Page 28 of Seeing Grayscale

OfallthethingsI could’ve said, I saidthat.

I berate myself the entire drive to my parents’ house, knowing my mood will only worsen once I get there.

The unrelentingneedto be honest with Gray is the only thing that loosened my lips, or else I would’ve just taken the denial route like I do with most people in my life. It’s been easier for me to pretend—easier to get a few moments of reprieve from strangers than to allow everything around me to implode.

My parents don’t know about any of it.

I’ve kept up appearances over the years, asking friends from college to be a ‘date’ for an event or two. When I’m asked about my love life—which is rare—I smile through it and say I’m waiting for the right woman.

Woman, being the word my parents cling to, none the wiser.

If they knew the number ofmenI’ve had relations with in the dark corners of their bright world,fuck, I don’t know what would happen. It wouldn’t be good.

As progressive as my dad’s policies are, his inner circle says otherwise. Hell, hiswordssay otherwise.

My whole life, I’ve carefully sculpted this picture-perfect mask that keeps me safe and blending in, another straight white man in the crowd, another son doing what his folks want. But with Gray? That lie felt like hot iron on the tip of my tongue, and if I didn’t come clean, it’d melt the muscle right out of my mouth.

That wasn’t the right move, though. I know it wasn’t because he wouldn’t look at me after.

Not when I helped him out of the car, not when I tried to tell him where the essentials were, and not when I helped prop up his leg.

All I want is to show him through my actions that I’m not some pervert looking to snare him while he’s vulnerable. I know that’s been done to him already. Not that I haven’t noticed his eloquent beauty underneath the grime and elaborate body art, but thatisn’twhat this is. If I keep telling myself that, maybe he’ll see it—realize that I’m not a threat.

Saying I’m gay isn’t the way to go about it, though.

Scratching my neck, I pull into the private gated community my parents live in, feeling sick to my stomach. I don’t want to deal with this right now. I have other priorities and things to focus on, like getting Gray to Perry’s clinic and trying to convince him to stay at the summer house so he can heal and besafe.

“Ah, Mr. Kade,” Brent, the security guard, greets me at the gate. “You haven’t been home for a few days.”

Yeah, I live here too.

“I’m home now,” I offer a smile, feeling his eyes snag on my lips.

“Are you free later?”

Swallowing hard and running a hand through my hair, I flick my eyes over to the empty passenger seat. “Afraid not. I have to be somewhere later.”

“Oh,” he says, disappointed. Leaning down so his face is level with mine, he reaches inside my car to touch my bicep. “It’s been a while.”

“Not here,” I hiss, and he reels back. “Sorry. I haven’t slept much lately.”

“They don’t have access to the footage, you know. And they don’t have a reason to ask.”

“Brent, please. I’m tired, and I’m late. I’ll call you, alright?”

Hurt flashes across his face, but he nods. “Have a good night, Mr. Kade.” And then he presses the button to open the gate.

As I enter the house, I pass by my parents’ security detail, who live on site.

When we all moved to Seattle, I think they were under the impression I’d be married with kids by now because their six-bedroom home was bought with the expectation of filling it—maybe not permanently, but occasionally. With the way my life has gone, though, I don’t have the time to entertain the idea of kids, let alone wonder if I ever want any.

Inside, I hear the gruff tone of my dad’s voice as he comments on something. My mom sighs as I drop my keys in the bowl by the door. The loud click of my loafers over the tile echoes off the foyer walls, sounding the alarm that I’m here. Still, though, I make sure to say hello.

“Mom? Dad?”

“In here!” Mom calls.

After cooking all day, you’d think the smell of roasted meat and veggies would hit my nose, but it doesn’t. She can’t cook to save her life, so just as expected, when I enter the dining room, my dad is sipping his bourbon, eyes focused on his laptop resting on the table. It stings somewhere deep inside me when he doesn't look up.

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