm not really shy, I am an introvert and I like to be alone to do my healing. So I didn't want to call friends or see them. In fact, my phone was off; while I was packing, text messages from Reed had already started coming in, but I wasn't ready to read them or talk to him. In fact, I wasn't sure I ever wanted to see him again. Part of me knew that wasn't really true, but it's how I was feeling right now.

After driving mindlessly for a bit, I realized I was heading for the French Quarter, which didn't surprise me. I love the quarter, and had even been lucky enough to find an apartment there in the years immediately after Katrina. But even before living there, it was where I had headed during my days off or when I was down or bored; walking those ancient streets, feeling the breeze off the river, losing myself in the crowds had always been magical for me and soothed me when I was feeling low.

I didn't go there much anymore; it had never been Reed's favorite place-he thought it was a little too grimy, especially since we had been hanging out with the Uptown crowd who considered going to the quarter as slumming. I was drifting down Canal Street when the sign for the Ritz-Carlton caught my eye.

I had been to the Ritz for the spa once or twice as well as for various other reasons, but had never actually stayed there. Reed and I had always talked about spending a weekend there and being tourists in our own town, but never actually did it. Something always seemed to come up; something more important.

"Why not?" I thought. I knew I couldn't afford to stay there more than a couple of nights, but if I were going to crawl into a den to lick my wounds, why couldn't that den be in a luxury hotel at least for a night or two? I pulled in and handed my keys to the valet. He was too well trained to say anything, but a single manicured eyebrow was raised over my old and battered, if well maintained, pickup and my stained jeans.

The attractive blonde at the front desk had much better training and managed to keep a poker face as she followed my request to look for an available room.

"How many nights, sir?" she asked.

"Two, I guess."

"All right. We have some singles available. How will you be paying?"

I opened my wallet and looked for my bank card. As I was searching for it, I noticed the American Express card Reed had given me to use for business expenses. I had meant to leave it on the entry table with my keys. I smiled, pulled it out, and handed it to the woman. "I'll be using Am Ex. And can you see if you have any suites available? By the way, make it for three nights."

The smile was long gone by the time I had been shown to my room and my few possessions had been settled in. After the bellboy left, I had taken a long shower, noting that it was a definitely a shame Reed and I had never stayed here. The suite had what I can only call a pornworthy shower. Big enough to host an orgy in, with multiple shower heads, a built in bench and body sprays.

"We could have had fun here," I thought sadly. And if I were honest, which I had to admit I didn't particularly want to be right now, Reed had pushed for it several times; it was usually me who had decided we were too busy or had too many obligations. I always figured there would be a next time.

Clean, smelling like expensive lavender body wash, and wrapped in a luxurious white terry robe, I sat on the sofa, thoroughly depressed. I like to have plans. I like to make lists. I often ignore those plans and lists, but making them soothes me. I like to have projects. I like to have things to do. I like to know what I'm doing next after my current project ends. I like order and hate change. And for the first time in a very long time, I had no idea what I was going to do next. Or even worse, what I wanted to do next.

There were the important questions I was trying to settle: Where would I live? Where would I work? Did I want to even stay in New Orleans? But while these thoughts circled my brain endlessly, the really important question writhed below: What was I going to do about Reed? I decided that raiding the mini-bar for a couple of tiny bottles of bourbon would help me figure out the answers.

While in many ways I am happy go lucky and try not to sweat the small stuff, I tend to overthink some things and have the kind of mind that is never still. Even in quiet times, it's working. Sometimes on work projects, sometimes composing mental essays, sometimes playing the "What If" game.

And one "What If" game I had played that I imagine most people play who are in a relationship is "What would I Do if He Cheated." I hadn't spent lots of time thinking about it; I can be jealous, but not in that way. And before today, I hadn't thought that

Reed actually would cheat. But I had wondered every now and then how I would handle that scenario. I didn't have an immediate answer. I decided to see if another mini bottle of bourbon would help with my decision making ability.

Unfortunately, even after that last bottle, I still couldn't come up with a definitive answer. When I was younger and more innocent (or more naive), I would definitely have declared, "He cheated. It's over. Period." Now older and with more mileage (though not necessarily wiser), I didn't think it was that black and white. And now that the "What If" game had become the "He Did It" game, I was seeing things in very many shades of gray.

If it had been a drunken mistake, I think I could deal with it. Shit happens. And though I had never cheated over the the past 7 years, there had definitely been a few times that if I had had three drinks instead of two (or if I'm honest, 4 drinks instead of 3), I might have given into temptation and answered "yes" to the various propositions I had been offered.

