Crayons

Chapter 29

When I finally open my eyes the clock tells me it's late, definitely past visiting hours. But when I look around I find Zach slumped over, sitting in a chair, but with his head laying on the bed. His eyes are closed and his breathing easy, obviously asleep. When I glance around the room again I notice another set of balloons on the bedside table, just like the ones Adam brought me yesterday. I try to adjust myself in the bed to get a bit more comfortable, accidentally moving and waking Zach.

"Willow?" he asks groggily, as if someone else would be in the bed.

"Zach, what are you doing here?" I question. When he doesn't answer immediately I state, "It's late, you should be at home or something."

"I'll choose the 'or something,'" he remarks, giving me a smirk as he stretches, "How are you feeling?"

I shrug my shoulders, "Just tired, but much better than I did the other day." I look back at the clock on the wall, "Why didn't you wake me up earlier? You don't have to just wait for me to wake up you know."

"But you're so cute when you sleep," he leans forward, attempting to pinch my cheek. I slap his hand away with a giggle. "I'm kidding," he claims. "The nurses said to let you sleep and not to wake you. So, I waited instead."

I give him a smile, "Okay, well thank you." He nods like he's proud of himself.

"I talked to my mom," he starts, quickly running a hand through his hair. He pauses, looking at me, and I nod to keep him going, "She said you can stay with us in our guest bedroom. She actually said she's excited to meet you." His smile is bright, almost as bright as the sun.

"And what does Zandria think of the arrangement?"

He makes a nervous sounding chuckle under his breath, "She wasn't happy about the whole idea, but I think she will be manageable." A few moments of awkward silence follow, both of us looking around the room blindly. "Adam and Diana brought you more balloons today, while you were sleeping. They couldn't stay because Diana had to be home by a certain time though."

I ignore his words, asking the question that's been crawling up my throat, "Does your mother know what my color is?"

He answers immediately, "It didn't come up in the conversation."

"How would something that important not come up in the conversation?" I wonder to him. He opens his mouth to respond, but I don't give him the time, "Do you want to keep that information from her?" My fists clench in anticipation of him saying he does, my heart waiting for the blow it expects. When he doesn't say anything for a few moments I make a claim, "She deserves to know that a murderer will be staying in her house."

He grabs the fist lying in my lap, softly prying open my fingers and intertwining ours together, his eyes searching mine for something. Something I'm not entirely sure he'll find. "Willow," he starts, his voice warm and comforting, "please, listen to me." I give him what I think appears like a stern glare and he continues, "You are not a murderer. You are a Crayon, but being a Crayon is not who you are. You are Willow Gray, a brave, sincere, scared, beautiful, and passionate human being."

I look away, my eyes traveling to the other side of the room. My stomach erupts with a warm and swirling feeling, his words stirring something inside of me. This must be the something he was searching so hard for in my eyes. He doesn't stop talking, "I don't care if my mom knows about your color or not, Willow. You want to know why?" I don't answer. "Because no matter what she has to say about it, it won't change anything. If you'll feel better knowing she knows then I'll go home tonight and explain everything." He squeezes my hand, "I really just don't want her to judge you on your color before getting to know you as a person, is that so bad?"