Page 85 of Seeing Grayscale

The door opens, Gray slipping through. The frosted glass hides my body from him, only revealing outlines and shadows. I watch him move around before sitting on the closed toilet seat. Flashes of yesterday pierce my brain, reminding me of how he held me so tightly, kissed me like I was the only source of his breath, and only my body could provide him the relief he so desperately needed.

“Everyone has a past, Hunter,” he says. “We all have done things we regret.”

I stay quiet, but I'm not sure what he’s getting at. Pumping shampoo into my palm, I lather it up while waiting for him to keep talking.

“No amount of showers can get rid of the past, though. I hope you know that.”

“It…makes me feel better,” I admit. “Like I can control something.”

“That’s why I never left home.”

“Home?”

“My town. No one ever wanted me to stay, not once my parents died. But I did it anyway. Making those streets my home made me feel like I was still in control no matter what anyone said or did to me. I still had a choice.”

I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, absorbing his words. “So why were you so afraid to leave?”

A long pause. “Because then I’d be forced to acknowledge what I already know. Choices are an illusion, and there’s nowhere I belong.”

He belongs withme.I want to say it, force him to acknowledge the depths of my feelings that are rapidly coiling around his every word and touch. He might not fit in my world, but I could fit in his. What better place to take up real estate than a vacant plot?

“Is that why you’re afraid, too?” he asks softly.

I consider it for a while, long enough for the hot water to cool, the steam to fill the air in a thick cloud, and long enough for Gray to exit the bathroom. Eventually, my hand reaches out to turn off the water. Just before I do, though, I admit the truth to the empty space.

“No, I’m not scared of not belonging. I’m afraid I’ll like it too much.”

I find Gray back in the living room, his phone hovering in front of his face and a worried expression cast over it. It’s too early for pajamas, so I’m wearing one of the few pairs of athletic shorts I own and a grey shirt. There are no pockets for me to stuff my hands into, so I settle on folding my arms as I lean against the arm of the couch.

“Find anything good?” I ask, curious but not wanting to start another argument by peeking at the screen.

“There’s too much to remember,” he grumbles in annoyance.

“May I?”

He doesn’t seem sure, hesitating while something like shame flashes in his blue eyes. “I guess.” Quickly passing me the phone, he gnaws on his thumb, eyes trained on his lap.

Instead of asking why he’s spooked like this, I steer my gaze to the screen. The Google search is up, and typed into the top bar are the words:jobs that hire felons.

My face whips in his direction. I don’t know why I never considered he’d have criminal history. Despite Gray’s rough exterior, I only see the soft middle. The almost innocent kindness in his actions. He shrinks further into himself when he realizes I’m staring.

I walk around to the front of the couch and sit beside him. He glances at me, timid and worried. It dawns on me that this simple act of showing me what he’s been fixated on all day is an act of trust. He forced my hand earlier, knowing I could somehow handle the exposure. Maybe even counting on the fact I wanted him to know, because I do. It hurt finding him holding my secrets, and I hate acknowledging they even exist, but I want Gray to know me, and by extension, those too.

“Is this one you’re interested in?” I point at the first listing. It’s a hardware store.

He nods once. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

I click the link. “If you press this star icon up here,” I show him what I’m referencing, “and click it, it’ll bookmark the page. Then you can find it whenever you need it here.” His undivided attention shows how much he’s trying. Does this mean he wants to go?

Why wouldn’t he? A young twenty-two-year-old with nothing but himself and a future…

“Thanks,” he says softly as I hand him the phone. “You’re not going to ask?”

I could, but the more important question is, “Do you want me to?”

The ghost of a smile on his lips and a sad look in his eyes makes my heart drop. “Not if you don’t want to know.”

“I do,” I rush. “I want to know everything.”

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