Let him be
Someone hadn’t just scribbled it; they’d taken care and time to write it backwards, so the demand would be crystal clear. Lucy made a quick mental list of her most recent conquests, trying to deduce who had an axe to grind. She couldn’t think of anyone in particular, but she’d be an idiot to ignore the timing…
This was another not-so-subtle sign to stay away from Murray. Thanks, universe.
Conflict tormented Murray as he strolled down the treelined street toward the rectory. Unseasonably warm weather had graced Asheville the past couple of days, and death hadn’t come knocking. This pleased Murray, as it allowed him plenty of time in the garden hammock, savoring Lucy’s journal cover to cover. He’d been so engrossed that it was two and a half days before he dropped off the dry-cleaning. Mr. Yang and his wife discovered the forgotten envelope in his suitcoat that contained Reverend Townes’s honorarium.
His playmate’s journal was enlightening. Turns out Lucy was far more than a pretty face and a hot piece of ass. In her final year at UNC on a full ride scholarship and deeply entrenched in the prestigious Great Smokies Writing Program there, Lucy seemed paralyzed about what to do after graduation. She debated whether to plod forward into grad school or plunge headfirst, backpacking the world with her trusty pen in hand.
As Murray closed in on the Rev’s bungalow nestled in the shadow of the Episcopalian Church, he reviewed what he’d learned about Lucy as if running lines for a play. Obsessed with Thomas Wolfe, she patterned her life after his quote advising to make mistakes and take chances. She’d chosen to live in a neighborhood of Asheville where she could walk the same streets Wolfe had when he grew up there.
Lucy loved sushi and claimed the sexiest smell in the universe was that of pipe smoke. She was into someone named Sturgill Simpson and was obsessed with Moroccan architecture. Passions included people-watching and creating daily adventures. She hated leggings as pants, something called Crocs, and cole slaw. She also despised any drink with an umbrella.
Embedded in her rambling entries were random lines or insightful descriptions he assumed she was testing for projects. Her interpretations of the world were cutting and precise, mountain roots peeking through in a guttural perspective founded in poverty and loss. Her mind was as provocative as her body, and he hadn’t counted on that.
Trotting up Townes’s front steps, he knocked loudly. Lucy was inarguably too smart for him, and as he was pushing thirty, too young for him. Naturally, he planned to see her again.
The door swung open and the Rev stood before him, dressed in jeans and a football jersey.
“Hey,” he said, and welcomed Murray inside.
“Hey.” Murray handed Townes his check.
“Pleasure doing business with ya. I mean, ‘bless you, my son.’” Townes tossed the envelope on a nearby tabletop. “Come in. You gotta taste this peanut butter whisky.”
Townes hurried ahead of him toward his kitchen. When Murray caught up to the Rev, he was pouring booze into a tumbler.
“Liquid crack. I am such a good influence.” Townes’s jab at his behavior was endearing. Murray respected the Reverend, high praise since he rarely respected anything or anyone, himself included. Townes had never pulled punches. Murray found this refreshing after a steady diet of doubletalk and pandering.
Townes glanced up from the task at hand. “How’s the semen retention headache? Do I need to call Johns-Hopkins?”
Murray snorted at the Rev’s “diagnosis” and accepted the glass. Having long been Murray’s wingman, Reverend Townes understood that Murray hadn’t gotten laid in ages due to his misanthropic existence. A perceptive S.O.B., the Rev did a double take, narrowing his eyes at Murray. He cocked his head to the side and pulled the previously offered glass out of Murray’s reach.
“Hmmmm…looks like somebody broke his losing streak.”
Murray huffed out a laugh. “It was the redhead.”
The Rev flinched. “Lucy?”
So the Rev had noticed Lucy after all. Who wouldn’t?
When Murray nodded his confirmation, Townes’s eyebrows hit the ceiling and a glass of whisky hit Murray’s open palm. Townes snatched up the bottle. “Let’s make this a double.”
Progressive as Townes was, he prowled for a future bride, not an empty hook up. He lived vicariously through Murray, and Murray appreciated Townes’s open-mindedness as much as he did his excellent taste in sports and scotch. A guy just felt like bragging occasionally without judgment.
As they drained the bottle—which Murray agreed was addictive as hell—he relayed the events surrounding the Garrett funeral. He even copped to swiping the journal, but made no mention of the items he took from the casket. Townes was cool, but Murray didn’t want to test the limits. When he’d concluded, Townes was silent for a surprisingly long time.
“I’m going to ask you something, Murray. And it’s going to piss you off.”
Murray swirled his ice cubes, readying himself for a long pull off his drink. “Shoot.”
“Do you think you might be swapping one addiction for another?”
Murray inhaled Townes’s theory, and tried to remain Zen. The gambling problem he’d brought home from Duke wasn’t so tiny anymore, and he’d pissed away tens of thousands during the pandemic. He’d hit rock bottom six months ago, and Townes had been there to point him in the direction of Gamblers Anonymous.
Retiring from the tables and tracks correlated with his compulsion to check if he’d left the burners on, and his penchant to hoard antibacterial soap. Murray didn’t see what any of that had to do with Lucy, though. She made him feel normal for the first time in a very long time.
Reading Murray like a children’s storybook, Townes leaned forward in his leather chair. “You
