5:41 PM
Greyson is late.
By the time he strolls up to the Bell River Trail in his black jeans and a greasy white shirt, the sun has already begun its slow descent, smearing the sky in shades of orange and pink.
He throws me one of those boyish grins and says, "Sorry, Fluffy," and starts walking.
I shoot up from the bench and chase after him, laughing. "Hey! Wait!"
"Such a slow poke," he teases as I catch up, falling into step beside him.
The familiar path under our feet feels like the only steady thing in a world that spins too fast. We walk in silence for a while, robins and jays chirping above, saying hello to the summer sunset. Greyson's gaze is fixed ahead, lost in thoughts I wish he'd share.
A sudden stumble over a root, a muttered curse, and his hand flying to his side with a grimace—it all makes me flinch.
"What's happened?" I ask, staring at his palm on his ribs. "Greyson?"
"Just the shop," he admits after a pause, his voice so low I have to lean in to catch the words. "A tire... fell on me."
My heart sinks.
"Let me see," I say, reaching for the hem of his stained shirt. He hesitates, a silent struggle playing out in his gaze before he acquiesces, lifting his shirt just enough to reveal a bruise. It's a violent target of purple and red, spreading across his skin like an inner wound.
"It's nothing," he insists, pulling the fabric down. "Just an accident."
It's not nothing, but I'm not sure how to navigate it. Greyson is a resilient person, and I admire him for it, but this isn't resilience anymore.
"Aren't there better safety procedures in place? At the shop, I mean. How do tires just...fall?"
Greyson's response is an eye roll, a gesture that stings more than I expect. And when he moves my hands away from his waist and keeps walking, I crack a little. Of course, I trail after him.
We continue our walk in silence. Now and then, I steal glances at Greyson's face, noting the healing bruises that mar his skin. But it's his buried and healing jaw that catches my attention, looking somehow different. Those bruises are fresher than the rest.
"Grey," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stops and turns, his expression tight. "What."
I take a step back from the sudden intensity in his eyes.
"Spit it out, Ember."
"Was there another fight? At work?"
"So what if there was?" His tongue is sharp, a snap that echoes in the quiet around us. "You can't do anything about it."
That hurts much more than I can admit.
"You have to find another job, Grey. It's too much, now. All you do is get hurt."
"I like working there. The guys know me. We respect each other. I'm not finding another job."
Respect that leaves bruises? Doubtful. "They're hurting you, Greyson. That's not respect. You can't pretend—"
"I have a criminal record. I'm fucking lucky to have any job at all, Ember."
"It's not worth it!" I protest, pointing to his battered face. "No job is worth that, Greyson. Please."
But his conviction is unwavering. "Yes, it is. It's worth it."
And with that, he keeps walking, leaving me stumbling after him.
"Greyson!" I pull on his shirt, stopping him. "Please just listen—"
"No." He's seething now, stepping toward me. "You know I had to stand there while the guys looked me in the eyes and said they were disappointed in me? Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
I stumble back in a daze. "Grey—"
"All because you had to fuck your boyfriend." He comes to a stop, towering over me. "You just couldn't wait, huh? You were that desperate? Hope it was good for you."
When he turns around and walks away, I'm stuck. Frozen. Bones locked in place, blood paused in waiting.
Desperate.
My hand finds its way to my stomach, pressing into the fabric of my shirt as if to hold myself together, to keep the pieces of me from scattering in the wind.
The distance between us grows with each step he takes ahead on the trail, walking alongside the water. I want to shout after him, to tell him that it's not what he thinks, that it wasn't about waiting, that I'm so, so sorry I did it, that it wasn't good for me, that it hurt, that he's right and it's all my fault.
The words lodge in my throat. If I open my mouth, I'll only cry.
We've fought before. All friends fight. But this feels different.
I miss Grey. I miss the boy who gave me a Spiderman bandaid when I skinned my elbow. The one who held my hand when Pat collapsed from low blood sugar in the kitchen, and we had to call an ambulance. The one who taught me how to spell because using the same mnemonic I still use today.
Grey is still in there. He's covered in blood and bruises and grease and time, but he's there. I can't leave him.
I run to catch up, my breath hitching with each step. He's hustling, probably hoping to ditch me, but nope, not today. Eventually, he stops, his body's tension unwinding as he exhales deeply, the anger seeming to seep out of him with the evening air.
As we reach our street, the world at dusk is eerily silent. We halt at the edge of his lawn, neither of us eager to cross into reality.
I haven't felt this level of hurt since I was a kid. Last time, it was him too.
Grey hauls me into a hug, his arms wrapping around my shoulders tight. I hold onto his waist. His warmth and the familiar scent of grease and the woods surround me. He buries his face in my hair.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice muffled against me.
"It's okay," I whisper back, though nothing feels okay. "I just want you to stop getting hurt all the time."
The silence that follows is filled with his heartbeat against my ear, hard and lugging.
In his hug, I realize something...odd. Greyson is the only one who can hurt me this deeply—and the only one who can make it better.
"I was looking forward to walking with you all day, you know," he finally says.
A small smile tugs at my lips despite the pain. "Me too. Too bad it sucked."
