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Instead, he’s leaning forward, body stiff, and I can see the lines that have formed between his brows.
I follow his line of sight, and that’s when I see what he’s scowling at.
A bowl of assorted candies sits on the coffee table before him. He’s glaring at it as if the bowl has offended him.
I don’t make my presence known. Instead, I linger in the shadows, watching him.
My eyes fixate on his hands where they hover over the bowl.
What’s he doing?
Narrowing my eyes, I try to determine what could have him appearing so anxious. Then it dawns on me. It’s the assortment of colors.
A memory pushes its way out of my subconscious. Aiden Slate sitting below the tree. His tree.
A box of Sweet Tarts in his hand. The box I got him because he told me they were his favorite, but as I watched him, he stared down at the box. His face tight. I remember asking what was wrong…
The same thing is happening now.
He’s fighting the desire to pick them out, to sort them.
But eventually, the desire wins. Just like it did when we were younger.
Aiden Slate can’t—won’t eat any color but blue.
He begins his work, meticulously picking the blue out and separating them from the rest.
A mix of emotions surges within me—surprise, then comfort, for as much as things have changed, he’s still the same boy I knew, which leads to an odd sense of relief.
With a deep breath, I move from the shadows so he can see me.
Aiden looks up, and our gazes lock. He furrows his brow and then looks down at the bowl. I don’t need him to tell me how he feels. I know it deep in my bones. If there was one thing he hated back when we lived in the trailer park, it was people seeing his quirks.
No matter how smart or talented Aiden was, his fear of judgment clouded his brain.
He always felt that his quirks put a mark on him. His mother was the worst offender, but unfortunately, she was not the only one.
Other kids would mock him as well. It was always a way for them to ridicule and attempt to bring him down to their level.
I did my best to shelter him from those kids. From the nasty bullies who would do anything to cut another kid off at the knees, just to make themselves feel better about their pathetic lives.
It’s sad that any kid grew up in an environment where that behavior became their method of protecting themselves.
The room is heavy with silence, and his features are hard when he lifts his eyes back up to me. The boy I knew is preparing for ridicule.
Something I would never give him.
Instead of the judgment that he expects, I simply smile.
The hard line of his jaw softens, and I see something familiar in his face…relief.
I move closer, my heart thumping like the wings of a hummingbird, as I sit down beside him. “You know,” I begin, my voice light and teasing, “everyone knows that blue is the only acceptable color.”
The sound of his exhale makes my shoulders uncoil.
I turn to face him. Only a few moments ago, his lips were in a straight line, but now they curl upward into a smirk. The tension between us dissipates, replaced by an unspoken understanding.
Leaning forward, I start to sort the bowl for him.
