12. TWELVE
TWELVE
Over the rest of our drive, Gray tells me more of his favorites.
Each piece of information clues me into his life at one time. His favorite sport is swimming, which we won’t argue about whether it is a real sport or not. Agree to disagree.
His favorite season is spring. Springtime in Washington is beautiful. The temperatures are still chilly but not cold enough to cause a huge hindrance, and all that rain does wonders for the flowers when they eventually show themselves.
I now know that his favorite drink is hot chocolate—made from powder, not syrup—with real marshmallows.
His favorite animal is a Gaboon viper, which apparently is a highly venomous snake with an intricate pattern over its body.
I’ve never seen one before, but as soon as I can, I’m going to look it up.
When we exhaust all the interesting favorites, I tack on the most common.
“What about color?”
He goes quiet, thinking. “None.”
“None?”
Something wistful washes over his face. He’s somber yet at peace, as he explains. “Color is…finite. The real magic comes from shades. A touch of white or black reveals an entirely new scope.”
I frown, thinking back to the single art class I had in high school. “So…greyscale?”
“Exactly. I can’t just pick a color. Never could.
I was always drawn to how I could bend them to make my own.
” For the hundredth time, we glance at each other.
I should be paying attention to the highway, but I’m sucked in by his words, curious to know more.
“What about you?” he asks, a slight rasp in his voice.
“Blue. It’s always been blue.”
“Why?” he frowns. “It’s the most common primary color ever. ”
I’ve never thought about it before, but now that I am, the first things that come to mind flutter past my lips.
“If we are going off of your shade theory, I guess it’s because of how it changes.
Too much black, and it’s ominous, terrifying—s ets the tone for tragedy.
However, with the right amount of light, it’s peaceful—healing.
Blue evokes emotion. It tells a story all on its own. I’m drawn to that sort of thing.”
“You are one weird dude, Hunter,” he declares before laughing and facing forward. He chews his thumb while I circle back to my words. Am I? “But I like that. Blue evokes emotion. Never thought of it that way.”
Me either.
Not until this moment.
Not until you.
The decent thing to do would’ve been to take Gray to a grocery store to pick out what he wants in the house—even though it’s only for the night.
But since we got back in my neck of the woods , my dad has been texting me like a maniac, wanting to know when I’ll be over.
He doesn’t know that I’m not home. I’m sure he’s figured out that I’ve called off today and tomorrow—word travels fast in our circle—so I’m cutting corners and picking up a carry-out order for Gray.
“I’ll be right back.” I jump out of the car, my steps quick.
While I head inside the local diner to get his meatloaf sandwich, I check the countless texts.
Dad: Davidson said you weren’t in the office today.
Dad: Is there a reason you aren’t responding?
Dad: Your mother wants to know when you’ll be here for supper. She is making a roast.
Dad: Be here by 5.
Dad: It would be a shame if I had to tell her you were purposefully ignoring my texts and are deliberately skipping out on the meal she is making for you.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath and run a hand through my hair.
I was driving. There was traffic, so I didn’t want to risk checking my phone. I’ll be there at 5. Tell Mom I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
“Pick up for Hunter,” I tell the young guy at the register.
He is bored, movements sluggish as he turns and heads for the counter under the heating lights. Plucking a bag off it, he comes back and slides it over. “$16.24.”
I pull out my credit card, tapping it over the pin pad, and the register chitters as it prints a receipt. Signing it, I offer a quick smile and leave. With Gray’s food in my grip, I hurry back to the car as my stomach turns.
I hate my mom’s roast. It’s always dry and flavorless, and the potatoes are never cooked fully. She’s made it the same way my entire life. My dad doesn’t ever eat it, and always too busy nursing his evening scotch and reading reports on his laptop.
But I’m expected to eat it—obligated to enjoy it.
“Here you are,” I say to Gray, placing the bag in his lap as my eyes flick over to the digital clock on the touch screen.
Shit. I’ve got an hour.
Quickly calculating how long it’ll take to drop him off and get to my parents’ house, I internally cringe.
Cutting it close is hardly accurate. Even if I speed and blow through a few stop signs, I’ll be a few minutes late.
I refuse to dump him out in the driveway.
He’ll need to be shown where things are, and I have to make sure the downstairs bedroom is made up so he doesn’t have to go upstairs.
Again, I rake a hand through my hair, tugging on it a little.
“Everything okay?” Gray asks. There’s an honest concern in his tone.
“Fine.”
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word.
I want a cigarette, but it’ll have to wait. As we pull out onto the road, heading north towards the summer cabin, I submit to his subtle prying. “I’m going to be late—meeting my dad, that is.”
“Because of me?”
I don’t like the rise in his voice or the way he curls inward. “Hey,” I tell him, and he slowly looks back at me. “I want to do this for you. He can wait, alright?”
Clutching the bag of food tightly, he nods once. “Alright.”
One fire put out, but at least four more will be waiting for me in an hour.