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Gray
I didn’t turn on the lights in my office, and now that the sun has set I can barely see across the room. The entire floor has emptied of people, maybe the entire building. Pushing my chair back, I roll the dark red sleeping bag out from under my desk and nudge it toward the center of the room. It’s not a bad sleeping bag, really, lined with a soft checked flannel that reminds me of my favorite bedding as a child.
Everything went exactly to plan today, at the opening of the trial. Colson sat on the far side of the room from me and presented his statement, but we never spoke to each other, not even in front of the judge. At that distance, I could almost pretend he was someone else, with how much he’s changed after almost ten years.
There’s no reason for me to sleep in my office.
But if I go home, my apartment will be empty. Just like during Victor’s trial, the nights I couldn’t stand to be awake but found myself physically unable to sleep, when loneliness filled up the rooms like dark water all the way to the ceiling.
Then I think of Jonah, how fucking pissed he’d be if I skipped dinner and slept under my desk. Not that he’ll ever know. He didn’t text me about the meeting with his friends.
Groaning, I abandon the sleeping bag and start the long walk home. Halfway back, I step into a grimy corner store playing ABBA over the speakers and pick up the first thing I see, an egg sandwich wrapped in plastic and shoved in a cardboard box with a satsuma and a Kit Kat bar.
My upstairs hallway is so dark I have to crouch down to look under the mat—a plain black one, notDachshund Dad—for Jonah’s key. I fumble around on the grainy tile, but can’t find it. He must have forgotten. Maybe he’ll bring it by the office sometime and I can see him for a minute.
I push the front door open, surprised that I left the light on, and the first thing I see are those filthy white sneakers with the backs crushed down.
Jonah’s sitting at the kitchen counter in his hoodie and jean shorts and knitted socks, his feet all tangled up in the legs of his stool. There’s a chocolate cupcake on a plate in front of him with a red and blue striped birthday candle sticking out of it. He sits up as I drop my bag and digs a lighter out of his pocket. I stand there with my hands hanging at my sides, staring, as he flicks the lighter about fifteen times, mumblingfucking come on, and finally succeeds. He lights the birthday candle with care, then turns to me, grinning sheepishly. “Congratulations, big guy.”
“I have no fucking idea what’s going on right now.”
He bounces his palm on the counter. “You got through the first day of your trial!”
“It’s a birthday cake.”
“Right. Take me to the store and show me thegood job on your opening statementscakes.”
“You’re supposed to be at Elliott’s house.”
He shrugs. “Figured I’d swing by on my way.”
I glance around the whole massive, dark apartment full of things I never chose, with him right there in the center, so blinding I can barely look at him. He watches as I take off my shoes and come over to inspect the cupcake.
“Make a wish,” he teases, propping his chin on his hand and grinning at the withering look I send him. “Fine.” He snuffs the candle with his fingers, pulls it out of the cake, and sticks the frosting end in his mouth. “Did it go well?”
“Everyone recited their scripts. No surprises.”
“You feel good about it?” Sucking the candle clean, he uses it to scoop up another piece of frosting.
For a moment I wonder if he’s real, or if I fell asleep alone in my room, recounting the day to my voice recorder. Those fucking dreams, where I just talked and he listened so carefully, like no one ever has. “I don’t know. The defenseneedsOliver to settle, by any means necessary, and I know they’re working on something. I wish I felt a little more prepared for whatever that might be.”
“Would it be that bad if he settled?” He licks up his third dollop of frosting. “He’d still get a ton of money, right?”
“Is this my cake or yours?” I pick up a fork and carve out a bite of the stale, artificially flavored dessert. Unlike the beer, this is something I could get used to. “I’m starting to think money is the opposite of justice. It allows the corrupt to exert control over the innocent with no consequences.”
“Like Victor.”
“Yes.”
“But Oliver’s not Victor.”
I stop with a bite of cake balanced on my fork and study his face. “What’s your point?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. The deep thought-wrinkles in his forehead smooth away and he shrugs. “I don’t know. I talked to Elliott and Sophie today,” he adds after a moment. I swallow quickly.
“How did it go?”
“Good.” He rubs his stump, his eyes filling up with something delicate and hopeful. “Fantastic. They totally support me. And after I talked to them, I called some mechanic shops in the neighborhood and asked if I could come in to talk about apprenticeships.”
