18. EIGHTEEN
EIGHTEEN
“Are you sure?”
Hunter and I are gathering my things at his family’s summer house.
I’m surprised he hasn’t fought me since our verbal scrap back at the clinic.
The drive back here was tense, but neither of us seemed willing to ease it.
And now, with everything I’m willing to take in a duffle bag and his worried stare, that energy is worse.
He looks… miserable.
“I’m sure,” I say.
“You don’t have to leave this stuff,” he gestures to the small pile on the couch, “it’s yours.”
I don’t need a week’s worth of outfits. It’ll only weigh down the bag and give people a reason to come sniffing.
However, leaving behind most of the toiletries he got for me is painful.
I’ll miss having my soaps. After what happened last time, I realized I had something worth taking and won’t risk it again. Those fuckers don’t deserve nice soap.
“Carrying light is better.”
“What about at night?” There is that argument he’s been sitting on like a hen trying to hatch an egg. “What about if someone tries to…hurt you?” His eyes drag to my brace and the single crutch I’m leaning on.
“I’ll manage.”
Oh, he doesn’t like that. His hand flies to his hair and yanks on it. “Gray, for fuck’s sake. What does this prove? That you’re independent? You don’t need to prove that to me. I know you are. What kind of a person does that make me, though, if I take you back to that place?”
Place.
Like it’s a heaping pile of shit.
Like there’s nothing good worth wanting.
Like my home isn’t anything at all. “It makes you a man of your word. You said one night; it’s been one night.”
“I looked up the mortality rate of homeless men in your age group. That’s what I was doing while you were getting looked over,” he growls and steps closer, annihilating the distance with his long strides.
“Do you know what those numbers are? Because I do, and I can’t stop seeing them.
Three and a half times higher than a housed person. ”
I rub my face, wanting to just put him out of his misery and get on with it.
“I’m not staying with you. We can go around and around the same points and the same facts, and it won’t change.
I can’t stay with you. Even if you were just some random rich guy and not the son of the fucking governor, I still would leave.
It’s not who you are, Hunter. It’s what you represent.
I’d rather have nothing at all than risk losing everything I never thought I’d have. ”
That seems to have done the trick because he backs off, rips his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and stalks outside. I stand awkwardly in the living room, unsure if I’m supposed to follow him.
It’s like this guy isn’t used to being told no or, at the very least, being faced with hard truths. He knows he can’t make this work long-term, and I wouldn’t expect him to.
He can't fix what he never broke.
I haven’t had an ID in three years because someone stole my wallet.
Since my parents’ belongings got sold and CPS lost the important paperwork like my birth certificate and social security card in some ‘unfortunate filing mishap', I can’t prove who I am, and my folks died before I could memorize their birth years. Every tool needed to get me out of the gutter is placed so high above my head that I’ll never reach it.
Hunter doesn’t get that—someone like him never will, either.
As if to remind me, my eyes snag on the electric fireplace mantel. In one of those expensive picture frames is his family photo. Hunter was a teenager in it, with a smooth face and jaw and a bit of baby fat on his cheeks, making his dimples appear deeper.
But the smile is fake.
His parents’ are faker, and it’s all one gilded fucking cage that he’ll never escape from. I don’t belong here…with him.
It’s time to go.
Shouldering the strap of my duffle bag, I abandon the other crutch in favor of bringing the one. It’ll be easier to get around without two, and I can use it as a weapon if need be. I limp outside, spotting him resting against the side of his car with a blank stare in his eyes.
His hand seems to move on autopilot, bringing the cigarette to his lips and inhaling. With his ankles crossed and the other hand in the pocket of his slacks, one could be fooled into thinking he is relaxed, like he’s waiting for his prom date or some shit.
“I’m ready,” I tell him as I approach.
“We’re making a stop on the way.”
“Oh?” I cock my head.
He nods, puts out his cigarette, and opens the door for me. He gently takes my things so I can sit and places them in the back. “It will keep me awake at night knowing I can’t get a hold of you, that you can’t get a hold of me . If you are going back to that life, I want you to have a phone.”
I’ve never had a cellphone before—wouldn’t even know how to work one, but he’s serious as all hell right now, so I don’t argue.
I also don’t acknowledge the warm, tingling feeling burning through my chest or the flutters going off low in my stomach.
Hurrying to put on my seatbelt so I stop staring at him, I get it clicked as he shuts my door. Emotion clogs my throat, something melancholic and entirely unwelcome.
But this is the right choice—the safe one.
I got full of myself before. Look what happened.
Oddly enough, even as I try to reason with myself, I don’t think I would’ve ever given Hunter the time of day if it hadn’t happened. Was it my lowest? I’m not sure, but it felt pretty damn bad to me.
Choosing to go with Hunter was like getting a glimpse of color after so long in the dark, and I can’t regret that. Won’t.
This is self-preservation.
This is smart.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck or hurt and that I’m not seriously regretting it as we drive away.