58. FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-EIGHT
By some fucked up miracle, I got hired.
I have a job.
The interview was straightforward, with not too much chit-chat.
Basically, all my new boss, Cliff, wanted to know was whether I could lift more than forty pounds.
I’m sure I can, but I didn’t double-check before, so I guess we will see.
The warehouse is part of the local grocery stores, mostly dealing with storing and loading dry foods like canned soups, cereals, etc.
I’ll be helping load trucks, hence the weight-lifting question.
As I step out of the building, feeling a bit overdressed in this grey suit, I loosen the tie Marie put on for me earlier and blink up at the sky.
I did it, Momma.
Are you proud, Dad?
The clouds part just as I think it, giving a bit of warmth on an otherwise freezing cold winter afternoon. I know I should be over the moon with accomplishment. I should be throwing my fist in the air, hooting and hollering with excitement, but I just stand there.
Getting a job was for me, I know that, but I mainly started it all because of Hunter—to help him.
In my delusional brain, I thought that my minimum wage job would be enough to take care of us both. It won’t even get me a place to live, not with these hours. But it’s something when all I’ve had is nothing. And I did it myself, for myself, and no one can take that shit away from me now.
I walk to the bus stop, digging in my pocket for the bus pass. Abel insisted I buy one with the ten bucks he gave me this morning. It’s good for the whole day, and I’m not ready to go back to their house yet.
Ever since I became an adult, people have shit on me.
Strangers, people I thought could be friends, my first boyfriend—the list goes on and on.
They’ve seen prey—something to take. Caleb took.
Dan’s goons stole. Guys that I didn’t even know mugged me and beat me up because I made the mistake of falling asleep.
For the longest time, I thought there was some sign on my back that only they could see. A sign that said: fuck with me.
It’s long overdue for me to rip that shit off my back and burn it.
I’m not weak and I’m no ones fucking prey. Grayson Parker is done being the guy everyone walks away from.
When the bus comes, I take two more to get downtown. Like I’m guided by some spirit, I remember exactly where the place is. I get off at the right bus stop, stare across the street, and move.
The bell dings as I push through the door of Court Syde .
Colors invade my vision, bright and overwhelming at first. Much like the first time, emotions swarm me, poking and prodding at my dreams and wants like vicious carrion birds.
I swat it away. Now isn’t the time for nostalgia or dead desires. Art will have to wait another day.
But not this specific piece.
I find the young woman working here and stomp right up to her.
“You have stolen art hanging in the back.”
She looks up from her cellphone, her bright blue hair flopping to the side from its spot in that messy bun. “Huh?”
“ My art is hanging in the back of the studio. It was stolen. I want it back.”
Clearly, this has never happened before because she simply stares like a deer in headlights. “Come on, I’ll show you… Taylor .”
She glances at her nametag briefly, then sputters out, “O-Okay. Yeah. I’m really sorry about…this.”
“Me too. Because I worked too hard on it for some thief to claim it as his.”
Silence. But I lead her to the back, where my fucking art is, and when we get there, I point at it. “That’s…That’s…”
“Mine,” I say confidently.
“But it’s signed,” she says, distraught and glancing around for someone to save her.
“By my shitty ex boyfriend. Who stole it. And his even shittier new boyfriend, hung it up on this here wall. It’s mine. I want it back. If you need to call your boss, I’ll wait.” And to make my point, I put my back to the wall, cross my arms, and stare at her.
“I believe you,” she rushes. “But I could get in trouble and Brock isn’t in today and—”
“I’m not leaving without it,” I tell her. “It’s mine. I painted it.” And I can prove it too, but I’m waiting to see what she’ll do before I go that far.
She spins in a circle, glances at the security cameras, then back at me. “I could get fired. ”
“If Brock ”—what a horrible name—“asks, then tell him Grayson Parker came by to retrieve his art that Caleb must’ve misplaced."
Closing her thickly lined eyes, she wiggles, stomps her foot, and then sighs loudly. “Alright. Fine. But can you like…leave your card or—”
“My card?”
