Page 109 of My Grape Crush
Dude, I’d be a no-show if I were you.
WTF people???? Leave the poor man alone.
I wasn’t sure how to end it all, but on the marathon Boxing Day flights back here, the vision became crystal clear.
Dani listens carefully, weighing each word. “I think that’s brilliant,” she says. “But is it wise to kill your account?”
“The Trenton Troublemaker era feels done. I’m over it.This is the Rose Dylan Agency era.”
She twists her head to face me. “You like that name?”
“It’s grown on me,” I admit. “It sounds classy. Not too feminine or masculine. Just right.”
I balked at first. Did I want Bob Dylan haunting me? Dad was obsessed with Dylan and drilled into me as a kid that I should be honored to carry his name. And me, Rhys Dylan Trenton, giant shithead and lover of beats, argued that a creaky whine was a horrible choice to be the voice of a generation.
That did not pave the way for a better relationship between my father and me. But now that he’s on the mend, the dark periods behind us, we’re bonding. One small step at a time.
“I like it because it links us together, without being obvious,” Dani says. “Only our closest peeps know our middle names.”
“And the R and D also represent our first names,” I point out. “Did you realize that?”
She glances up at me with a look ofcome on.
“Careful,” I mock-warn. “I might be your lowly assistant on paper, but I wield considerable power.”
She pokes my ribs and laughs. “Are you talking staying power?”
“The first time didn’t count,” I remind her, poking her back.
We’re both chuckling as she sets the hammock in motion, rocking us back and forth. “Every time counts,” she says. “The Rose Dylan agency is a team effort.”
I reach for my phone, buried between our legs. Galvanized. “Then let’s do this. One take. No time to overthink it.”
“Now?” she asks like I’m losing my mind, when, in fact, my head is in the clearest space it's been in years. “I haven’t showered.”
“Me either. Level playing field.”
She blows out a deep breath. Attempts to wrangle her hair. Pulls the blanket over us because she is naked from the waist down. “Okay. Ready.”
I open the camera app like I’ve done a million times. Find the best angle. Against the rising sun, we’re backlit, a little blown out. Time is of the essence.
My finger hovers on the record button, pausing a moment to let the rush of memories spool through my mind. Will I miss this? Maybe here and there. But like Evelyn said, living and dying within your comfort zone cripples your ability to do more. And my man Seneca said it best:
He who is brave is free.
I press record.
“Hey, everyone,” is how I start it. “Long time, no post. As you can see, I have my hands full.” I kiss Dani’s cheek, and she bursts into a nervous giggling fit. Adorable as ever. “I just wanted to say thanks for all your support and love over the years. It’s been a wild ride.I hope I inspired wanderlust and the importance of history. Now it's time for me to carve a new path, and me and my girlfriend have big plans for the world. Right, babe?” I zoom in on Dani, who curls into my chest, mortified with by the close-up. “Oops,” I say. “She’s a little gun-shy on camera. One of the reasons why I’m shutting down this account.”
As soon as those words leave my lips, the weight and significance of the moment hit me unexpectedly. I’m verklempt. A deer in the headlights forced to carry on with a live recording. “Yeah, so…” I clear away the lump thickening my throat. “I’m moving on. We’re moving on. New adventures. New ventures. This is our official goodbye to my old handle, but keep your eyes peeled for the Rose Dylan Agency launching in the new year. You can follow us there.”
I whisper into Dani’s ear, and on the count of three, we both flash my famous two-fingered sign, smiling like idiots as we say, “Peace out! And Happy New Year!”
Thirty seconds later, our goodbye video is out in the universe. Then I shut the phone off. On New Year’s Eve, I’ll delete the account. Start the year fresh on every level.
(And that was my other inspiration for jetting back early from Vancouver—to scrub clean any lingering remnants of Myla before Dani arrived. Dmitri, weasel that he is, informed me that Myla slunk back to Prague to hide under a rock. Her Rhys smear campaign backfired big time, and the privileged gates of Glitterati-land slammed shut in her face. And for good reason. All the posers I used to pal around with have perverted skeletons lurking in their closets that make my drawings look tame.)
But I digress.
