43. Hunter
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
HUNTER
F uck . It’s Wednesday again . I’ve been struggling to push the thought from my head since I woke up. I’d hoped it would be fine once I got into work, but the closer it gets to lunchtime, the louder I crank the music in my earbuds to drown it out. It’s been a couple of weeks since everything happened in San Francisco, and I still find myself reaching for my phone to text Ashlie. I miss… everything . That’s the thing about giving someone space. They get a break, and you get a mandatory, miserable, lonely break yourself.
I glance at the clock above Aiden’s empty workstation, which doesn’t help me forget where I’d usually be at this time. Where I want to be right now. A tap on the shoulder snaps me out of my head, and I pull the music from my ear, swinging my chair around to face Aiden.
“You’re in the zone today.” His smile falters when I don’t respond. “No lunch break?”
“Naw.” I push my glasses up to the bridge of my nose. “I’m tryna reach a deadline.”
“…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you work through lunch before… Is everything okay?”
I nod, shifting my eyes to my screen. “Just have work to do…”
“Alright, alright. I’ll take the hint and leave you alone.” He chuckles at my brevity, but he doesn’t walk away. “You, uh, sure you’re good?”
“How about you just ask what you want to ask me?”
“How’s Ashlie?”
“I wouldn’t know. Anything else?”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Naw. I’m good.”
Aiden sucks air in through his teeth, shaking his head. “You’re a steel trap, man.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.” I shrug, dropping my eyes to my keyboard. His words are like a punch to the gut. Ashlie said the same thing .
“I didn’t say it was good. It’ll eat you up inside if you keep holding it all in. Shit’s not healthy, man.” He raps his knuckles on my desk and heads for the door. “Don’t forget to eat lunch, boss!”
I got word about my promotion to remote supervisor when I got back from San Francisco. But after everything that happened, it’s hard to feel excited about the new position. There’s a lot more paper pushing, which is what I’m working on now, but nothing too difficult. Apart from extra meetings and phone calls during the week, it doesn’t feel much different from what I was doing before. I worked hard to get here and do my job well; I just don’t care about anything right now.
Out of habit, I grab my phone from my desk drawer, thumbs freezing over the screen as soon as I realize what I’m doing. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, where muscle memory takes over and I’m staring at a conversation full of comfortable affection. If I could go back to that night and redo everything, I would.
Me
Goodnight,
Ashlie
You really like calling me that…
Me
You don’t?
Ashlie
I didn’t say that… It’s cute.
Me
As are you…
Ashlie
Oh yeah? Why don’t you come say that to my face?
Me
Bet
Staying late to avoid evenings alone is becoming a habit. All I plan to do is shower and fall into bed. Not bothering to turn on the light, I lock my apartment door, hang up my keys, and feel my way back to my bedroom. Pain shoots across my hip, something clattering to the floor when I bump into the bookshelf.
Grumbling, I flip on the light, and the Christmas present from Mom lies on the herringbone rug in front of me. I’ve had it hidden under papers and random junk for months. I’d forgotten it was even there. But now it’s taunting me. Pleading to be noticed. Begging to be opened.
“ Fucking why not ?” I sigh, curiosity getting the best of me. I’m already feeling low, why not sprinkle a little aggravation on top?
Settling on the edge of my king-sized bed, I turn the package over in my hands. It’s not heavy, covered in a shiny gold foil wrapping paper. Nothing rattles when I shake it. I peek inside like whatever’s in there will jump out and bite me, but it’s just a book. Leather-bound, with gold lettering that spells out my full name: Hunter James Jackson .
Pictures of me as an infant are scattered across the first page, listing my birth stats and the hospital I was born in. I turn to the next page, and the next, and the next, each with a progression of photos throughout my childhood. Tucked in between the pictures are basic milestones—first haircut, school awards, and the dates I lost all my teeth.
As I move toward the back of the book, the pages dedicated to my teenage years have less pictures and more news clippings of my records from the high school track team. All standard things you’d expect from a scrapbook. Several of the memories behind these photos make me smile, briefly forgetting for a moment who this book came from. It’s a sweet little keepsake, even if my callous mother created it.
The last spread is filled with newspaper clippings of every running record I broke in college, next to pictures of me after each race. These aren’t reprinted from the internet. They’re original, neatly cut from the Gradford University Gazette. How’d she get all of these ? Graduation was years ago. She was already living abroad when I did all of this. I doubt the university keeps a backlog of physical papers for long. None of it makes any sense…until it clicks. Four years of my collegiate athletic career stare back at me, and the only way Mom could’ve done this is if she had the original papers when they were printed.
I run my fingers over the yellowing newsprint. As the full reality of what this book means dawns on me, a tear drips on the back of my hand. I’m fucking crying ? Over a basic-ass scrapbook from the heartless Black Widow, no less. Another drop stains my hand, and despite the armored insults swirling in my head about her, I feel cracking in my chest.
She’s been there. Not physically, but she’s always been with me—keeping tabs on my accomplishments from the time I was born until I graduated from college. In her own way—in the only way I’ve allowed her to—she’s kept up with my life over the years. It doesn’t forgive anything she’s done. I’m not that soft. But something wedges into the split in my chest and stays there, allowing a little more softness in and a lot more resentment out.
Fresh tears prick my eyes, and once they start to run, I can’t get them to stop. Whatever mechanism I’ve held on to so tightly inside breaks, the floodgates releasing an onslaught of pent-up emotions. Years of angst, a decade of hate, and what feels like a lifetime of hurt all come to the surface. Sadness over Ashlie. Fear about losing her for good. The force of it makes me hunch over the open scrapbook, shoulders shaking as I sob.
“ Shit .” My tears are ruining the pages in my lap. Tossing the book to the side, I lean back on the bed, causing the stream to drip into my ears. I press my hands to my eyes, trying to slow the leaking, to no avail. What . The . Fuck . Is happening to me right now ? Weeping like a sentimental sap, over a damn scrapbook, is some fuckery.
It’s more than that . She may have missed some things, but she didn’t miss everything. Despite giving me the space I demanded, maybe—just maybe—she was telling the truth; she regrets leaving me behind.
Taking deep breaths seems to help, so I pull air in through my nose, blowing it out of my mouth until I feel the storm pass. With my arm draped over my forehead, I pull out my phone and dial a number I never thought I’d willingly use again.
“Hunter?” Mom’s voice hesitates. “What’s wrong? It’s…early.”
Shit . I didn’t even think of the time difference. I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s close to 4 a.m. in Sweden.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t realize the time. I can call back later.” I’m pretty sure we both know I’m not calling back if I hang up this phone.
“No! No, it’s okay.” I hear shuffling in the background. “Is everything alright? Did something happen?”
“Naw, I just… I finally opened your Christmas present. Uh…” Why is this so fucking hard for me ? It’s two simply words, but the longer I wait, the more my eyes sting. Again ? This is bullshit, and I’m already sick of it. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, my breath catching at the release of fresh tears drowning out more of my resentment.
“Oh, Hunter.” She sniffles softly. “I’m glad you like it. I love you, my son.”
I nod like she can see me through the speaker, and another sob slips out of my mouth. Fuck this . My throat’s raw from the strain of the tears, but they won’t fucking stop. “I, um… Can I call you back?” I croak, realizing I’m not fit for a phone call after all.
“Of course. You can call me anytime—day or night—and I’ll answer. I’m happy you called, Hunter.”
“Me too,” I say weakly, feeling like it’s the truth for the first time in a long time.