He tightens his hold on me. "I'm so sorry, Fluffy."
We linger at the edge of the Scott's lawn, reluctantly parting.
"Can I come in with you?" I ask.
Greyson's gaze flickers to the house, and I follow his line of sight to the dimly lit windows. His father's patrol car parked in the driveway is the barrier.
"No, I'll shower and then meet you in the treehouse," he says.
But I can't just leave, not with him like this. "Let me make you something to eat. You need a real meal, not just take-out."
He looks torn, the muscles in his jaw working. "Just meet me at the tree—"
"No." I cut him off, firmly this time. "Let me make you something. Please." Seeing the apprehension flicker in his eyes, I soften. "Listen, your dad's not a bad guy. He's not going to hurt me. You can relax, Grey."
After a moment, he swallows. "Fine. Just don't go to his room or anything."
Score one for team Ember.
I nod, a wave of relief washing over me as I follow him up the pretty new steps and inside the unlocked door. The familiar scent of the Scott's home envelops me, a mixture of old wood and something faintly sour. I grew up here as much as Pat's place, if not more.
Grey goes upstairs, and the sound of the shower turning on a moment later is a signal for me to get to work.
I move to the kitchen, pulling ingredients for a salad from the fridge. As I chop romaine lettuce, I replay the walk by the river. It had been weeks of this—bruises, cuts, and a tension I don't understand. Bill and the guys at the shop are always rough around the edges, but it never used to be like this. I'd even met Bill and Macy, his daughter. Bill had been a little handsy, but not threatening, and Macy was a cool girl.
I hope the refrigerated chicken isn't too old as I slice it, laying it atop the greens. The Caesar dressing is still sealed; at least that's fresh.
A scraping sound from downstairs cuts through the hum of the still-running water. Greyson's showers are marathon sessions, a quirk I've known since we were kids. He'd be in there forever if he could. But then the scraping halts.
Rats? Better not be.
Drying my hands, I venture down the concrete steps into the basement, half-expecting to confront a rodent armed with a small sword. Instead, I find Steven.
The basement, dimly lit by a single bulb above, is a world apart. There under the light in an old armchair is Steven, swirling a tumbler of rye in one hand, his attention fixed on a corner of the room. On a small table beside him is a photo of the brown-haired, sharp-faced Serena Scott—Greyson's mom.
Serena left when Greyson was eight. She never came back.
"You're really gone this time." Steven is speaking to the photo, his words slurred. I pause, hidden in the shadow of the staircase. This is a side of Steven I've never seen. When he'd drink, he'd yell and curse. Not this.
As if sensing my presence, Steven's gaze shifts around the chair's corner, meeting mine. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by a flash of rage. But behind it, I see the plea of a man drowning in his own life. I see him.
"You're just like her," he slurs, though the words are sharp. "You're the beginning of the end. Selfish like her."
My heart just aches for him. He raised Grey alone, then grew mean, cold, sick, and harsh. Eroded by grief and loneliness.
"Mr. Scott," I say, swallowing. "I'm really sorry—"
"Once you're done with him, I'll have nobody," he says, the raw fear in his voice cutting through the haze of alcohol. "It'll all be over."
I want to tell him he's wrong, that I'm not Serena, that I won't be the cause of his loneliness. This isn't about winning or proving a point; it isn't me versus him. It's about trying to mend what's broken if it's even possible.
I go back upstairs, work quickly in the kitchen, and then take a deep breath.
Back downstairs I go with a fresh bowl of salad in my grasp. For him.
Steven sits slumped in the armchair, that tumbler of rye empty now. I offer him the bowl of salad, my voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you might be hungry."
He grabs the bowl from my hands and hurls it against the concrete wall.
Glass shatters, scattering across the floor, and I cower, shielding my head from the debris.
It's silent for a beat.
Breathing hard, I stagger back, my heart racing. I trip twice on my way back upstairs and close the door behind me once I return to the light from the living room.
Still, the shower runs; Greyson hasn't heard the crash, and a part of me is grateful for that. Actually, all of me is.
In the kitchen, I flex my fists, cold and achy in my bones, and finish Grey's salad, my hands still trembling as I grate the cheese. Once the salad is ready, I carry it upstairs to Greyson's room. Sitting on his bed, I wait, the bowl heavy in my hands, heating up under my palms. The water tap shuts off, and I hold my breath, willing my hands to steady so he doesn't notice. I even manage a smile.
As Greyson emerges from the bathroom, dark sweatpants on and nothing more, I lift the salad with a small smile, ignoring the target bruise on his flank.
"Dinner," I say, hoping he won't sense the turmoil beneath the surface. He pads over with water droplets falling from his dark hair and takes the bowl, his gaze meeting mine for a brief moment before he nods.
"Thanks, Fluffy." He drops onto his bed beside me.
I stick my hands under my thighs, chewing on my cheeks as my eyes well up over and over. I hate that crying is what my body wants to do. I want to be stronger than that.
But Grey? He's worth every tear and every smile. Always.
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Thanks for reading We Sleep at Sunset.
Laurel's Fun Facts #12: a teaspoon of a neutron star weighs more than the human population.
—Laurel Montaze—
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