Page 132 of Seeing Grayscale

It’ll be fucking worth it.

Banana bread makes everything better.

And it smellsamazing.

I’m staring into the oven like a creep, waiting for the last minute until the timer goes off. Originally, I’d planned on making thiswithHunter, but I guess my patience doesn’t extend to fantastic gooey bread.

Besides, no matter what happens, I’ll stuff him so full of the stuff he’ll have no choice but to feel better. I stand up, glancing at the timer, and see twenty seconds.

Giddy as all hell, I hurry to get the oversized oven mitts and slide them on my hands.

“Oh, I’m coming for you,” I tell the bread. “And you’re going to make my boyfriend happy.”

Is it too early to call him my boyfriend?

Fuck it. He’s mine.

I’ll get my name tattooed across his perfect ass so no one can go near it again.

Oddly obsessed with the idea, I envision it, smirking to myself. The timer goes off, and I spring into action. As I pop the oven open, I hear the crunch of sand and gravel outside.

Hunter is back.

Finally.

My heart does a little backflip, so I move faster to get these stupid mitts to grip the edge of the baking dish.

I’m unreasonably excited to try it—never been much of a cook. And if it tastes good, and Hunter likes it, all the better. Making him happy feels like an important job. One that I take pride in.

The front door opens, and I say fuck it and grab the dish awkwardly while holding my breath to make sure I don’t drop it. I turn around, glance up, and Hunter stands in the kitchen.

There are no smiles.

No swoony questions about what I made or how come it smells so good in the house.

Only hollow pits where his eyes used to be stare back at me.

My stomach sinks, and I fucking know.

“Gray,” he starts, voice flat and lifeless. “Gray, we need to talk.”

I drop the baking dish.

Glass shatters at my feet, chunks of scalding hot bread land on my bare toes. I take a step back, the oven mitts sliding off my hands. They were too big anyway. Hunter looks at the mess on the kitchen floor, then at my feet, where a line of blood forms over my left foot.

I take another step.

“I’ll…clean it up,” he says, raking his hand through his hair.

“No.”

“We just need to talk.”

“NO!” I scream. “No, we don’t need to talk, Hunter! We don’t need to talk about a fucking thing! I’ll clean up the mess!”

Something is cracking inside me, worse than the glass on the floor, worse than anything has cracked in a long time. I’m not ready for it.

The broom is inside the pantry, so I take it out, rip the dust pan off the pole, and hurry to start sweeping. My vision blurs, but I keep going.

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