Hunting the Fairy Tale

Chapter 20 - Wounds and Meltdowns

Willow

The Davenports went home a short while ago despite Aunt Beth's best attempts to entice them into staying for dinner. She finally admitted defeat when Jake mentioned something about Tanner and honey-mustard chicken bake. Apparently, nobody could possibly win an argument against Tanner's Honey-Mustard Chicken Bake. It was the end-all of all discussions.

She let them go after long loving hugs as if she was not going to be seeing them again any time soon. She also got Jake to load bags filled with various grocery items into the van and made them confirm beyond all shadow of a doubt that they'd be coming over for Sunday lunch, as usual. The ritual completed; they were finally allowed to go on their way.

I'm rather happy to hear that they'll be here for lunch on Sunday. I really enjoyed the afternoon hanging out with Paisley, chatting about just about everything under the sun. I want my mother to meet my new friend, I was a bit disappointed when she didn't come home in time today.

"Hi," Hunter grunts, crossing from the kitchen door straight to the refrigerator. He retrieves the juice bottle, unscrews the cap, and proceeds to drink straight from the bottle as if he's dying from thirst.

I'm helping Aunt Beth prepare dinner while we're discussing our plans for the weekend and we both look up, greeting Hunter in return. I didn't even hear his motorcycle arrive home.

"Hunter, you're no longer the only one who likes to drink that. Please use a glass, Lovey," Aunt Beth reminds him matter-of-factly.

"Right," he says, wiping the bottle's mouth with his sleeve. He replaces the cap and puts the juice back in the refrigerator. "Sorry."

I feel a stab of guilt. Yet another impediment to his freedom, caused by our presence. At this rate, he's soon going to actively hate me.

"Oh, Hunter!" Aunt Beth gasps, vocalising my feelings of horror when Hunter turns from the refrigerator and we both get a good look at his face.

His left cheekbone is swollen, and a trickle of blood is running from under a band-aid at its outer edge. He must've momentarily forgotten about the injury because he looks startled and put out by his mother's reaction.

"Were you playing ball in the park again?!" She is very distraught. So, she definitely does not approve of him playing Murder Ball; I'm relieved to discover that. In a couple of strides, she's next to him, but Hunter grabs her hand reaching out to his injury, and holds it with his own.

He's not dirty, just a little sweaty, dressed in the track pants and a long-sleeved, black t-shirt, he'd probably been doing his MMA training in. Other than that, he's quite clean. He probably hasn't been trying to kill people in the park today.

"No, I was at training," he confirms my observation.

Aunt Beth shakes her head and pulls her hand from his grasp. She pushes him toward one of the high stools set along the sides of the large kitchen island. "Let me clean that."

"It's just a scrape, Ma."

"I don't care," she snaps uncharacteristically. She's no longer the friendly woman I've started to get to know really well. She's clearly upset. "Scrapes can become infected and turn into worse things. Stop arguing with me and just sit down."

Hunter sits, but he doesn't look happy about it. "It's fine, Ma..."

Aunt Beth pulls the first-aid box from the cupboard under the sink and turns on him. "Why do you always think it's fine? Why is it fine for you to look like this? Why is it fine for you to always get hurt?" she seems to be close to tears now.