I Am Grey

by Washington, Jane

  “It was nothing,” I said eventually. “She didn’t need to call you.”

  “You were doing fine this week.” He sounded momentarily perplexed.

  “That was days ago. Ages ago. Years ago.” I finally cracked my eyes open.

  His mouth twitched, a semblance of a smile that lacked any real humour.

  “For someone who refuses to speak most of the time …” his words were delivered on a sigh as he leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, “you communicate your emotions perfectly, Mika.”

  “Grey,” I found myself correcting. “My name is Grey.”

  For some inexplicable reason, anger flashed in his eyes. He shook his head and then turned, signalling the server. She came over, handing him a menu. He glanced at it briefly before arching an eyebrow at me.

  “Tea or coffee?”

  I fumbled for an answer, my brain scattering in too many different directions. We were staying?

  When I didn’t reply, he ordered a pot of tea and handed the menu back, his arms re-folding over his chest. I wanted him to take his jacket off and reveal the tattoo on his arm. I wanted him to tell me about how he used to be a deviant.

  “So, are you going to tell me about what upset you today, Mika?”

  “Grey.”

  “Mika.” His voice had darkened, carrying the hint of a growl. “That’s your name.”

  “You’re off-balance,” I muttered, shocked. He had lost his composure. I had known him for two months now, two months of seeing him several days a week, and this was the first time that he had ever lost his composure.

  “It happens,” he eventually replied, setting his forearms against the side of the table, linking his fingers together and regarding me with a tinge of anger still simmering beneath the surface of his eyes. It was the third time he had shifted position, but his shoes were still framing mine.

  “Are you angry that you had to come here?” I asked.

  “No.” That humourless smile was back. “It might not be conventional, but I want to be there when you need me. I’m glad she called me.”

  “What are you pissed about, then?”

  “You won’t let yourself need me.”

  “You want me to need you?”

  He became very still, his eyes fixed to mine, his breath halting.

  It was happening again; he was weaving his spell over me, suspending time and morals as he stared too far into me. Thankfully, the waitress returned, breaking the intense moment and placing a little teapot on the table, two cups beside it. There was a little container of honey with a plastic spoon—I reached for it, poking at the honey while Nicholai took hold of the teapot.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly.

  He poured me a cup, confiscating the honey from me and adding it to my tea before setting the cup in front of me. I stared at it until he sighed again.

  “Drink, Mika.”

  “You drink, Nicholai,” I returned, annoyed at the way my hands reached reflexively for the cup, raising it to my lips.

  I blew on it as I watched the shock pass over his features. He hadn’t been expecting me to use his name. Or maybe he hadn’t been expecting me to reply at all.

  “Mr. Fell,” he reminded me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Nicholai,” I spoke calmly. “That’s your name.”

  He laughed, the sound sudden and welcome, like hot water wrapping around my skin and filling up my lungs. I wanted to drown in that laugh.

  “Talk to me, smartass.”

  And just like that, it spilled out. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was running, and the next, I was breaking down. I was thinking about the Pigeon Point Lighthouse and how I used to visit it with my parents.”

  “It’s good to break down sometimes. It needs to get out one way or another. Do you have good memories of the lighthouse?”

  “Is it still a good memory if it isn’t real?”

  “Why isn’t it real?”

  “Because they can’t have been happy. It’s impossible. They must have been pretending.”

  “Your parents were only human. If they could pretend for so long, so convincingly, they must have believed a part of it.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” I sighed, sipping down more of the tea. It tasted like lemongrass and honey. It was comforting, just like Nicholai’s voice. I hated that he had known what would comfort me. I hated that he always had an answer, and that his answers always seemed to make so much sense. “I have to be somewhere.”

  I slapped the cup down on the table and moved to stand, but Nicholai rose faster. He was already extracting a bill from his wallet. He tucked it under the teapot and spun around, stalking out of the shop. His sudden mood change shocked me. It shocked me enough that I followed him before I even realised what I was doing. He cut across the street, tugging off his jacket as though he couldn’t bear the weight of the material a second longer. When he reached the beach, he started walking toward the lighthouse. The group of kids turned to stare at him. One of the girls smiled. She thought he was young enough to flirt with.

  She had no idea.

  He vanished behind the lighthouse and I had to run to catch up to him again. He had disappeared, but his jacket was lying on one of the boulders that marked the beginning of the small, rocky decline stepping down to the water. It was steep enough to have hidden him until I drew to the edge. He was almost at the base now, and I started to climb down after him. He turned then, watching me.

  I had no idea what was happening, but I couldn’t stop it.

  “Come here,” he ground out, even though I was moving toward him. “Do you have a cell on you?”

  “No.”

  “Keys?”

  “No.” I kept my keys beneath the bucket outside the door of my RV. The bucket that his bonsai was planted in.

  “Anything that can’t get wet?”

  “No …”

  “Good,” he snapped, striding forward and grabbing me.

  He was only holding my upper arms, but the sudden movement was too unlike him. Too explosive. Too … possessive.

