5:09 PM
I like it here with Grey. I like everything about this city.
A lazy smile pulls at my lips as I nestle my temple against the cool concrete of the fountain's edge alongside him.
"Ever think about how many pigeons it would take to lift you off the ground?" he asks, gaze flitting to a group of birds pecking at crumbs near our feet.
"What, like in a cartoon? At least twenty, right? I'm heavier than I look."
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I'd say about fifteen. You're lighter than you think, Fluffy."
I nudge him with my elbow. "Flattery will get you nowhere. But okay, fifteen pigeons it is."
The smiles linger between us, but as they fade, Greyson's expression shifts to something sober.
"I should probably tell you something," he says, his voice a lower register now, laced with a seriousness that immediately has me bracing.
"Okay," I reply, swallowing.
He reaches up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering along the line of my jaw. Then, gently, he cups my cheek. His thumb grazes my bottom lip, watching as it springs back into place.
"Grey?" I whisper, my voice barely there, my heart pounding a rapid beat against my ribs.
This is different.
I don't know what to think about—
Something hits my temple and my head cracks into the fountain.
A football lands in my lap with an echo of curses from the hill.
My hand goes up, rubbing the sore spot—both of them, actually.
Greyson cups my face with both hands, fingers probing my skull. "You okay? Talk to me, Fluffy."
I can't help but laugh. It only throbs a little bit. "I'm fine."
As I speak, a shirtless guy from the group comes jogging over, his face flushed with worry. "I'm so sorry. Shit. Are you all right?"
I wave him off with a smile, grabbing his football from my lap. "Yeah, I'm fine. Good throw." I toss the ball up into his arms.
His smile is relieved. "Hopefully I didn't hurt that pretty face, yeah?"
I'm blushing now, fighting a smile. He's pretty cute, all surfer blond and tan with a wide grin.
Greyson isn't having it.
With a dark look, he stands, stalking toward the guy who's taken a hesitant step back. Without a word, Grey reaches out, grabbing the guy by the throat.
I scramble to my feet, my head throbbing. "Greyson, stop!" My voice cracks as I grab his arm above the cast, trying to pull him back.
"Dude, I said I was sorry!" the guy chokes out as the ball falls, his hands grappling at Greyson's iron grip. "What the fuck!"
Grey's strong, but the surprise of my tug makes him stagger slightly.
"Grey, let him go! It was an accident!" I say, my heart hammering in my chest as I tug harder. The scene is drawing the others.
Greyson releases him, the guy stumbling back, rubbing his neck, wide-eyed and clearly shaken, picking up his ball before stumbling away to his friends who look like they want to fight, but think better of it.
Grey turns to me, his expression dark. Cold. Gone.
I know his actions come from a place of care, twisted by pain, by stress. I try to remember that. But the intensity of him scares me.
Grey closes his eyes, gripping the back of his neck. "Fuck. I'm sorry. You got hurt. I just—I don't even know what happened. I didn't mean to—" He turns back to the guy, who's now standing a healthy distance away, guarded by his friends. "Sorry!" Grey calls out, his voice rough with genuine regret.
The guy flips him off and turns away, walking away with friends who are muttering among themselves.
Turning back to me, Greyson's hands shake at his sides, cast and all. "I gotta get out of here."
He strides away, his steps brisk toward the arts building. I watch him go, my heart a jumble of tightening feelings. The throbbing in my head isn't from the football, but the fact that my head hit the concrete. There's a bump under my hair.
I have to follow him. I know that. But I'm rooted to the spot by the fountain, my mind spinning. I'm scared, now. It makes my eyes well up.
I don't want to be scared of my best friend.
The other part of me, the part that has always managed to fix things, to make everything better, is running through ways to help him, to help us.
I'm coming up short.
With a deep breath, I grab my tote bag and start moving. I catch up to him just as he reaches his car in the lot. He's leaning against it, head bowed, hand digging into his hair.
"Greyson," I say, approaching with careful steps.
He doesn't look up, his voice muffled. "I told you I'd kill anyone who drew one fucking drop of blood from your skin, Ember. I told you that."
I lean against the car beside him. "No blood. Look at me, I'm perfectly fine."
He finally does, his eyes hollow. After an assessment that comes back in my favour, he nods.
I nudge his shoulder. "Long day. Let's go home."
Greyson nods slowly, pushing off from the car with a heavy sigh. He opens the door for me before walking around to the driver's side.
As he drives us back to Middlebridge, the silence in the car is thin. I have no intent to fill it, no breath to try. He doesn't either.
When we finally pull into my driveway, the last of the day's light has faded, leaving everything bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps. Greyson turns off the car, but neither of us moves to get out.
"Ember," he starts, his voice rough with emotion. "Thanks for not running away."
I take his good hand. "I told you I'm not going anywhere."
He nods, a faint smile breaking through the storm in his eyes.
We sit there for a few more moments, gathering strength, before heading into similar houses, different homes.
Inside mine, Pat is sleeping on the couch, glasses askew on his big nose, uniform twisted. I take a throw from the sofa's back and drape it over him, kissing his head. Then I go up to my room to shower.
I have a hard time washing my hair. That bump is about the size of an acorn now, tender. It has its own heartbeat.
After my shower, I avoid looking at the mirror for too long, not wanting to actually see the bump that has formed under my red hair. Instead, I focus on towelling off the short ginger strands tickling my shoulders, watching the droplets scatter across the bathroom tiles under my freckled legs and feet.
Pulling on a long shirt that reaches my thighs, I leave the bathroom and go to my window, hauling up the pane. With my wooden box full of quartz-y pebbles, I pick one and throw it to Grey's window.
It taps against the glass with a gentle thunk, and a moment later, his window slides up. There he is, his dark hair dishevelled, his torso bare.
"Fluffy," he calls out softly, a tentative smile touching his lips.
"Grey," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. "You okay?"
He shrugs, a silhouette against the dim light of his room. "Worried about you. You sure your head is okay?"
"Perfectly," I tell him, leaning on the sill with my forearms. "Grey, we'll figure this out. You know that, right?" I need him to know there's something better coming, a horizon without so many waves. "You're going to find a place. I'll help you decorate it. Lots of bright yellow and pink and orange. You'll love it."
He leans forward to mirror me. The breeze plays with his dark hair. "I'm really sorry, Fluffy. For everything today. Thanks for throwing the rock."
I watch him for a moment, the way the sunset frames his face, the dark it casts, and the blaze it brings. It's all so very him—a mix of shadow and light.
"Go get some rest, Grey."
"You too, Fluffy. See you tomorrow."
As his window clicks shut, I stand there for a few more moments, then close my own window.
Turning off the light, I crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. It's hours before sleep finds me, the sunset long, long gone.
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Thanks for reading We Sleep at Sunset.
Laurel's Fun Facts #21: the skin, hair and nails are part of the integumentary system, the skin being the largest organ of the human body.
—Laurel Montaze—
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