All of Me

seventeen • perfect evening

Ninety minutes later, Gray shuts his laptop and grins at me. I've just about managed a page and a half so far, citing my references as I go else I know I'll lose them, but he is looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

"What'd you do?" I ask as we head downstairs.

"I wrote five pages."

"Just now?"

"Well, they're double-spaced. So really, it's only, like, three pages." He grins and swings down the steps as though he's in a musical, and I grab the back of his shirt when he trips over a step.

"You seriously just wrote five full pages?"

He nods and then shrugs a shoulder. "Five ranting pages," he says. "Maybe one third of an actual academic page. And no references. But I can polish it, which may take a hundred times as long as it took to write it."

"Oh my God, Gray. Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Nope," he says. "I honestly have no idea, but I want to try."

"And if you fail?"

He shrugs. "Then I fail. And that makes my point even more."

I'm in awe of him, and slightly concerned that he'll fail for the first time. I don't have a clue how he'll handle that. As much as Gray exudes calmness and confidence, my unshakeable rock, I think he'll be upset if he gets anything below a ninety.

I've learnt that an occasional seventy isn't the end of the world – I've had my fair share below that – but I'm not sure he'll know how to deal with it. But I'm not going to force him to change his idea. Worst case, he just learns a lesson about the futility of originality in education. I wish I had his guts, but I can't bring myself to stray from the professor's guidelines.

The tantalizing smells get stronger the closer we get to the kitchen, where Mom and Tad are standing in front of the stove. They're almost the same height. Somehow I haven't noticed that before. Tad's barely an inch taller than Mom, his head hardly tilted to kiss her.

His hand is on her waist. Hers is on his chest. They look comfortable together, like they belong together. That isn't a first kiss. It isn't even a third. They look like a real couple.

I come to a stop before they notice us. Gray crashes into me and he opens his mouth but shuts up when he sees what I'm seeing. I don't want to interrupt. That'll only fluster Mom, and that's the last thing I want to do. She needs this. She needs Tad.

But my heart is doing funny things in my chest, caught between joy, relief, and a strange sense of melancholy.

Gray pulls me away from the door. I trip after him, almost falling down the three steps from the porch to the driveway. He shades his eyes from the sun, squinting at me.

"About time," he says with a quiet laugh, but I'm still processing my feelings, too caught up in my own head to respond. It's one thing to want Mom to move on; it's another thing entirely to see it in action. She loves Tad. He loves her. They're not just making out. They're in love.

Gray's eyes are still on me. His face changes when he sees my inner turmoil scrawled across my eyes and he grabs my hand as though something awful has just happened. "Storie? Are you ok?" he asks, genuine concern lacing his voice.

I nod. I am ok. I'm absolutely fine. I'm happy for Mom. It's just strange to see Mom kiss someone who isn't Dad. But I'm fine. This is good. For all of us. Unless they break up, in which case it's terrible for all of us. I'm struck by the sudden fear that if Mom and Tad don't work out, I'll lose Gray.

He doesn't say anything but he hugs me and I feel better in a flash, as though he has some kind of calming effect on me. If Gray's essence could be bottled, it'd be priceless. He's the perfect antidote for my anxiety, one hug enough to calm my storming mind.