Page 143 of Seeing Grayscale

“Exactly. I wantednofights.Noproblems. And that’s unrealistic. It pushed Matt away because he felt invalidated, while I felt dragged down and insufficient. Accepting that just because we argue doesn’t mean we have less love saved our marriage. That, and I’m speaking to a therapist about my ‘emotional wall’.” He chuckles.

Pushing off my car, he heads to the golf cart and grips its roof. “Whatever you’re going through right now, whatever you are losing, don’t let it slip away. I know that look, Hunter. And it says I’m not ready to let go.”

With that, he gets in the seat with a loudcreak, and drives away, something like relief blooming in my chest.

Dark bags cling to my under eyes.

My hair is a mess.

And this fucking beard represents so much that I take the razor in my hand and swipe the blades over it. A rectangle patch of naked skin stares back at me in the mirror, fueling my determination, and I shave the rest off with speed. Coarse, dark hairs fall into the sink, while tears gather in the corners of my eyes.

This is the first step.

I’ve had a beard since I could grow one. I thought it’d make me older, masculine, and hell—even disguise my sexuality. I became the beard metaphor so many queer people donned to survive the prejudice surrounding them. With a clean face, I look so young, it makes me jerk a little. I don’t recognize the man in the mirror.

As I wash off the residual hair and pat my face dry, not for the first time, I try to change my mind. I can see the hesitation for what it is. My cowardice is refusing to retract its claws from my fucking spine.

I can’t keepliving this way.

The constant stress, the itchy, slimy feeling that always coats my skin, and theunbearableweight of lying every day.

Well, I don’t need to lie anymore. The truth is out. Bright overhead lights shine down on it like some shitty award I didn’t want to win.

I turn on the shower and strip. It’s a fast shower—one missing all the meticulous steps I normally take to ensure I’m thoroughly clean. A means of control I don’t need to cling to anymore. Gray’s words haunt me, reminding me that no matter how much I shower, it won’t erase the past. So I refrain from my unhealthy habit and get out. My chest heaves with panic, but I push through it, drying off and dressing.

I don’t put on a suit.

Settling for dark-washed jeans and a Henley, I find my black socks and slip them over my feet. It takes me a bit to find them, but once I secure the hiking boots, I lace them and stand. The urge to vomit is so strong that I almost run to the bathroom. Placing a hand over my stomach, I close my eyes and breathe deeply through my nose.

I can hear my dad’s voice now.

What are you wearing? What is on your feet? Why did you shave? What if someone saw you this unpresentable? Everything you do reflects on me, Hunter. Be better. Think about the repercussions of your actions. Think aboutme.

A shiver runs down my spine. I push my damp hair off my forehead and leave my bedroom, locking my jaw and forcing my body to reach the front door. With my keys in hand and my cellphone and wallet secured in my pockets, I leave my house. The short drive to the other side of the community goes by in a blink, and before I can stop it, I’m at my parents’ front door.

Mom’s car is in the driveway.

Good. She should be here for this.

I go inside. My father must’ve been expecting me—or just sensed I’d be showing up because he’s standing in the foyer withhis arms folded and an expectant look on his face. Like I do whenever I’m two seconds from shitting myself, I drop my eyes.

No. You didn’t come here to cower, Hunter.So I lift my gaze, and my dad’s eyebrow arches.

“Hunter!” my mom’s voice carries from the living room. She walks over to where he and I are standing off to the side. She looks between us, her smile quickly vanishing.

“Not now, Candy,” my dad says easily, but we both know it’s an order.

It would be so easy to pretend it never happened, to go back to the way it was—easy, but unrealistic.

Steeling my spine, I straighten to my full height, and my dad’s upper lip twitches. “I trust you did what I asked?” he starts.

“You sold OAT?” I counter.

My mom freezes. “You did what?”

“Candy.Leave.”

“No, I think I’ll stay right where I am.”

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