  “You need to know something,” he said lowly, raising me until the toes of my sneakers were barely touching the sand and his eyes were looming closer. “I can help you, but it’ll get me fired. I’ve been working toward this career for nine years, but you could end it all in a moment if you let me into your life. You might be the first person I ever really help … and the last. Do you understand all of this?”

  I found myself nodding, but his mouth tightened into a scowl. He had wanted me to think about it. To weigh up what he had said and make a decision. Well, fuck him.

  “I’m going to break almost every fucking rule with you, except one.” He drew me higher, my shoes leaving the sand completely. I could smell him again—that frigid, ocean-breeze scent. I could feel him, too. Barely. His chest was hard beneath the soft material of his shirt; the sleeves falling to his wrists, still covering his tattoos. His thighs brushed against mine, his fingers curling inward where he held me.

  “One rule, Mika.” His eyes were narrowing again, the blue darkening to a velvety black. “There’s one line I won’t cross.” His eyes landed on my mouth and he paused, hauling in a breath at the same time as he pressed me against his chest, stepping back towards the water. “Me and you. It’ll never happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not five years from now. Not when some dickhead breaks your heart, or when you realise what your little sundresses do to everyone. Not when you’re thirty, not when you’re fifty. I’m going to push your limits, break you down, make you cry, and in the end … I’ll save you.”

  The shock was starting to wear off now. I had followed him almost in a trance, but I was starting to come to my senses.

  “You treat all your patients this way, Mr. Fell?” I reared back, just in time to catch his mouth twitching.

  “You’re not my patient anymore. I can’t chance the years it’ll take to set you straight. I can’t watch you f
uck it all away like so many others, offering you pills and advice in between the suicide attempts.”

  “I don’t want to play your game,” I spat, unable to help the anger that rose in reaction to the spark in his eyes. “Just give me the pills and advice and mind your own god-damned business in-between the suicide attempts.” The outburst shocked even me. What did I care? What did it matter? I wanted to go back to the coffee shop, to the guarded man who had mixed honey into my tea.

  This man was insane.

  “You want to be numb,” Nicholai retorted. “And it’ll work … until life slaps you in the face.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” I realised that our faces were suddenly only inches apart.

  I could feel every breath he took before he exhaled in the rise and fall of his chest against mine. Each one came faster than the one before it. It made heat curl in the base of my stomach, and I quickly looked away, not wanting him to be able to read it in my eyes. He might have turned all the rules upside down, but he had made it clear … there was still one line that he was never going to cross.

  “I’m going to wake you up,” he replied.

  And then I was flying.

  The cold water rushed over my head, pushing me under. The bank rose beneath my knees, sinking sand and shifting rocks a momentary comfort before another wave rolled over me. I pushed to the surface, gasping. He was walking away, wading back to the shore. I hadn’t even noticed that he had been pulling us out, into the ocean.

  Was I really that blind?

  I couldn’t believe that he had tossed me. He was crazy. Maybe all psychologists were crazy. Maybe that was how they understood us so well; because they had already asked themselves all of the dark questions that crept into the backs of our minds, because they had already acted on all the horrible impulses that shadowed our steps, because they had already spoken all of the damning words that we worked our whole lives to swallow.

  What was that saying again?

  Those who can’t do … teach.

  7

  Packages

  “Grey? What are you doing in there?” Duke shouted, banging his fists against the door of the RV.

  I was sitting on my bed, staring at Nicholai’s jacket. The dark sports jacket he had left at the beach after tossing me into the water. I wasn’t stupid: I knew that he had left it deliberately, I knew that he hadn’t wanted me to walk all the way home, sopping wet and freezing.

  So then why had he thrown me into the fucking ocean?

  Duke tried the door handle, realising it wasn’t locked. He pushed it open, stepped inside and swung his eyes my way. He paused, his hand still on the handle, his dark eyes running up my legs. I was only wearing small sleep shorts and an oversized shirt.

  “Are you still sleeping?” he asked. “It’s noon.”

  “You always sleep until noon,” I returned, my voice unemotional.

  “It’s noon on a school day.” His lips were curving into a smirk. “I missed seeing you walk past my place. I thought you were sick or something.”

  “Did you come to take care of me?” I laughed as I spoke, because the idea was too absurd.

  Duke frowned. “I came to catch you in bed, in your cute little pajamas. Obviously.” He closed the door behind him, striding toward the tiny alcove-bedroom. “So, are you sick or what?”

  “I don’t want to go to school.”

  “Let’s go out then.”

  “Fine.” I struggled upright, kicking Nicholai’s jacket to the floor.

  I hadn’t been so angry at him the night before, or the day after that … but I had woken in a burning fury on Monday morning, with the looming promise of school. He wasn’t allowed to step outside of his role. He wasn’t allowed to force me to feel anything. I liked feeling nothing. With that decisive thought, I closed my eyes, willing the anger to fade away. When I opened my eyes again, Duke was leaning against the fridge, a dark eyebrow cocked in question.

  “Finished saying your prayers, princess?”

  I ignored him, walking to the tiny closet and reaching for one of my usual sundresses. I paused, my fingers clinched in the material.

