The grainy video, thanks in part to the time and the cheap camera quality, is at least ten years old. The video starts by showing the back of a taller blond guy, towering over a body curled in the fetal position on the floor.
When his head turns toward the camera, I see red.
Hunter lying on the ground, his top lip busted open and blood trickling down it and covering his teeth in red. His eyes squeezed shut in pain. Everyone just stood around, watching it happen and recording. No one did anything to stop it.
And that’s fine, Matt can think he’s a big man on campus, but that changes. Now.
That’s how I ended up at 172 Woodward Ave., tucked peacefully in a row of houses in a quiet neighborhood.
Matt’s parents have owned this house since the early 2000s. The same two people who have constantly defended their son, bailed him out, and used their influence on the community to help him escape facing the consequences of his actions. Giving him a cushy life that he doesn’t deserve. And I’m here to change that.
The baked zitithat Hunter pulls out of the oven smells delicious, fresh garlic filling the air with its aroma and making my mouth water. Hunter is an amazing cook, and when he asked me to come over for dinner, I couldn’t say no. Can you blame me?
I set the table while he grabs a bottle of wine out of the fridge, the fancy name too long for me to remember. Cheryl told me it’s his favorite, so I made sure to stock up on it before I came over here.
“Did you drink when you were with Trent?” I ask curiously, and the question probably comes across as rude, but I just want to know. Mostly to make sure that Hunter wasn’t limiting himself on stuff he liked just because he was with Trent.
“Yes, I had a glass or two of wine with dinner. Why?”
“No reason,” I answer hurriedly.
Hunter huffs in irritation and comes over to stand beside me, my gaze is still pinned on the fine china I have set out for us to eat on. “Trent always told me he didn’t mind, just because he was sober didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy it.” Now I feel like an asshole, because Trent has always said the same thing to me, and I don’t drink often, but after he confided in me that he was getting sober, I took it upon myself to cut back on drinking. Especially when we would go out to dinner. Instead of a sealed bottle of beer, I would order a sealed bottle of water. I was used to making weird requests, and Trent didn’t seem to mind.
“Have you talked to him?” Hunter asks, with no edge to his tone.
“Some.” I shrug my shoulders, and he steps closer and wraps his arm around my back.
“Some?” His eyebrow quirks up, and my lips tilt into the barest hint of a smile.
“He’s been busy, you know that. With Kian and everything.” Hunter nods sympathetically,
“You need to talk to him. He’s your best friend.” I snort, the sound loud and obnoxious.
“I’m serious, Adam. He always talked about your friendship…” When he trails off, I realize what the real problem is. He doesn’t want to cause issues between me and Trent. Damn him and his big heart and wanting to fix problems that aren’t his to try and fix.
“I’ll talk to him, Collins. I promise.” I kiss the crown of his head, inhaling his coconut and honey shampoo. He tips his head up, his brown eyes sparkling. My hand moves of its own accord, cupping the back of his head and rubbing the pad of my thumb across his pulse point, the blood thundering just under the thin skin pounding against my finger. His dark brown eyes, bold with contentment, stare deep inside me. He’s breathtaking, and I watch him, taking him fully in. The person who owns my heart and my soul.
I want to kiss him. I yearn to lean down and press my lips against his, swallowing the quiet sounds he makes and owning them for myself. But I won’t, not until he shows me that he’s ready. I promised him I would do everything in my power to protect his heart, and I’m going to.
I grasp his upper arms in my hands and detach myself from him, clearing my throat. “I’m starving.” He chuckles and brings the rest of the food over to set on the table.
“Let’s eat, then.”
Hunter tells me about his day at the bookstore. There’s always a new story about customers being great, or not so great, but either way, he’s always so excited to tell me about it. And I love listening to it.
I sent him a picture of the sunrise this morning on my way into the office, showing him my view and wishing he were here to witness it with me. It used to be our thing, and maybe it can be again. We can still enjoy the same things we used to. The story game on road trips, walking trails, especially if there’s water involved. I have ventured into reading more books that he stocks at his store, so our conversations are never dull.
“So, theMattthing.” Hunter says the nameMattlike it’s a rare, highly contagious, and deadly disease. I reach my hand out to set it on top of his, enjoying the warmth of his skin against mine. He flips his over and entwines our fingers, and I smile widely at him, even though he’s too busy looking down at the empty wine glass in front of him.
“Would you like another drink before you tell me?” He nods his head, and I push back my chair and grab the bottle to pour him another glass. Setting it in front of him, I stand behind him, massaging his shoulders to help him relax while he takes small sips. When his shoulders finally loosen enough to rest in a natural position, I sit back down in my chair.
“He used to torment me in high school, badly. To the point I was scared to go to school.” I’m glad I took care of this issue earlier, because if I had to sit here and listen to it, I know the pain I would have inflicted on Matt would have been worse. Just watching Hunter’s face while he recalls the pain he went through has me reaching out for him. He stands up from his seat and comes over to mine, sitting in my lap with our chests pressed together.
“His go-to insult was alwaysweird;it wasn’t super effective at first. And that’s when the beatings started, randomly at first, so I was always on edge when the next one would come.” He drags in a shaky breath, and I soothe my hands up and down his back. “But then it got worse, and worse. His parents didn’t care, the teachers didn’t care. No one cared.”
His voice breaks, and I feel my own eyes well up in empathy with his pain, knowing what he went through, and knowing that what I did inadvertently hurt him and took him back to those times. I’ve apologized, and nothing I say can take it back. But I will make sure to show him how much I want to take care of him. I want to build an altar dedicated to him, and put offerings on it all day every day to show him how treasured he is.
“I’m sorry,” he says, attempting to dislodge his arms from me to wipe the tears from his eyes. I stop him, wiping the tears with my fingers, watching the glistening drops cover the tips.
