35. THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-FIVE
My phone rings.
It takes me a minute to realize that I still have the thing. Not remembering where I put it, I follow the sound through Hunter’s house, finding it on a charger in the spare bedroom. The number isn’t saved in my contacts—which is no surprise there—so I’m hesitant to answer.
A pulse of worry hits my chest, though. What if it’s Hunter? Other than his text hours ago that said he’d be late, I haven’t heard from him.
It’s been fucking with me all day that he hasn’t really reached out. Not like he did before…
“Hello?” I answer on what I’m sure must be the last ring.
“Grayson Parker?” The chirp of a woman’s voice comes through.
“Yes…?” It’s jarring hearing my full name.
“Hi, yes. This is Madeline calling on behalf of Doctor Perry. It’s time to come in and get your leg examined. Can we schedule that appointment?”
My stomach swoops. An appointment? Hunter never said I’d have to go back.
The fact that I do must mean he wants me around longer. He left before we got to talk about what happened yesterday. I don’t know how he feels or what is going to happen. All I know is that I’ve been nervous since I woke up, that this is it.
We had our one day, and now it’s time to return to reality—the one where we don’t fit.
But this? This phone call means otherwise.
Did he give Doctor Perry my number to make sure I’d have to stay with him? Hunter knows I don’t have a way to get to fucking Seattle.
He won’t send me back.
He isn’t sending me back.
My heart flutters like a hummingbird, and relief and something warm settle in my soul. I can’t help the smile on my lips or the hope taking flight.
“Mr. Parker?”
“Sorry. Um. Yeah. We can do the appointment.”
“When would you like to come in? We can do this coming Friday or Monday. Morning or afternoon?”
I go to pick a day and time, but then hesitate. I don’t know when Hunter works. What if he can’t take me? I could always take a bus… Friday might be a good option because it’s the start of the weekend, but Monday would give me more time—give us more time. “Monday afternoon?”
“Does 2 pm work?” she asks happily.
“Yeah. That works.”
“Great. I’ll put you down for Monday at 2 pm.”
We say goodbye and hang up.
Keeping the phone in my hand, I leave the bedroom, heading back to the living room and eyeballing the couch.
It’s so fucking uncomfortable. The only reason I slept on it at all was because I was drunk.
Deciding to go to the backyard because I remember seeing some chairs out there, I walk through the house and outside.
The smell of rain on the grass is strong, and light grey clouds overhead hint at possible rain.
Finding the lounge chair, I sit, prop my leg up, and sigh.
That smile comes back when I glance over at the giant Connect Four.
I don’t remember the last time I had fun like that or could let go of the pessimistic shield I wear like armor.
Even the guys from the group home never made me feel safe enough to be silly like Hunter and me were.
I always had to be tough, laugh at what they did, and like what they liked.
The only reason they didn’t chew me a new one for my art was because they thought spray painting walls was cool and rebellious.
Thinking about my art dims the light within me, though.
I’d temporarily forgotten that Caleb stole it.
I guess some part of me always wondered what happened to that piece, seeing as he threw me out without a second glance and kept everything I thought was mine.
I never thought Caleb would have the balls to do this , though.
But he fooled me real good—made me think I was worth something.
It’s all too easy to go down that rabbit hole, realizing I’m making the same mistakes with Hunter. Only it’s so much worse, now.
He’s got me away from everything I know—getting me used to color again when all I’ve known for four years is bleak greyscale. Hot meals, warm beds, clean clothes, and feeling like I matter are a dangerous combination for someone like me. The latter being the final nail in my coffin.
What am I going to do? Sit around in this house for days on end while Hunter lives his life? Hoping he won’t get fed up with hiding me here when he comes back?
I press the power button on my phone, looking through all the little icons on the home screen.
There’s got to be a way to access the internet on this thing.
A sphere with red, yellow, and green sits at the bottom of it, so I click on it.
In bright, bold letters, a white screen with Google written across it appears.
The first thing I type is homeless shelter .
So many options pop up that for a moment, I’m crippled by anxiety.
I’ve tried those before—when I got out of jail the second time—but they were always full.
Mostly, the women and small children were prioritized.
I understood why, but it didn’t change the rejection I felt.
After two attempts, I never went back.
It takes me about seven tries to figure out how to get to the original search area. When I finally get it to cooperate, I type in jobs that hire felons. And that’s what I do for the next three hours.
Defeated by Google and the few jobs that might hire me, I eventually go back into the house when it gets too cold.
I’m on the hunt for paper and a pen so I can write the options down somewhere, but the downstairs of Hunter’s house doesn’t have a fucking thing. He’s rich, so he’s got to have a home office.
I take the stairs slowly, careful of my healing leg, and climb. At the top, I quickly scan the layout, spotting four doors. The first reveals a barren bathroom—a toilet and a bathtub with nothing else. I don’t think it’s ever been used.
Moving on to the second, I find an empty room beside it. I mean, it’s just four walls and some carpet. Frowning, I open the third door and find precisely the same thing.
What the fuck?
When I reach the very last one, determined now, I rip it open and discover Hunter’s bedroom.
“Not even a damn desk?”
He’s got a nice bed, dark sheets, and a comforter.
There’s a walk-in closet, which, as I peer inside, I find all his suits and fancy shoes.
The smell of his cologne is strong in here, but not much else.
A nightstand with a digital alarm clock, a lamp, and chargers is by his bed. Maybe rich people don’t need paper.
Maybe they just stash all their notes in their phones—how to do so is a mystery to me.
On the far wall is a dresser. I pull open the top drawer and find his underwear and socks. A shit ton of soft looking boxer briefs make up the majority. The middle drawers are empty. I find a single manilla folder at the bottom, which I have to kneel to open.
It’s ominous, definitely not meant to be snooped through, but I have it in my hands before I can blink.
The contents inside it are dumped out even faster.
Swiveling so I can sit on my ass, I spread out the papers.
My breath catches on the first one. Hunter has his pilot’s license.
It’s there in black and white. A few transcripts from some school are next—straight As.
More sifting, and then I come across Doctor Perry’s clinic’s header.
It’s the same one that was on my prescriptions.
Hunter Everett Kade.
I didn’t know he had a middle name.
Nibbling on my thumb, I spot the date of the paper. It’s from eleven years ago—almost twelve. He was eighteen. The document shows what I think are lab results. I recognize a few abbreviations, but most are unknown to me. At the very bottom are Perry’s notes.
Positive for Chlamydia .
There are a bunch of medical terms attached to the diagnosis, as well as the treatment plan. Hunter’s words from that evening he found me, the one where I was still fucking bleeding after what Dan’s goons did to me, cross my mind.
Most STDs are treatable if caught early .
It hasn’t gone unnoticed how frequently Hunter showers, or how weird he acts about being dirty. I don’t know why, but I never thought this could be part of the reason. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m reading into it.
Guilt nags at my skull, stomach churning because I’ve invaded his privacy like this. Just as I’m about to put the papers away and pretend I never saw them, a throat clears behind me.
I freeze, ice shooting down my spine, and then I act.
I quickly stuff the papers under the dresser, but it’s too late.
“What are you doing, Gray?”