  Not today, not tomorrow, not five years from now. Not when some dickhead breaks your heart, or when you realise what your little sundresses do to everyone …

  I drew back, grabbing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt instead. It was windy outside, anyway. I pulled the curtains over the front of the bedroom, shutting Duke out as I quickly changed my clothes. I really needed to take a shower, but I doubted that he would wait. After I was done, I followed him to the visitor’s lot at the front of Summer Estate, where a black truck sat waiting.

  “This your truck?” I asked, climbing up into the passenger seat.

  “It’s not my mom’s,” he answered, turning the engine over and pulling out of the lot.

  I flicked the little bobble-head stuck to the dash—it was one of those typical hula-girls, but someone had painted over her bikini top so that it looked like her boobs were hanging out. “I guess not.”

  “It’s lucky that you’re here.” He cranked his window down before punching the radio on and turning the volume down. “I could use your help with something.”

  What a coincidence. “Yeah. Lucky.”

  “I gotta deliver a package but I’m banned from the place it needs to be delivered to. It’s nothing big. Think you can take it in for me?”

  “Okay.”

  He paused, turning to look at me, and then he was pulling the truck over to the side of the road. Someone passed us, blasting their horn.

  “Do you say yes to everything?” Duke asked. A strange stillness seemed to have overcome him.

  I shrugged.

  He leaned forward, his hand on my chin, tugging my mouth to his. He kissed me curiously, but with heat. His teeth scraped over my lower lip, a gravelly sound travelling from the back of his throat. “You have no idea … but I’m going to teach you.”

  I pulled back, turning my face to the window. He chuckled, unaware—or uncaring—of the fury that was sweeping through me. He pulled back onto the road, turning the radio up. Blink 182’s ‘What’s My Age Again?’ vibrated through the speakers, setting my teeth together until I was clenching my jaw so hard that I was surprised it didn’t crack.

  I already had someone ‘teaching’ me things. I didn’t need another teacher. Correction: I didn’t want another teacher.

  “We’re here,” he told me, several minutes later, pulling up outside a butcher’s store and turning down the radio.

  “Here?” I pointed to the sign reading ‘Dunn’s Meats.’

  He nodded. “Yeah. Make sure they pay you.”

  I glanced down at the package that had landed on my lap. It was wrapped in plastic, only white paper visible beneath.

  “What’s this?” I asked, holding it up, testing its weight.

  “Why are you asking so many questions today?”

  “Someone tossed me into the ocean. It pissed me off.”

  He blinked, but just as quickly shook off his surprise. He reached over me for the door handle, pushing my door open. “Don’t forget the money.”

  I jumped out and made my way across the street. I felt odd, now that I was outside. I didn’t usually wear jeans or sweatshirts until winter. The bulky fabric felt like a hindrance, weighing down my shoulders and hanging over my hands. I set the package down on a bench for a moment, pulling the sweatshirt off. I still had a thin white tank on beneath. It wasn’t exactly warm enough for the fall weather, but I preferred to be cold anyway.

  I picked up the package again and pushed into Dunn’s Meats, casting my eyes around the store. There was a fan mounted on the wall, oscillating languidly—it pushed my hair from my shoulders, drying the perspiration that had begun to gather across the back of my neck from the sweatshirt. There was a young guy behind the counter, his eyes focussed on the slab of meat that he was cutting up. There was some movement through the plastic curtain leading into a back room, but I couldn�
�t make out how many people were back there. There was no other customers.

  “I have a package,” I announced, moving to the register, where I could see the guy properly.

  He looked up, paused, and then moved to stand opposite me, pulling off his blood-smeared plastic gloves. “Huh?”

  “This.” I plonked the shrink-wrapped thing onto the counter and folded my arms. I didn’t really have any more of an explanation to give. I should have clarified with Duke who I was supposed to deliver the package too, exactly.

  “I see,” said the guy, picking up the package and weighing it in his hand, much like I had in the truck. “And who the fuck are you?”

  Since he had reacted with such hostility, I took a moment to really examine him. He was younger than Duke, probably around my own age. He had grey eyes, narrowed in suspicion, and there was a small ring in the corner of his lip. A tattoo coiled around his neck, like a collar. His nametag said Trip.

  “Grey.”

  “Grey?” he repeated, dropping the package back to the counter and folding his arms, his posture matching mine. His muscles flexed, drawing my eyes down for a moment. “Grey—like the colour?”

  He looked meaner than Duke.

  “Grey—like a grey wolf.”

  His mouth quirked at the corner, right where the piercing was. He flicked his eyes lower, craning his neck slightly to see the rest of me behind the counter. “I’m not seeing it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a pup, not a wolf.”

  I wasn’t going to play his game. “Duke sent me in.”

  “You Duke’s girlfriend?” He relaxed then, but it seemed put-on. The way a wild animal pretended to grow quiet and still right before it attacked.

  “We kiss sometimes.”

  He laughed, his eyes growing lighter for a moment before his hand snaked out, grabbing a hold of my tank. He pulled me up against the counter and then immediately released me, his finger tapping against my lips.

  “Do you kiss other people sometimes, too?”

  “No.”