Page 10 of Imperfect Cadence
It sounded ludicrous to even entertain the fleeting thought that years of trauma could be erased with a night of spooning. No, Colton's trust would need to be earned through affection thrust upon his stubborn ass with sheer persistence. Similar to a rescue dog that shied away from its new owners, consistent love and kindness were the antidote Colton needed.
I wanted to be that person for Colton.
5. “Wanted”
Colton
My finger tapped the threadbare sheets in time with the obnoxious clock Grayson apparently felt the need to literally bolt to the wall of his guest bedroom. I had gathered this information around two in the morning when the constant ticking had frayed my last nerve, and I had gotten up, prepared to smash the gaudy plastic thing to pieces—only to be foiled by a weirdly placed couple of screws.
Ah, the irony. Now I was literally being screwed by the universe.
After returning to the queen-sized bed, which I admitted, begrudgingly, was pretty comfortable despite obviously being old as hell, I couldn't help but notice it still smelled like he-who-shall-not-be-named.
I wanted to hate it here. Instead, I felt like I imagined Cinderella had, spending her first night in her new palace. To anyone else, Grayson's place might be considered a run-of-the-mill country house—old and with more than a few things falling apart. Hideous retro pink paint covered the entire house, flaking on the ceilings and around the light switches. Walls warped with age. Brown shag carpet in the bedrooms and beige linoleum in the kitchen and living areas. The house itself was decently sized and had a small backyard that Gray kept well maintained.
Despite the less-than-aesthetically-pleasing decor, Gray seemed to take pride in his space. The place was relatively spotless for a teenage boy, with some personality thrown in by a few eclectic knick-knacks scattered around, most notably a weird little collection of crocheted cats. It should have given off middle-aged spinster vibes, but instead, it felt almost as charming and calm as Gray himself.
I sort of loved it here, but I’d rather die than tell him that.
In an actual bed, warm and completely full for the first time in years, it really hit home how much I didn't want to die. As resigned as I had been to my fate of freezing in that alley the night before, swallowing my pride and accepting help from Grayson had hurt way less than I had anticipated.
The realization felt overwhelming, like I might suffocate if I examined it too closely.
Come morning, I rose with the sun, eager to leave the warm embrace of Grayson’s arms in favor of the solitude the crisp winter air provided. I wrapped myself in the warmth of a stolen sweater, causally strewn over the back of Grayson’s plush sofa. My intention was to navigate the whirlwind of my thoughts, to untangle the enigma Grayson presented and the way my body had responded to his. Instead, my brooding was abruptly interrupted by an unmistakable scraping noise, slicing through the brisk wind as soon as I ventured out to the rickety porch.
To my surprise, I met with the image of a petite little old lady with vibrant, fire engine red curls wielding a shovel engaged in a futile battle with the snow covered pathway connecting to the neighboring house. “Attempting” would be the fitting descriptor for her efforts.
Christ, that old arthritic bag of bones seemed on the brink of dislocating a hip before she successfully managed to lift a single shovel-full of snow. Despite my aversion to manual labor, I descended the porch steps, perhaps slightly influenced by Grayson’s own kindness to offer my assistance. Brenda, as I learned was her name, graciously accepted the reprieve, relishing the rescue by who she deemed an “adorable sweet boy.”
Brenda's incessant chatter, filled with tales of her zumba classes and bingo nights, only deepened my regret for attempting to do the right thing.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally finished shoveling and wiped the faint sheen of sweat from my forehead. When Brenda extended an invitation to come inside for hot cocoa, I brushed her off, perhaps a bit rudely. I wasn't exactly a people person, and my social quota for the day had been maxed out well before eight in the morning.
My mood took a nosedive when I returned to Grayson's house and stepped into the kitchen. Grayson stood at the sink, diligently washing the dishes left over from the soup he had heated up for me.
Fuck.
I had learned the golden rule of cleaning up after oneself years ago—it was a cardinal rule to avoid antagonizing the person you shared living space with. A lump of dread settled in my stomach as I wondered when he would use this oversight against me.
The previous night, I deliberately left the dishes in the sink as a silent 'screw you' aimed at Grayson 'boundaries are a foreign concept' Scott. Yet, it was one thing to provoke someone you expected to encounter only in passing at school and an entirely different scenario when you found yourself entirely dependent on their goodwill for a place to stay. That was before he cradled me in his arms as though I were a precious treasure, which only added to the confusion.
I couldn't wrap my head around it. Good things didn't happen to people like me because, let's face it, I wasn't exactly a good person.
A barrage of verbal assaults over the years, ones I had to endure in silence to avoid physical repercussions, had contributed to my short temper and overall bad attitude.
Maintaining a bad attitude would only lead me back to the streets, so I knew I had to make life easier for him. I delved into his freezer and fridge, extracting ingredients I could handle with my limited cooking skills. I dedicated myself to meal prepping for the week—nothing extravagant, just some bolognese and slightly burnt baked potatoes. The trickier part was convincing Gray to sit down, despite his insistence on helping.
Eventually, he relented and settled at the petite dining table, sharing amusing anecdotes in an attempt to coax a smile out of me. I remained awkwardly silent for most of the day, dropping my verbal sword but unsure how to carry on a conversation like a regular person. But before long, Gray pulled laughs from me against my will.
In the afternoon, Grayson's friend Tarek dropped by to pick him up. Apparently, Gray had mentioned needing to run some errands, and from what I’d witnessed at school when I studiously pretended I didn’t track Gray’s every move, he was a member of Gray’s seemingly inseparable group of friends. Tarek strolled in through the front door without even waiting to be invited.
Having someone you could call and know they'd be there for you must be a comforting feeling. I waited to feel the familiar twinge of jealousy, but it never surfaced. Truthfully, I might just be grateful Grayson had someone like that in his life.
At some point, exhaustion must have overtaken me, and I found myself asleep on the couch—something that genuinely startled me because I had never been relaxed enough in my life to drift to sleep without realizing it. To add to the surprise, Grayson woke me by placing a substantial stack of plastic shopping bags on the coffee table beside my head.
Driven by curiosity, I peeked inside, and a lump immediately formed in my throat.
The bags held more clothes than I had owned collectively throughout my entire life. As I sifted through them, I realized they were all in my size. I suspected he might have raided the kids' section of the store, a notion that brought tears to my eyes. A mix of shame and a warm, fuzzy sensation settled in my chest. I lowered my head so Grayson wouldn't witness my glassy eyes. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw him turn to silently leave the room.
