Page 93 of Just for the Cameras
Rhonda rubs her arm in a comforting way and says, “Would you like to see the pictures again?”
Mom peers at me, her eyes looking directly into mine, and I take that moment to try to push aside all of the anger and hate and let the inner boy come out of me, the one she loves.
Come on, Mom, you can do it.
“M-maybe,” Mom answers, giving me hope as I remain in place, not wanting to move, not wanting to scare her.
Rhonda brings over the album and shows her a picture of Mom and me when I was sixteen, then shows pictures of me throughout the years, how I grew every year until I became the man I am now.
It’s the first time in three weeks that she’s gone through all the pictures in front of me. And when she’s done, her eyes look up at me, and tears start to fill them.
“Oh…baby boy,” she says, holding out her arms. A world of emotion crashes into me as I pull her into a hug, wrapping my arms around her and letting my body sink into the mind of that little boy who lost his mom fourteen years ago.
Tears immediately fill my eyes as I squeeze them shut, and the world around us fades away as I just let myself feel. Let myself hurt. Let myself mourn.
And let myself soak in every second of this, because it’s rare.
“I love you, Mom,” I say, burying my head into the crook of her neck.
Her hand cups the back of my neck, and she holds me even tighter.
“I love you, too, Gray, my little saint. I love you, too.”
CHAPTER 19
MAPLE
I check myself in themirror one more time, hating that I woke up extra early to make sure I looked decent and not like I rolled out of bed and threw some clothes on.
I put on a little bit of mascara to coat my long lashes but left everything else free of makeup. I threw on one of the new sets of workout clothes I purchased this weekend with Everly. We went to an outlet mall, scoured the clearance racks, and were able to find five cute workout sets of sports bras and leggings for fifty dollars. Yeah, fifty. It was crazy. I’ve never bargain shopped so well in my life.
I told myself I was getting clothes because I’d be on camera and not because I didn’t want to look like a poor zookeeper trying to fit in.
And sure, I’m not poor, but I’m not about to spend five hundred dollars on some new leggings just for the hell of it. I use and abuse my clothes until they are just threads on the ground because I don’t see the need to keep buying new ones.
After the outlet, we went to the thrift store, which was a jackpot for all Foghorns gear. I got T-shirts—even though Graydon bought me some, I wanted to cut these up—a cool jean jacket, a sweatshirt, and even a T-shirt jersey with Graydon’s last name and number on the back. Sixty-eight.
I spent twenty dollars and was so excited about them that Everly and I immediately cut them up when we got home, fitting them so they were sleeveless and more like crop tops, without showing any skin.
Today, I went with my navy blue set of leggings and bra, and the neon yellow T-shirt jersey with Graydon’s name and number. I thought about not wearing it as nerves took ahold of me, but Everly thankfully was up early and told me to do it. Do you know how hard it is to put on sportswear with only one good arm? Hard! No one prepared me for that. I was sweating before I had everything on.
So, here I am, waiting for Graydon to pick me up, wearing his number on my back, my leg bouncing up and down with nerves. Nerves because I’m still trying to make sense of what happened when he dropped me off after the fundraiser. He was so…rude and dismissive at the fundraising event. The event was something I was looking forward to, because after getting kicked out of Peru for lack of funding, I realized how important fundraising is. After the event, it was like I was dealing with a different man, and I’m not sure which one is going to show up today.
There’s a knock on the door, startling me out of my thoughts, and I hurry to open it.
Standing at six foot five is Graydon, wearing gray sweatpants, a navy blue Foghorns shirt, and a backward hat. He didn’t shave, so his scruff is extra thick, his lips look like he just applied a balm, and his eyes almost seem…clear, not clouded in anger like they usually are.
“Morning,” he says, holding out a cup of coffee from Roads, the coffee shop where we met with Gretchen. I realize it’s just around the corner from here. I can’t believe I never noticed it.
“Um, good morning,” I say, slightly disturbed that he’s not scowling at me or yapping at me to get a move on. I take the to-go cup from him, the smell of caffeine waking me up. “Thank you.”
Eyeing me over his lid, he sips his coffee and I watch the way his thick throat contracts as he swallows. Why is that so annoyingly hot? He nods at my outfit and says, “Nice shirt.”
Oh my God, was that a compliment?
Consider my pearls clutched, because did Graydon St. John pull the stick out of his ass this morning?
I think he very well did.