She looks me up and down. “You are in a suit. People in suits usually have cards.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you have a pen and paper? I’ll write my number down.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good. Thanks, Taylor.” I smile and rip the painting right off the wall.
With my art tucked under my arm, I walk to the bus stop and plop onto the bench.
Honestly, I thought this would make me feel better. That it would somehow mainline some much-needed happiness right into my veins.
Is this fucking depression? Is this how it happens? One beautiful man rips your heart out of your ass, pushes you away and lets you walk off into the night and bam. Depression.
There’s a real possibility that’s what’s happened to me. I guess if I had to let the other shit digest, everything I’ve gone through lately would factor in as well.
But that’s the thing.
Despite all the horrors I’ve lived through and seen, they seem so far away—a blip in my memory that I have to dig deep to unbury. Everything with Hunter is so fresh. Part of me still can’t believe I’m here.
As I stare off, chewing on my thumb in some futile attempt at self-soothing, I wonder if he’s moved on already. I know it’s only been a few days, but the way Brent made it seem…
Is it so wrong of me to miss him? All I want right now is to tell him all that I’ve achieved. I want to see his hazel eyes pop with color and his dimples burrow into his cheeks as he smiles down at me, pride shining out of him like the north star.
Abel and Marie are letting me stay with them, and while I appreciate it and feel safe, it’s not the same. I don’t think anything will be.
Hunter was it.
He was fucking it. And he let me go.
No. He made me go.
Love is nothing like the movies. The person who fucked up doesn’t come back, professing their undying love and admitting all their faults. The person whose heart aches and bleeds doesn’t get the person who makes them feel whole.
Momma, why did you show me all those movies? It really sets a kid up for failure, you know.
I thought I’d get maybe a mile or two away from the summer house, and Hunter’s car would peel out of the darkness. He’d gather me into his arms and kiss my tear-coated lips, apologizing and swearing he’d never abandon me. He would tell me that people argue, and he’s sorry.
But it didn’t happen.
Two fucking days have gone by and he hasn’t called or texted…
“Fuck.”
I completely forgot to turn my phone back on.
While I dig it out of my pocket, I internally scold Wesley for rescuing Buttercup. I tell Wayne he’s a moron for chasing after Cassandra when she chose that loser manager to spend time with.
And I tell Vivian she forgave Edward way too fucking easily.
A limo and flowers? Really? Bullshit.
No one’s ever gotten me flowers.
I press and hold the power button, and when it lights up, I set it on the bench beside me, letting my head fall into my awaiting hands.
Am I that forgettable? Caleb forgot about me the second Brock appeared with his suit and big dick. My foster parents never thought about me again once I got the boot and went somewhere else. Vincent and the guys probably high-fived each other when I got taken to jail.
Come to think of it, not a single person I know has ever made me feel like I mattered past a certain point.
With Hunter…well, it just wasn’t like that.
He made all the little things I do seem monumental.
A kiss from me was worth a pile of gold.
My companionship seemed to be priceless.
And while I know you can’t rely on another person to make you see the worth in yourself, it definitely fucking helps.
My phone dings and buzzes loudly against the metal, but I’m not quite ready to see what scam emails I have yet.
I don’t even know how I get so many. And I have no use for a new mop.
The wind chooses to kick up, blasting me with an icy breeze.
I tuck into myself further, blowing on my cold fingers.
The steel digging into my ass reminds me of so many days— years —I dealt with the elements.
How lonely it got. I miss listening to airplanes and watching those Da Vinci Code movies.
I miss warm arms and a firm chest to cuddle up to at night.
Hell, I miss the sound of his breath when he finally fell asleep. And his rumpled face in the morning before he had his coffee.
The subtle touches that let me know he wanted me.
How much green leaked into his irises when he lusted for me.
I miss Hunter so fucking bad and I don’t understand why he doesn’t miss me.
Why didn’t he come after me? Love me? Need me?
