Page 34 of Seeing Grayscale

So what fucking gives?

Why him?

Why?

Shifting slightly, his hand reaches for the blanket and tugs it higher. I hold my breath, wondering if he will wake up. My heart thuds harder as his head lolls to the side, facing me head-on. His eyebrows pinch suddenly, and his lips pull down. The leg propped on the pillows kicks out, and he whimpers in his sleep.

I’m paralyzed in my place as his fingers clutch the blanket harder. And when my name slips through his nightmare in the form of a desperate breath, I realize why.

All my life, I’ve wished for a way out of my living hell, for someone to saveme.That’s what this unyielding pressure in my gut is—the magnetism that pulled me right to him. Every time I have felt beaten into submission by my father’s words, those five years where my mom abandoned me, and the dirt I feelconstantlyall over my skin is exactly what I saw in Gray.

He’s a mirror reflecting everything nobody sees.

Gray stares out the passenger window like he’s never realized the scale of a city before.

The swelling in his eye is down today—finally—and he’s watching the streets pass with both. Now and then, he’ll suck in a breath, lean back and bite his thumbnail. It’s the only one he chews on, oddly enough.

I’ve been as casual and passive as I can be the entire morning, knowing what I have planned after his appointment, so our conversations have been minimal.

It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say; I’m simply choosing the right time to open my mouth. Besides, he appears to be on board with this whole day, and I don’t want to ruin that prematurely. There will be pushback from him; that much is clear, but I hope he’ll see reason—that he won’t force me to take him back.

I come to a red light while he gnaws on that thumb.

“Ah,” he gasps, ripping it out of his mouth.

I glance at it, spotting a bead of blood ooze out. He’s chewed the damn thing to the quick. My hand moves like it has a mind of its own, grabbing his wrist so I can inspect his finger closer. “What are you—”

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I say over him. The bed of his nail is raw and swollen.

His eyes bounce from his finger to my face. Tugging against me, he yanks his hand free and sucks the blood off. “It’s fine,” he grumbles and folds his arms. “Handsy today?”

Maybe I am. Perhaps I’m trying to show him through action that he’s safe. It just came naturally to me earlier when I guided him by the small of his back out the front door. Or when I helped him inside the car. Perhaps I’m crossing more lines, but I am trying to be helpful—that’s what I’m sticking with anyway.

Changing the subject because he’s frowning again, I nod to the building on our right. “That’s the theater.”

He looks at it. “Okay?”

The light turns green, so I ease onto the gas while explaining, “I like to see the plays there. Sometimes comedians perform, but mostly it’s the arts.”

“I was a tree.”

It’s so random, catching me by surprise, that I laugh. “What?”

“In a play. I think I was…,” he counts on his fingers, “nine, maybe?”

“For school?”

“I didn’t want to be in it. But my mom was so excited, and my dad helped me paint the costume, so I did it.” He shrugs when he thinks something isn’t relevant or important.

He’s wrong, though. This little tidbit has clued me into more of who he is. Sacrificing what he wants for those he cares about. Selfless.

“So I take it you weren’t plotting your acting career in Hollywood?”

Smirking, he fiddles with the drawstring on his sweats. “No.”

“What was it, then?”

“What was what?” Our eyes meet again, which is dangerous in city traffic. I look away first.

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