Page 146 of Seeing Grayscale

“Thank you, but I’m okay. I don’t want to impose.”

Abel comes back into the house after retrieving his things from his car and claps me gently on the shoulder. “Nonsense. We insist. Besides, you should get a full night’s sleep and a shower before your interview.”

“You have an interview?”

“Yes, Marie, that’s why I asked you to grab Jackie’s old suits.” He chortles at his wife.

She sniffs hotly. “I thought maybe Jack wanted them.”

“That boy would rather die than wear a suit.”

I simply stand there while they bicker about their son, who is twenty-five. Folding my arms even tighter, I sneak my thumb in my mouth. “Anyway,” Abel says with an exaggerated tone. “Let me show you to the room, and I’ll grab some clean towels and clothes for you.”

“How did you know my dad? Like…you’re a bit older than he was.”

Abel, who I found out today is fifty-seven, pushes his glasses up his nose. “I enjoy sitting in on classes, especially over the last decade or so. Medicine never stops evolving, and whenever I went, I always ran into Hudson. He would ask me questions about my practice, and we would talk about studies. Despite our slight age difference, he became a close friend.”

“So you weren’t in pre-med with him like you said.”

Abel smiles. “No. It was easier to say that than explain I sneak into college campuses to listen to lectures instead of reading boring literature online.”

I laugh at that. It just bubbles out of me, but I quickly stamp it down. “Did you… Did you ever meet—”

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I never met Lily, but Hudson—your dad—spoke of her often. You as well.”

I nod, blinking quickly so I don’t cry. “I miss them.”

Thankfully, Abel doesn’t say anything more; he just leads me up the stairs. When we reach the top, he stops suddenly and scratches the back of his wirey, graying hair. “I do believe I have a picture. A Christmas card of all things.”

“Huh?”

He faces me, his eyes dancing with excitement. “I’d completely forgotten about it! I’ll go find it while you’re in the shower. Here. Towels are in this cupboard.” He shows me the extras and where the bathroom is. Then he opens his son's bedroom door with a flourish. “And this is where you can stay.”

“Are you sure? I—I’m honestly fine on my own.”

The good doctor blows me off with a raspberry and waves his hand. “Think of it as a long-overdue invitation. And in the morning, we can go over the pamphlets together. Sound good?”

“Y-Yeah. Actually, that sounds really good. Um. Thanks…Doctor Perry.”

“Abel. Please. Call me Abel.”

I nod. He smiles. Then he darts down the hall, surprisingly fast.

With the towel wrapped around my waist, I sit on the closed toilet and stare at my texts.

Hunter read the one I sent this morning, but he never wrote back. I guess he doesn’t care. It must’ve all been some weird experiment or maybe he just wanted to play with my dick.

Sniffling, I go to delete the thread, but because I want to hurt more than I already do, I scroll through it one last time. It’s mainly me asking him what he wants for dinner, or him saying he’ll be home at a certain time.

Home.

I glance up, my vision blurry as I stare at the stereotypical art on the bathroom wall. It’s a beach scene with exaggerated, enlarged seashells on yellow sand. Waves crash against nothing, and a sunset-style horizon serves as the backdrop. I could’ve been making art for bathrooms or art in general.

My thoughts turn to all the supplies Hunter bought for me. The spray cans…the sketchpads and pencils.

Why did he do that?

Why thefuckdid he doanyof it?

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