Hating Grayson ✓

35

"Did you sleep well?" Mom asked as I sat down for breakfast the following morning.

There's a plate set down before me with two slices of buttered toast.

"Mitchell's snoring kept me up." I said, reaching for a butter-knife so that I could cut off the crusts to my toast.

"I do not snore that loud!" He says defensively, taking a bite out of his slice of pitch-black toast.

"Yes you do." Mom, dad and I said simultaneously.

Where is Grayson? I wondered, noticing his absence from the dining table.

I couldn't stop thinking about late last night's events. Grayson's lips on mine. I didn't know how I felt about it. What I did know, was that I liked it, oddly. I may not identify as a homosexual, but I could not deny that I had feelings for Grayson Evander Scott. Complicated feelings, but feelings nonetheless.

"Where is.. where's Grayson?" I wondered out loud.

Mitchell answered with his mouth full. "He had to head back home. I let him take my car."

Oh.

I wonder why he had to go home early.

Was it because of what happened last night?

"Your father and I thought we'd rent a boat for today and go fishing if you both wanted to join us." Mom says.

"Ugh, no thanks." I respond with a grimace.

Murdering fish and then gutting them? Pass!

"Dallas, quit being such a baby." Mitchell says.

"Says the one who is currently spitting out his burnt toast because he doesn't know how to not talk while his mouth is full. Moron." I retorted.

"Idiot." He clapped back.

"Boys, quit your bickering." Dad ordered.

The rest of the week went by swimmingly. To summarise it quickly, it was perfect. We did all kinds of things, like going bowling, jet skiing, dancing—mom's idea, not ours—and on the final day, we stayed inside all day and played card games, board games and even attempted to do a family artwork on a large piece of stretched canvas. Bowling sucked, it turns out playing was far more harder than any of us anticipated. Jet skiing was fun, more so when Mitchell was thrown off. He's okay. Dancing was wild, and painting turned out to be a complete shit show. Turned out to be a massive canvas of crappy colors and weird ass shapes and squiggles.

After packing our things into the car, we begin the long journey back home.

I didn't want to leave.

Leaving meant that my mom's cancer was real, and that she would have to stay in hospital while undergoing chemotherapy treatments for the many oncoming weeks.

Leaving meant that everything will change.

And I wasn't ready for change.

I settled in for a long and nauseating drive.

It was 9:12am the following day when we dropped off mom at the hospital for the beginning of her chemotherapy. She was wearing a cozy, white knitted cardigan and pastel blue sweatpants. Her hair was brushed but not styled in her normal updo. Her usual scent of wild vanilla with caramel tones was absent, due to the doctor's orders that she cannot wear perfume during chemo. Mitchell and I each gave her a hug.

"Hopefully I'll be allowed back home tonight, if not, we'll, you'll know where to find me." She tells us.

I let out a small laugh. "You'll be okay, Mom." I encouraged. She will be.