16. SIXTEEN
SIXTEEN
Dependence is something I’m not used to, yet I know I’ve intentionally put myself in a position where it could become a permanent fixture in my life—if I let it.
Gray fell asleep about halfway through the movie, and while I’m tired, I can’t find it in me to leave him and retire to the upstairs bedroom.
No one has ever needed me like he does.
It’s a heady feeling.
I know he’s been adamant from the get-go that he will only accept so much, and while I respect it to an extent, I can’t talk myself out of trying to make him see reason.
He can’t go back to 2nd street.
He can’t.
If how I found him is an example of what is waiting, that guilt will eat me alive.
There is no doubt in my mind that I did this—I crossed that line. I’m sharing things with Gray that I’ve never shared with anyone else because I want— need —him to trust me.
Does that make me wrong? Probably.
Offering vulnerability is a manipulation tactic, at least where I’m concerned. If it were any other circumstance, I’d be just as shut off and cold as I am with anyone else. The wall would be firmly in place, accompanied by a steel door with eighteen deadlocks lining it.
I don’t let people know me; it’s too complicated. A quick fuck here and there with people like Brent is one thing. He has nothing to gain from outing me, and I’m clear about what to expect.
My coworkers aren’t friends, my parents’ friends certainly aren't either, and everyone I interact with is just that. Other. Over the years, I gave up on many things, accepting who I needed to be and what had to happen.
So why Gray?
Why did I pick him?
It wasn’t like I didn’t see other homeless people while scouring unfamiliar cities.
It wasn’t like there weren’t younger or more desperate folks.
I saw too many to count. They all just blurred into one giant blob of hopelessness.
I’d only stopped at that gas station to get a pack of cigarettes because the reality check was too much, the stress too high.
All this pressure on my shoulders to be someone I’m not got to me.
I’d been preparing to tell my dad I’d never be a politician. I’ll never even try.
But then I saw him.
I saw Gray get turned away for less than a dollar. Something in me…snapped. I couldn’t let him go hungry. I couldn’t watch him limp another step without offering everything I had in my wallet. And now, with him lightly snoring at the end of the couch, I can’t stomach the thought of him leaving.
After dinner tonight and my dad bringing that hammer down on my future, demanding I just do it , I’m backtracking.
Should I try? Should I say fuck any hope of escaping? I could make a difference if I got elected. It wouldn’t be easy, and it’d take time, but the possibility is there. The promise of doing more than my dad has. I can’t unsee all the darkness. It’s everywhere—in everyone.
But where does that leave Gray?
I’m not sure I could still help him if I do this.
I scrub at my face, quietly standing from the couch, and walk over to my coat, still on the floor.
I find my cigarettes and lighter, pop one in my mouth, and slip outside.
The rain hasn’t let up, so I cling to the porch, the splash hitting my bare feet.
Cupping the end of my smoke, I light up and inhale.
“What are you doing?” I whisper to myself.
No matter how many times I ask, the answer doesn’t come.
I don’t do things like this.
Ever.
The moves I make in the public eye are a direct link to my dad.
He already knows about Walmart, those cashiers, and the people staring wide-eyed at me.
What would’ve happened if Gray had been with me?
Can I even go anywhere with him? The thought of not being able to sits heavily on my chest, my lungs working harder to breathe, and it’s not because of this cigarette.
I take my time smoking, thinking, and trying to formulate a plan of action. When I’m done, I slip back inside. I should wake him up and get him into bed, but he looks so fucking peaceful.
Not that I’ve watched too many people sleep before, but Gray looks almost…
angelic. With his dark lashes fanned over his cheeks and his lips parted slightly, he exudes this innocence even with all those tattoos and piercings .
I don’t know how else to explain it. Like the child deep inside him only pokes his head out to see the world through his dreams.
It hurts to look at him.
It feels wrong to worry about his future.
I don’t need another person to feel important. That fact has been ingrained into me since I understood what the word meant. Endless power rests at my fingertips.
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 save me.
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 feel constantly all 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.
“Your dream, I guess. The one every kid has. You already know mine.”
“Oh,” he whispers. He goes to chew on his thumb but drops his hand at the last minute. “I didn’t have one.”
“No?”
“No.” The word is firm and effectively stops our conversation for the rest of the five-minute drive.
Perry’s clinic is private, so the building is smaller and blends with the surrounding businesses. I pull into the off-street parking lot around the back. Relieved to find minimal cars back here, I drag a hand through my hair and blow out a breath.
This is it. I got him this far.
We will determine what comes after once we know how bad his leg is. A secret part of me hopes it's beyond a fracture, something that will need a lengthy recovery.
I’ve broken a few bones in my life, and I know that agony well. The fact Gray can put weight on his leg at all tells me it’s either a hairline fracture or he’s got one hell of a pain tolerance. Somehow, I know it’s the former. I don’t get that lucky.
Fuck , since when do I hope for someone to be hurt badly?
The answer is clear to me, even if it makes me scowl.
I want him close by so I can keep my eye on him. So I can…
“I don’t want to do this,” Gray blurts. The buckle is in place, and he’s shaking.
“It’s just an X-ray,” I say, trying to ease his nerves, but he shakes his head.
“Not that. This. Whatever you’re trying to do. After I get hooked up with the doctor, I want you to take me back home.”
I blink at him, shocked. “You can’t be serious,” is what comes out, but I know he is.
Frosty blues glare at me. “Don’t think I can’t see it happening or recognize the way you weasel deeper shit into conversation.
You are trying to know me, dude. You don’t.
You won’t. And whatever bullshit you’re thinking of saying to me after this ain’t going to convince me to stay with you. I’m not your toy to play with. Got it?”
“So you want me to send you back out on the street with a broken leg?” I almost add on, and a torn-up asshole. I know what that cream is for.
The decent man inside of me is the only reason I don’t throw that in his face.
You will get infected if you aren’t careful and keep up with your hygiene.
“That’s exactly what I want. It was broken before you found me.”
I want to argue, to demand that he listen to reason. But the stubborn clench of his jaw and the hard edge of his eyes tell me I won’t make any headway with him. He’s made up his mind. “Can we discuss this later? Your appointment is in ten minutes,” I glance at my watch.
“No,” he deadpans, then unbuckles his seatbelt. “If you don’t take me back, I’ll fucking walk.”