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You did not understand what had brought you back, but from the moment your headlights reflected off the faded “Welcome to Grand Junction” sign, you knew there was no way you were going to be able to turn back.
It had been over a year since you had last set foot in that hole-in-the-wall southern town, yet nothing had changed. It was as if the town operated in the same manner as a cd set on repeat. Everything was exactly like you had left it.
It was the middle of summer and even though you had not left the blessed air conditioning of your car for several hours you knew the air outside was laden with humidity, and that it smelled like – cotton and soybeans, old leather and southern style cooking, factory dust and railroad cars, – all the things that made the south a world of its own.
In the town square, the old shop front buildings have withstood the test of time almost as well as those who called the traditional town home. Several of the buildings had been boarded up and long since abandoned, but outside their front doors, the old men still sat in their wicker rocking chairs. Some of these men discussed farming and how likely it was to rain within the next week, others reminisced silently about how things had once been.
The heat had caused the town barber to set up shop outside, his scissors skillfully clipped away at the hair of the young boy who sat in front of him. The child’s mother occasionally reprimanding her son, warning him to be still.
An old lady swept the cracked sidewalk in front of her almost antique dress shop. You knew from past experiences that some of the dresses on her racks had not been tried on by anyone since 1942.
And then the only street light in the county turns green and you drive on, leaving a few of the old men wondering who in town could afford to drive a brand new Lexus like yours.
The diner down the street is busy for a hot Thursday night, and you are able to count at least four cars before you also leave it behind you.
It is now that you can see the motel in front of you. And even though you clearly remember him clinging to you and crying because he knew the town had hold of his southern heart, you cannot help but wonder if, perhaps, fate had been gentle on him. You cannot help but wonder if he had found a way to escape the repetitive day to day life that had captured all of the other occupants of Grand Junction.
You slow your car, but you do not pull into the small parking lot of the only motel within one hundred miles. All you are interested in is a glimpse of him through the large lobby windows, and you are not let down.
He has a customer, and you smile at the way he smiles, his fingers quickly hitting the appropriate keys of the computer keyboard in front of him. His hair has grown longer since the last time you saw him, but other than that, he has changed very little. It startles you that you cannot recall how old he must now be. Had he been twenty-three or twenty-four last time?
The car behind you turns their blinker on to pass you, and you realize how slow you must have been driving. You speed up and smile.
An hour later you find yourself sitting in one of the old red booths at the diner. The seat across from you appears to have more duct-tape than faded leather showing, but you do not mind. You find it surprisingly humbling. Nothing in California is ever this simple.
A middle aged lady with a thick southern accent asks you what you would like for supper, and if you preferred sweet tea or coffee. You can tell by the gleam in her eye that she recognizes you from the television, but is too afraid she is wrong to ask what brings someone like you to Grand Junction.
You recall that the gas station attendant had had that same look about him when he had pumped your gas for your earlier.
That is the thing about small towns such as this one. Very rarely do they ever have visitors, and when the same visitor comes through more than once, they always remember.
As the last bit of light faded from the sky, you find yourself standing in front of the motel, your hand on the rusted door knob. You can hear him talking to someone inside and you wonder if you should wait. But before your mind can stop your hand, you have already pushed the door forward and stepped into the lobby.
His voice falters when he sees you. The next thing you are aware of, he has hung the phone up and is staring at you. His mouth is slightly open and his eyes are full of wonder and shock. He had never expected to see you again.
“Hi,” you manage to say, your hands shoved into the front pockets of your jeans.
“Hey,” he replies. “It’s been awhile, hadn’t it?”
You smile at how much the southern life had swallowed up his foreign heritage. He obviously noticed it too, because he is laughing and shaking his head. But all too soon, the smile fades from his lips.
“Why are you here, Jared?” He asks.
All of the words you had planned on saying, leave you. You open your mouth to speak, but only manage to stumble upon your words. It is one of the few times in your life you have been left exposed without a script to fall back on, and you can feel the blood rising into your cheeks.
You contemplate turning around and leaving, but his hand suddenly closes around yours.
“You missed me, didn’t you.”
You nod and then silently look away. His eyes, studying you, are too almost too much to bear.
“I though I would be able to forget you, but . . .”
“But I’m unforgettable,” he says, interrupting you.
His fingers lace through your hair. His lips crash against yours. And for the first time since you left him behind in that town, you feel secure and complete.
The next time you can think clearly, you find the two of you laying on the couch in the motel lobby. Your head is against his chest and his fingers are still tangled in your hair. You suddenly realize how dangerous the situation could have become if someone had came into the motel looking for him or a room, but he calms your fears.
“No one ever comes in after dark, unless it’s because their wife kicked them out again, and that son of a bitch checked out last night. It will be at least a couple of weeks before he’s back in the doghouse.”
And in the back of your mind, what he had said made perfect sense.
“I’ve come to save you . . .” You whisper, your lips brushing against the delicate skin of his throat.
“Save me from what, Jay?” he whispers back, his voice so soft it could barely be heard over the sound of your heart pounding in your chest.
“From everything.”
He sighs and wraps his arms tighter around you, but the motel phone starts to ring before he can say anything.
You quickly sit up so he can answer it, but he takes his time – only making his way towards the receptionists desk after he had pulled his pants up over his hips and slipped his shirt on over his head.
The phone keeps ringing though, and he switches from English to his native tongue soon after answering. And even though you do not speak a single word of Croatian, you know he must be talking to his father.
You remember the first time you had offered to save him, and how fast he had declined your offer. The fact that he had hesitated, was your only hope. Slowly you get dressed, your head spinning with too many what if’s.
When he hangs up the phone, your eyes lock with his, and you have to hold your breath to keep from gasping when you see that unshed tears are clouding his vision.
“Oh, Tomo . . .” You say a little louder than you had intended, your arms reaching out to hold him, but he shrugs you away.
“Jay . . . what were expecting me to say?” His voice breaks ever so slightly and in that moment he seems more like a lost child than the grown man you know him to be. “I told you last time that I couldn’t leave here. This is my home. My family’s here. This is all I’ve got.”
“But if you leave, you’ll have me. . .” you protest even though you already know that it will do no good.
“You know I can’t survive in the city anymore than you could survive here . . . Things are too different, too complicated.”
He is right, and you know it. The bitter reality of the situation sinks in and you feel like you have been suddenly submerged in icy water. You open your mouth to speak, to say anything that might change his mind, but not a single word leaves your lips. There is nothing else you can say to him.
Rejected, you turn away from him and leave the motel lobby. A hand catches your arm the moment you step outside and as you turn around you see him standing in the doorway. His face masks his emotions perfectly and you cannot help but wonder if he should be the one on the cinema screen instead of you.
“You can call,” he says softly as his fingers slowly let go of you. “And maybe one day I can come and visit you in California for a few days.”
You nod and assure him that you still have his number, and that you will call as soon as you make it back to your Los Angeles apartment, but you know you are lying before the words ever leave your lips. He knows it as well, but neither of you point it out.
As you get into your car and drive back through the town square, you cannot help but notice that all of the stores are now dark and vacant.
And you think to yourself, “If only . . .”