Page 31 of The Boy Next Door
For some reason, I watch from the window as Maggie and Clay get into her old station wagon and drive away. Then I stare out into the night.
Dylan likes me, but anytime I wonder if there's any lingering feelings on my part, if I start thinking about Hunter or trying to compare... I can't. Anything I realize or decide isn't just idle speculation, it could lead to a decision, lead to somewhere I'm afraid of going.
Keeping Hunter in my life, sending him away. It's too huge a burden on my shoulders. Of course, he may already have his bags packed. He could head off to New York any second.
"Boy drama seems like the end of the world," Dad says, apparently still in the room. "But remember, college decisions are important too."
"Don't start." That's the last thing I need tonight.
"I'm sure balancing everything is difficult. Still…"
"Did you talk to Mom about me going to school in New York?" I ask, turning around and catching his look of surprise.
"Sorry, seems like you've had a stressful night. I shouldn't have mentioned anything." He mimes zipping his lips.
"That's not an answer." Watching him, I already have an idea and it's not good. I keep pressing anyway. "Did you talk to her about letting me make my own decisions?"
"Son," he starts and hesitates.
He loves you enough not to tell you the brutal truth. Mom's words from earlier come back. And I love you enough to break the news.
"Do you agree with Mom that I can’t handle being so far away on my own?"
"Hey, you're my only child," he says lightly. "You can't blame me for hoping you stay close."
What that means? It means Mom was right.
"Can't believe you," I mutter, a cold feeling settling over me.
"I should have told you about my concerns, but—"
"No, nothing makes this okay!" I explode. "It's my decision, you—"
"I'm terrified!" he hollers. Dad jumps at his own volume, clearing his throat and slumping down on the couch. "Being out on your own, especially if you're far away... Can you really handle yourself? Your mother and I don't want to risk the answer being no."
"Maybe I do. I'm growing up and I should find out what I'm capable of."
Standing up for myself, asserting my adulthood, it should feel empowering. The words feel somewhat hollow. Dad won't even look at me.
"You've built a careful life," he offers quietly. "Why change it now?"
"Because it's my life."
"I know. And maybe you can handle more," he chuckles sadly. "But I can't. Going to art school across the country... You're technically an adult but so unprepared, so many things could go wrong. Do you have any idea?"
He fixes me with a stare—I got my eyes from him—and there's something fierce yet frightened in his.
"I'd lay awake every night, praying you're safe in your dorm. If anything happened to you, it would kill me." The look in his eyes hurts my heart. "I don't want you to be braver. I want you to be scared just like me. I want you to be safe."
We have the same eyes, so it’s like my eyes are pleading with me to see reason. And I...
I'm not so sure of anything anymore.
Mom not believing I could handle life in the big city hurt, though wasn’t a total surprise. Dad’s doubt is crushing. What if they’re both right?
~
In the morning, I never get up for school. Surprisingly, nobody bothers me about this. Maybe I'll stay in my room staring at the ceiling all day. Or until noon when there's a knock at my door.
Seeing Hunter on the other side is a shock.
"Did you break in?" I wonder immediately.
He leans against the door with a sly smile. "Hold on, I'm trying to decide whether I should feel flattered or offended."
"O-oh, one of my parents let you in?" I connect the dots as he looks expectant, clearly waiting for me to allow him inside. Inside my bedroom. "I'm not really in the mood for..."
"Which is probably why I'm allowed into your bedroom."
Hunter's wearing a dark blue sweater, and with his messy blond hair, he just looks so soft. He isn't exactly safe, only tempting enough. Enough to make you come closer, sure he won't bite, but you never really know with wild things.
Still, I move aside to allow him in.
Hunter jumps back when he's halfway inside because I suddenly use the door as a barricade and force him back.
"Wait, you can't come in! My artwork—"
He almost pouts. "You're not going to let me see anything?"
"I'm not exactly getting rave reviews right now."
"Good thing I'm not an art critic." He edges closer with a smile that could steal hearts. "Hey, don't worry. I'm already your biggest fan."
Unable to turn him away, I check over my room quickly. Nothing seems too embarrassing, and I shove most of my art into the closet. My lone R-rated piece, painted due to sudden inspiration after a surprise show from next door, is hidden safely in the very back.
Hunter sits on my bed while I select my VIP painting, the one done in the expressionist style. I chose it partly because I'd once been so sure it would wow, so it'd be nice to get some praise for it. And if he hates it, the excuse that it's not my usual style is ready and waiting.
When I flip the painting around and set it on the easel, I watch for his reaction.
"Huh." His eyes widen as he takes in the painting.
"Not exactly the reaction I hoped for," I say lightly, feeling the frown I try to fight.
"I like it!" He jumps up, stepping closer to the easel to view the 'masterpiece.' "Seriously, it's great. Not what I expected, that's all."
"Yeah, I was assigned expressionism."
His head tilts, looking so serious, as he gets closer and closer to the painting until his nose nearly brushes it. I make a noise and he steps back but keeps on staring. This might be adorable if it weren't my creation he's staring at.
"It's... nice?" he finally decides, not very sure. He seems sheepish. "Sorry, it's only now hitting me that I'm totally clueless about how to react. It's pretty? Is that an okay thing to say?"
"Yeah." I step away, suddenly tired. "Pretty, safe art."
"Oh, I don't know about that."
"I've been reliably informed." Yes, I sound a bit bitter.
Sitting down on my bed, I can't help crossing my arms around me, feeling exposed and unsure.
"Alright, fortunately we've already established I have no business being an art critic," Hunter says, sitting down next to me. "So I can tell you I don't really understand that. Whether it's a picture on the wall or a song on the radio, art is supposed to make you feel, right?"
"I suppose."
"Well, 'safe' is a feeling, so there you go." He nods to the painting. "You did it."
"Thanks..."
"No, look," he insists. "Maybe it wasn't the feeling you were going for, but there's a time and place for safety."
He grabs my hand, waiting until he has my attention before continuing.
"What about a comfy chair by the fireplace, a bowl of something hot cooked by a loved one on a cold day? The arms of somebody you trust giving you a hug? Capturing that feeling, reminding the viewer of a time when they felt safe and warm? There's value there."
Struck by the emotion on his face, the conviction I can suddenly read in his eyes, I look away. I try to see my painting the way he does and it takes my breath away.
"Especially to a person who hasn't felt that way in a long time," he continues quietly. "It isn't always easy to come by, a moment of peace where nothing bad can hurt you. To the right audience, safety isn't nothing. It's everything."
My room becomes so profoundly quiet, I swear I hear both our heartbeats. I can't look at my painting anymore. I feel so overwhelmed I'm afraid to move.
"I'm sorry," Hunter apologizes. "I wasn't trying to be negative."
"I know."
"Oh." He touches my face with his thumb, swiping through the tears on my cheek. "Then why are you crying?"
He may not be an art critic, but it doesn't matter. He's absolutely right. For some people, safety is everything. And whether I want to be or not, I'm one of those people. I’ve tried taking risks and being bold and all I have to show for it is a giant mess.
Hunter is the one bright spot. But he doesn’t need me holding him back. He could have a future in New York. For me, staying close to home, playing it safe, that might be the best I can do.