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Riley Johnson is not perfect.
And I refuse to be the dead sparrow.
I am the Monarch butterfly — free and reborn.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Grayson — 16 years old (Sophomore year)
I never thought of myself as a stalker.
I mean, they did send me an invitation. So why am I standing here, outside the restaurant, looking on at them like some kind of pathetic stalker?
Honestly, I don’t know.
It’s been a year since I’ve last seen my sister.
What am I supposed to say to her? Do I hug her? Will she still recognize me? Will she run to me when she sees me? Am I still the slayer of dragons…or has her adopted father taken on that role now?
I know I shouldn’t be jealous of a grown-ass adult, who probably loves Naomi as much as I do, but damn — I’m envious that they get to watch her grow, they get to be with her, when I can’t do the same.
Mikael and Rehya have kept their promises, sending me photos of Naomi over the last few months. Today is the first time I’ve received an invitation to come see her.
On her birthday.
Exactly a year after.
But a lot has changed in a year.
She’s changed. Naomi is taller, and her curly, thick hair is longer. Her eyes are bluer, which I thought was impossible, but they really are a brighter blue.
And she talks now.
Not a lot, not frequently…but she talks.
Naomi has a speech impediment — she stutters.Mikael and Rehya have put her through speech therapy, but nonetheless, she’s happy in her life now. She’s a bright, smart and beautiful little princess, who has everything she deserves.
Good memories and proud parents.
I have changed. Somehow.
Though if someone was to ask me how I’ve changed, I wouldn’t have an answer.
I’m not Grayson Avery anymore. Benjamin and Naveah Hale legally adopted me two months ago. I can still vividly remember the proud smile on their faces once the papers were finalized.
I am Grayson Hale now.
Uncle Ben says I’ve always been a Hale — that I’ve always been a part of them.
Except, it has taken me sixteen years to get here. Some days, I still feel like I don’t belong anywhere. Sometimes, I still feel lost — just a body wandering around, waiting for another shitstorm. But that’s why Uncle Ben has sent me to therapy, which I go to routinely.
It doesn’t really help because I hate talking. To anyone, really.
I like the solitude that comes with silence. I’m better at studying people, than making small talk. Less words are always better than unnecessary ones that usually end up as lies. The more people talk, the more lies we tell.
Yeah, silence is always better.
“Are you going inside or you gonna continue lurking here?”
