College Ruled

thirty-one

31
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FROM MY mother's house, the Katz family cabin is conveniently two and a half hours away.

      It would have been more convenient if Grayson didn't turn out to be the worst back-seat driver.

      He spends half of the ride anxiously palming the dashboard, and the other half ordering me to slow down when I'm already crawling to a stop at one of the endless traffic lights we happen upon. He readjusts in his seat about a million times, his hurt leg awkwardly stretched as straight as he can get it in the small space at his feet, and he shuts off every attempt I make at turning the radio on.

       By the time we pull into the graveled driveway of the small wooden cabin, I'm so happy to be out from behind the wheel that I practically jump from the car before I even put it into park.

       The wind is cold and heavy; it pulls the half of my hair not tucked into my bow away from my neck, tangling the strands together as I round the car and attempt to help Grayson with his crutches.

      I grab them from the back seat and hand them off as he unfolds himself from the car.

       "So," I say, pushing the door shut behind him, "this is the infamous cabin."

       "The one and only." He awkwardly hobbles toward the front door, crutches lopsidedly crunching through loose rock.

       Silence hangs thick in the air, the only sound in the night being our footsteps and the jingle of Grayson's keys as he fumbles with them in his palm. Then, once he finds the right one and twists it into the lock, it's the creaking screech of the thick, wooden door that spills at our feet.

       Grayson holds the door open for me with one hand and flips the light on with the other.

       For how eerie it appeared outside, the inside is cozy in the golden lamp light. Dark wood covers the floor and walls, all drifting to the heart of the room, which seems to be the tall, log-adorned fireplace that immediately draws the eye. Beside it, the farthest wall consists mainly of windows — wide and pitch-black in the expanse of the outdoors beyond them.

       The door groans shut behind me as I move around the leather couch toward the unlit fire. The mantel is lined with photos: Old school portraits, a few snow-covered shots of Grayson with both his parents, a couple featuring a middle-aged man holding a hooked fish.

       I pick up one of the front portraits where a young Grayson flashes a wide, tooth-gaped smile. His round freckled cheeks are flushed, dark hair mused and shaggy; I can practically picture a rebellious little Grayson, running straight out of gym class just to turn away one of the useless combs the photographers would always hand out. Young, disheveled, and proud.

       It's disturbingly adorable.

      "So..." I return the photo back among the rest of the arranged frames, soft smile dropping as the events of the past night creep up on me once more. "That was a shit-show, wasn't it?"

      A humorless laugh answers me. "Your mom's a bitch." At my raised brow, he holds his hands up. "Sorry, sorry — kind of. Your mom's kind of a bitch."

      A rough laugh sags out of me, brows crumbling as I squeeze my eyes shut. "I know. God, I'm so sorry. I forced you to abandon your own family and for what? For that? I feel awful." My words come out in a rush, muffled by the hands I bury my face into. "Did you even get enough to eat? On top of everything, if I made you leave hungry, I—"