Page 10 of Under the Texas Sky
“How’s work?” Mitch asks me, as I take a huge bite of the pizza that Trent specifically wanted. Oh well, it’s my favorite too. But I’ll be sure to leave some for him.
“It’s work, you know how it is. Campaigns, posters, trying to stay up to date with the latest trends.”
Mitch doesn’t actually know, because he’s never worked somewhere where they rely on advertisements to boost their company. He worked at the tire shop two blocks over until he was too old to break a lug nut loose. He’s still supportive, though, even if he doesn’t always understand.
“Any new hobbies?” he asks.
I roll my eyes, because not every person has to have a hobby. Some people just like to come home and watch TV until they go to bed. Shouldn’t that be considered a hobby? “No, I'm not like you,” I tell him. “I don’t require constant brain stimulation to make sure I'm not getting early onsetAlzheimer's.”
A sharp pain throbs in my arm and I stare at Mitch, jaw slacked. “Did you just smack me?”
“I don’t recall, it must be Alzheimer's.”
“Mitch! You literally said that’s why you do it. Because your mom, and her mom, andhermom all had it. It’s in your genetics.”
He huffs, taking another big bite of pizza and speaking around a mouthful. “That doesn’t mean you can make that comment though, only I can.”
I rub the sore spot on my arm and give him puppy dog eyes. “I’m sorry, Mitchy. I wasn’t trying to be mean.”
That earns me another smack in the same area, so I decide maybe it’s in my best interest not to test my luck anymore.
The sound of our chewing is deafening in the otherwise silence. I’ve never been good with silence, of any kind. The need to fill it is strong, but I wait for Mitch to break it first. He’s always been the kind of person to hate small talk, and he would rather sit in the quiet instead of filling it with unnecessary words. And I get it, I really do. It’s just not my strong suit.
“Maybe you should try photography,” Mitch finally says when we’re finished eating.
I contemplate his words, because photography does not sound interesting to me. Taking pictures, getting the angles, making sure the lighting is correct–all of those things sound terrible to me. “Pass.”
“Working out?”
I look down at my small arms, the same size they’ve been my whole life. The most action my muscles get now is lifting bundles of white paper for the copier.
Mitch sees the look I'm giving him and shrugs his shoulders. “Might be good for you. It’s all the guys at the shop could talk about. Getting fit and showing off for the ladies.” He wags his eyebrows, and I burst into laughter.
“Really? That’s the best thing you could come up with?”
He shrugs, standing up and walking away with the empty pizza box. Hopefully Trent wasn’t too excited about eating some.
I cough to clear my throat, a burning sensation growing there. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth, hoping that helps ease the slight pain. It’s probably strep-throat.Great.The uncomfortable sensation after swallowing has me rolling my eyes. Of course I would get sick in the middle of summer.
“You gonna check on him before you leave?” Mitch asks, and I hesitate for a minute.
If Mitch says Trent’s doing better, shouldn’t I reward him for good behavior? Staying just one night won’t hurt.
God, I feel like I'm playing with his emotions with this back and forth. As if I don't know what I want when it’s blatantly obvious, because I don't always express myself in the most coherent way. But I'm working on it.
“Do you care if I stay?”
CHAPTER 10
KIAN
“Have I ever cared if you stayed?” is the smart ass remark I get.
I leave Mitch in the living room and go to the bedroom where I left Trent sleeping peacefully. Cracking the door open, I find him in the same position I left him in. Lying on his stomach, the side of his head buried into the pillow as he inhales and exhales through the small gap between his pursed lips. He’s splayed out like my own personal offering.
I shut the door and walk over to the bed, taking my clothes off slowly before placing them on top of his journal on the nightstand. My fingers itch to thumb through the pages, to see what he’s created since he’s been here. Will it be sad? Will it be happy?
In the end, I don’t open it. If Trent wants to show me, he’ll show me.