Still though, in this case it was different. Not only had there been apparently multiple meetings (at this point I had to stop playing the "He Did It" game and spend several minutes imagining a glorious fantasy where I manage to rip off Reed's right arm and beat him death with the bloody stump before hunting down that slut John and repeating the procedure), but there was the lying. 6 months of lying.

Could I trust that what he was telling me about John was the truth? Was there more Reed had kept from me? Did they play safe? Jesus, I had been so mad I hadn't even thought ask if they used condoms.

I don't know if I could ever trust him again. Could I? I got off the sofa and went back to the mini bar to look for more tiny bottles of bourbon to help with these questions, but there weren't any left..

At this point, I realized it was after 7pm. I thought idly about ordering dinner and did manage another weak smile imaging the look on Reed's face when his assistant asked him about the room services charges and listed the totals when she went over the credit card statement with him, but I couldn't eat. And I had too much of my Baptist upbringing still in me to order food just to waste it.

Instead, I decided to move on to drinking all the little bottles of scotch from the bar fridge. and staring blankly at a Golden Girls marathon on tv until I eventually fell asleep. Or passed out, if I insisted on accuracy.

The next morning, I opened my eyes actually hoping for a hangover, hoping for a pounding in my head to replace the anger, questions, and fear circling inside, but no luck. In fact, I had woken up disgustingly early and without even the slightest headache. I sighed and got up and dressed.

It was only 8am or so, but the walls of the hotel room were starting to close in on me, so I decided to go walking in the quarter. I wasn't hungry ("Maybe there was upside to all of this, " I thought. I had heard of the "Divorce Diet" and had wanted to take off a few pounds for a while.

I mean, it's almost worth having your life ruined if it means fitting back into a 33" waist pair of jeans, right?), but I did need coffee. Clutching my coffee, I walked up and down the quarter, from Canal St. to Esplanade Ave., from Rampart St. to the Mississippi.

Around noon or so, I tired of coffee and walking, and decided I was ready for drinking and sitting, so I ducked into one of the convience stores that dot the quarter for a pint of bourbon and headed to back the river. It was a gray day, overcast and drizzling by the time I reached the stairs that lead from the Moon Walk down into the murky brown water of the great river.

If I'm honest, I have to admit I was almost enjoying the melancholy of it all; walking alone in the rain, heartbroken. I could almost see myself as a character in some movie, but I every time I starting trying to figure out what sad song I wanted on the soundtrack to my life, I would remember that this was much more than the sad sequence in a romantic comedy.

I sat in the light rain, staring across the rippling water like the answer to my questions were waiting somewhere on the Westbank, but the only insight I achieved was the realization that I was becoming no wiser, only increasingly wetter and drunker.

I didn't want to go back to the hotel yet, so I tossed my bottle into the nearest trash can and headed back into the quarter. The quarter usually empties out during the rain, so I had the narrow streets to myself.

I crossed Jackson Square and found myself walking down St. Ann to the gay section. I had spent many happy days and nights here during my single days, and Reed and I still came here for the big holidays like Mardi Gras and Decadence.

I sighed. It had only been 24 hours, and I was already sick of thinking about this. I wanted to put off thinking about this, to think about tomorrow or some other day, but I couldn't stop my racing mind.

By now I was hungry, but still restless. I grabbed a couple of slice of pizza from one of Bourbon's many Pizza/Daiquiri shops (I always did think that was the weirdest combination) and walked as I ate.

It was early afternoon, by now, and I was in the mood for a little company. I wasn't ready for close friends, but I did need to spend some time with someone who would be supportive, someone who would try to cheer me up, someone who would agree readily and wholeheartedly with me that Reed was the world's greatest shithead without trying to make me see his side.. That someone was Charlie, my favorite bartender.

New Orleans' reputation as a hard partying city is well earned, and I learned early upon my arrival here that among the personal professionals that were considered by its inhabitants to be indispensable, such as primary care doctors, dentists, barbers, accountants, etc., few were as important as having a favorite bartenders.

Bars are everywhere here. Neighborhood bars, strip clubs, martini lounges, private clubs; no matter what your predilection, there is a bar that caters to you. I, after the deprivation of living in the Bible Belt, had readily sampled the bounty of the various gay bars, most of which are in close proximity in the quarter. Making the rounds among them is referred to as "walking the Fruit Loop."