Fresh tears spill over my cheeks as I look at the spot I’ve avoided since coming here.
The first time I let him see how soft my insides are.
When I needed safety more than I ever did, Hunter seemed to forget that we were out in the open for a brief moment.
He had wrapped his arms around me, pressed his lips to the top of my head, and my heart cracked wide open.
It reached for him like it had never reached for anyone before.
But then he pushed me away.
I wipe my face quickly and pick up my phone. How long before he turns it off? How long before he erases all trace of us? Will he paint the wall in his backyard? Use my sketches as tinder for his bonfire?
I bet he’s taken at least ten showers in the past two days. I bet he’s kissing his dad’s ass, telling that fucked up man what a good son he is. That he let something good slip through his fingers because he couldn’t be brave enough to keep it.
Fresh waves of pain and anger consume me as I glare at the phone in my hand, ready to throw it into traffic. But then it buzzes, the screen lighting up.
I swipe up and find all kinds of notifications.
Several texts are waiting, emails, and three phone calls.
My hands tremble as I clear the emails first—spam, just like I thought—and I swallow hard as I see who called.
“Oh,” I deflate. It was Alex. That’s probably who texted too…
I hammer my thumb over the text app, ready to just delete them, but I pause.
Hunter: Because you gave me one first.
There’s a picture attached, and I recognize it instantly. Beside the picture is a little arrow insisting I scroll down because there are more texts. My heart does a backflip in my chest, my breaths sawing out of me in chunks. I scroll past the picture.
Hunter: I’m sorry, Gray. And if you’ll allow it, I’d like to tell you that in person.
Hunter: I should have never let you walk away.
I whimper.
I can’t help it.
He sent those texts hours ago. Hours.
The entire time, my phone has been off today.
I could’ve seen these before my interview. I could have talked to him and told him. Would it have changed the way I handled things, though? I’m not sure. I might’ve abandoned my interview just to see him. And that…that can’t be a thing.
What if he just wants to say sorry and give us closure? It isn’t the romantic groveling, I think it is.
You shouldn’t have.
It’s the best I can do.
I look up to see the bus approaching and pocket the phone. After I get on and am seated, I pull it back out and see he’s read the text, but hasn’t replied. Of course not. He didn’t get the response he was looking for. But then the little bubbles pop up at the bottom of the thread.
He’s typing.
Fuck. He’s typing!
I hold my breath, staring so hard my eyes sting.
Hunter: I should have done many things differently. But I don’t regret anything other than letting you go.
Hunter: Are you safe, Gray?
Hunter: Are you okay?
I don’t know what I want him to say or ask, but this isn’t it. I know he wants to see me to apologize, but why? He already said it in that text.
I’m safe.
Hunter: But you’re not okay.
No. I’m not.
But I’ll survive. I always do.
Hunter: Resilience is one of your many attributes. I’ve always admired that about you.
Why are you texting me? What do you want?
I take a breath, rub my wet eyes, and glance around to make sure no one is staring at me. The old man at the front, twirling the cane in between his knees, is, in fact, staring. I bristle and turn my attention back to my phone.
Hunter: I want you. That’s what I want. And I don’t know where you are, or else I’d be there already. I’d be on my fucking knees, Gray.
Hunter: Let me earn you, please.
I fucking whimper again. God damn him.
It’s taking everything in me not to fold. This is what I want, after all. But what does that say about me? If I just let him get what he wants without any consequences? It shows that I can be hurt, tossed aside, and forgotten, and all it takes is a few texts, and I’m obtainable again.
I’m worth more.
I’m worth more than this.
You said that no dick in the world is worth risking your life for. You also said you didn’t mean it, but we both know that you did.
The problem is, you still mean it. You won’t risk a damn thing if it means choosing me. And I want someone who will choose me.
Until you can prove that person is you, I have nothing to say.
He types for a long time after that. So long that I’m expecting a fucking novel.
What I get are two sentences that change everything.
Hunter: From the minute I saw you, I chose you, Gray. Tell me where you are and I’ll prove it.