Page 17 of Seeing Grayscale

A loud yawn sounds through the phone, followed by a grunt. “Wanted to be close by in case of emergency.”

I frown, squeezing the phone tighter. “Okay,” I draw out the word. “Well, if you can be here before the doctor, that’d be nice. I don’t—” No. I’m not sayingthat.

“Actually,” he says somewhat bashfully. “I—um. Well, I slept in my car…in the parking lot. Can I come up and use the restroom?”

“Sure.” I hang up and cup my mouth.

He slept in his fucking car?

I limp over to the window and part the curtains a sliver. Sure enough, there he is, stretching and yawning like a maniac. His shirt lifts a fraction, revealing skin and fuzz. I shut the curtain and back away.

My mind is racing as something warm and unfamiliar settles in my chest. Yes, I didn’t like the idea of him sleeping in the sameroom, but the guy is rich! He could’ve easily bought a different one to sleep in a bed. I’ve had to crash in a few cars, having broken in and curled up in the backseat. It’s almost worse than concrete.

A knock on the door startles me. “Is the lock on again?”

Shit.

I get it unchained and open the door. He looks…rumpled. Very rumpled.

The peacoat is wrinkled, and his hair is sticking up funny on the left side. “Are you suddenly poor now? Did you shoot your wad at Walmart?”

“Huh?” he slurs sleepily and rubs his eyes.

“You slept in yourcar.”

The man starts hopping from foot to foot in the doorway, and I realize I’m preventing him from going to take a piss. I scoot out of the way, and herunsfor the restroom. I lock the door and goover to the bed I chose last night. Everything hurts more today, so I whimper a little as I sit. The toilet flushes, followed by the sink running. A minute later, he comes out, looking somehow worse than I feel, and makes a beeline for the cheap coffee machine.

“Give me a few minutes,” he grumbles and starts it up.

Rich Boy isn’t a morning person.

Stop it.

I can’t start noticing this shit. Itdoesn’t matter.

Yet, I also note that he is shy about public urination. Not a piss-behind-the-dumpster type of dude. No, he’s too proper for that. I snort when his coffee is ready, and he frowns deeply at its fixings.

“Powder and pure cane sugar are staples,” I say.

“It’sdisgusting,” he growls but dumps both into the paper cup.

“Let me guess, skim milk and a sweet ‘n low only.”

“Hazelnut creamer and cinnamon,” he grumbles, then takes a long gulp. “I can’t function without it.”

“Clearly.” He eyes me with irritation, and I laugh. “You poor soul.”

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up,” he drawls before sliding into a chair.

“Circling back,” I start. “Why didn’t you just buy another room? Or…go home?”

With a scowl, he drinks more coffee and grimaces after each sip. “My house is two hours away. Seemed wasteful to go home and come right back.”

“That answers only the second half.”

Wiggling in his seat, he scratches at his scalp in a way that is sohumanthat I have to look away.

When you live the life I do, people like Hunter seem alien—like they couldn’t possibly exist in the same way. Seeing him without his proper, practiced, polite mask is frightening.

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