Seeing Shane Gray ✓

forty six | gray

December 7

*.*.*.*.*.*

"Call me when you get home," Riley says.

I nod without really hearing her, though, and I hear her footsteps receding into the distance. It isn't until Shane is sure I'm not going to make the first move that he walks over to me, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat and hair dancing in the subtle wind.

It's strange how the sight of him fills me with so many conflicting emotions. It feels nice to see him, especially since he came here particularly because he expected to find me -- since he didn't take the test -- but it also makes me wonder why he couldn't have just called. Maybe it's his way of showing me how much he really cares, coming in person to make sure I hear what he has to say.

Or maybe I'm overthinking as usual.

The redness in his eyes and the messy hair, the bags under his eyes and stiffness in his shoulders ... it makes me question everything I know about perfection.

Shane Gray is perfect, we all say. We all think. We all know.

Shane Gray is human and flawed just like the rest of us.

"Hey," he greets, sounding breathless.

"Hey," I answer.

We drift into silence and my mind begins to whirr, reminding me of everything Shane had said the last time we had been face-to-face. The memory stings but I shake my head to clear it of the thoughts.

There's no use holding onto the past and who knows this better than I do? I've been clinging to the memory of Carter so long I can barely go on without remembering him with every breath and every tick of the clock. It's time to let go. It's time to move on, not only from Carter but also everything else that has hurt me. Including the bitter truth Shane slapped in my face the last time we met.

"Taylor, I'm sorry about everything I said," he says.

Shane's face is stricken, his brow furrowed and lips turned downward. He takes a step forward but catches himself as if he can tell which way my thoughts have traveled.

"It's okay," I say quickly. "You didn't say anything wrong."

"All of it was wrong, every word."

"You were only stating facts."

"I was being an asshole."

"Doesn't matter. It helped me in the long run."

"It matters because I hurt you."

We go quiet again and the wind continues to whistle. The sun plays hide and seek behind the clouds, leaving us in light-hearted darkness that predicts a storm brewing out of sight.

I sigh, closing my eyes and opening them again to smile at Shane. "Okay, yes, you did," I say. "But I'm okay. It hurt but it helped. Like my insulin shots?" I chuckle. "Weird analogy, I know. But ... I got into therapy with my parents and I'm positive it's going to help us. That's all that matters. You can relax and sleep in peace. I'm not mad at you."

"Yes, you are," Shane says in a small voice. "You wouldn't be so distant now if you weren't. You hate me, my parents hate me, everyone hates me."

"Nobody hates you, Shane," I correct him. "Except maybe yourself."

My words are bitter but they're true, just as his had been. We're so used to living and breathing lies that we close our eyes to the truth that is staring us in the face. We play blind and act like we can't see it. We can, we just choose not to.