And again, there are many gay bars for many tastes: The Pub for the pretty boys and those who like to look at them, Rawhide and the Phoenix for those who like it a bit rough, The Corner Pocket for those who love the go go boys, and a couple who vied for the nickname "God's Waiting Room" that catered to older gay men.. I had at various times patronized them all, but I definitely had favorites, and my favorite of all was The Hardy Hole.

The Hardy Hole was, like Rawhide and Phoenix, officially a leather bear bar, but honestly, unless you ventured into the shadowy recesses of the back room late on a weekend night, it was primarily a neighborhood bar. A place to just hang out and talk. And a huge part of its appeal was the bartenders, at least for me, who never, even in my single days, had wandered into the backroom.

Most of the bartenders had been there for years, and kind of like Sam, Coach, and Woody at Cheers, they always remembered your name, as well as your favorite drink. And while only one or two were hot, at least in a conventional way, unlike the hot bartenders at the more popular and happening bars down the street, they always had time to talk, especially if you were feeling down.

Charlie was one of the hot ones; well at least if you liked tall, dark, prematurely gray Latino daddies with bulging biceps and an eye patch (trust me...on Charlie, the eye patch only added to his hotness, giving him a rakish, pirate like air). He had moved to New Orleans about the same time I had, and we had hit it off.

He had listened sympathetically to my various 'woe is me tales" through the years, given me romance advice, and had put my drunk ass in a many cabs when it was time for me to go home. I hadn't seen him nearly as much in the years since I was with Reed. The Hardy Hole was, to put it mildly, not Reed's kind of place.

I took him there on an early date for a nightcap after dinner. The bar was just down the street from my apartment and conveniently located for "one last drink". On the steps of the admittedly seedy looking entrance he looked at the sign.

"The Hardy Hole?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It's a blacksmith reference. You know how popular blacksmith stuff is here because of Jean Lafitte. Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, the flame and forge at Cafe Lafitte's."

"What is a hardy hole then?"

"Ummm" I hesitated. "Well, it's part of an anvil."

"Part of an anvil? Anvils have parts? I thought they were just metal blocks."

"Well...yes, but they have holes in them, they're called hardy holes."

"What are they for?"

"Ummm..." I stuttered, buyings some time as my face reddened. "You stick tools in them."

"Oh, Jesus," he said rolling his eyes. He opened the door, "Let's get this over with."

We had stayed for only one drink. It had been busy, much busier than I had anticipated, and the action hadn't been confined to only the back room. A couple beside us at the bar had decided to take their relationship to the next level right then and there, and the patron on the other side was wearing nothing but boots and a jock strap. Reed was very uncomfortable, and I judged it wise to get him out of there as soon as possible.

After that he refused to go, and I could tell he didn't like me going. So, I curtailed my visits. I would go when I had friends in town who wanted to bar hop through the quarter, pop in during the big festivals like Mardi Gras and Decadence, and occasionally stop by for a beer before going home if I was working on a project near the quarter.

Even with my curtailed visits, I had still maintained my friendship with Charlie, mainly through Facebook these days, and I had been thrilled watching his rise from bartender to manager to owner.

Drenched, I pulled open the door to the bar and was hit by a wave of nostalgia. Even through the fog of pain that surrounded me, I got a sense of comfort. It had been over seven years, but how many times had a come here to cry on Charlie's shoulder over some guy who had done me wrong. Charlie was actually working behind the bar that day, and he glanced up as I walked in. Catching a glimpse of my face, the smile that had automatically lit his face faded.

"Oh shit" he said. "What happened?"

With the rain and general dreariness of the day, the bar was empty except for Charlie behind the bar and a young bearded guy sitting by the bar. Within seconds of entering, I was blubbering like a twelve year old girl who had just found out about One Direction's breakup. Soon I was seated on a stool between Charlie and the cub who were making murmurs of support and simultaneously pouring me shots of bourbon.

"He's an idiot," the young guy said, leaning toward me. . "You're so hot. I'd never cheat on you."

"He's right," Charlie whispered in my ear, wrapping his arms around me. I slumped back against him, letting his broad chest support me. "Reed is a fucking idiot."

Many hours later, I opened my eyes, or at least tried to. What hangover I had avoided yesterday was here this morning and had brought reinforcements. Everything ached, including my eyelids, so I shut them and lay there praying for the world to end. Where was I? I decided I didn't care, just as long as Death could find me. A sound and movement beside me worked through the pounding in my brain. I wasn't alone. "Oh shit," I thought, right before I felt darkness overtake me.