Page 35 of Compassion

A two litter of soda.

Perhaps a precooked meal that simply needs to be heated.

Sometimes that’s really more recommended than required.

In spite of my best efforts to stop the train of thoughts, I can’t. Instinct to always be prepared and ready to take what is necessary to survive another day ruthlessly kicks in. Leads me to glaring. Judging. Shaking my head at how careless and gluttonous some people are.

Fuck, they don’t have a clue how good they have it. At least Jaye seems to have some grasp of that concept. Afterall, she’s temporarily housing me.

Inside the building, my attitude doesn’t get any better. I’m immediately blinded by the bad lighting, annoyed by the people talking loudly on their phones, and unable to ignore the number of individuals who scoff at the very sight of me.

How could they not? Fucking look at me. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong at her Real Housewives of Highland Mansion. I don’t belong anywhere but in the shadows. In the unseen. Fuck, why did I ask to come to this place? Why did I think in doing so that maybe I would be momentarily seen as human by the masses instead of subpar. Fuck, this was a terrible idea. Come to think of it…us being friends or anything related is a terrible goddamn idea. What if she starts to see me like they do? What if she begins to become embarrassed by the sight of me? Is that the real reason she wants to get me new clothes? So that she hates staring at me less?

Jaye’s just finished guiding us away from the area they keep the carts when I offer, “Maybe I should just wait in the car?”

“Why?” My eyes don’t find hers until she waves a hand in front them to assist in redirecting. “Why would youaskto come and then wait in the car? Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose?Plus,how am I supposed to buy you clothes you like when I don’t know what those are because we’ve never been shopping together before?”

I prepare to argue when the sound of a woman gagging from one glance at my tattered backpack ceases my ability.

Hey, I know the shit is old and used and worn, but it’s the best I can do. It’s the best I’ve been able to find.

“Archer, look at me.” Her commanding tone reminds me of an officer naturally forcing my body to respond to the instruction. “If you wanna wait in the car becauseyou’reuncomfortable, okay. I will respect that choice. You are a person whose feelings matter, and you, too, should have your boundaries respected. However, if you think you need to wait in the car becauseI’muncomfortable, let me make thisCat in the Hatclear for you.” An unexpected stern expression crosses her face. “I don’t give a shit about what others think. I know better than to just judge a book by its cover. And people are exactly like books. We all have stories. We all have chapters. We all have pages that some are interested in exploring while others miss out. And I willchooseto continue going on adventures with you for however long I can.”

The sentimental nature of her statement swells my chest in indescribable ways.

How can one person be so fucking…compassionate?

Sweet and thoughtful and affectionate responses eagerly bounce around my brain waiting to be picked yet like my mouth has a habit of doing, it speaks playfully without consent. “You’rereallyinto the idea of touching my spine, huh?”

Jaye blushes, loudly snickers, and teasingly swats at my chest. “For that,youcan push the cart.”

“Was gonna ask to do that anyway.”

“Uh-huh,” she good-naturedly brushes off prior to pointing to the left. “Clothes are that way.”

Getting to the men’s section is thankfully an easy feat that includes an odd amount of breakfast cereal discussion during the process. All conversations regarding our shared secret love affair for the types with the most sugars – which we both weren’t allowed to indulge in often as kids – are immediately stopped and exchanged for much more intimate ones.

I’ve never been shopping with a chick before. My ex – yeah, the one that fucked me over – never did anything like this with me or for me for that matter. Fuck, she never even bought a shirt for a gift.

“Ohhhhhh,” Jaye enthusiastically squeaks holding up the fourth thick, turtleneck in a row, although this sweater is green instead of white, “what about this one?!” She presses the material against the front of my chest forcing me to choke down a moan from her light touch. “It says warm but fashionable.”

“It says Ken Doll.”

Her face instantly frowns at the comment. “It does not.”

“It does.”

“It does not.”

“It does.”

Another small cringe occurs as she moves the sweater back to the rack. “Maybe like an army Ken Doll…”

“You mean G.I. Joe?”

Her gaze cuts over to see me smirking prompting her to grow one too. “You don’t have to be a G.I. Jerk.”

I can’t help myself from wincing at the terrible joke, which thankfully only makes her giggle again, a sound that’s almost too beautiful to be heard by the masses.

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