Worth Every Cent (Worth It 2)

“This room could use a little more lighting,” I said.

“Yeah, I was about to say it looks a little dark with the clouds rolling in overhead,” Gray said.

“I’ll go into the attic and try to find something. Maybe you could walk around the other rooms and see if it’s possible to steal a lamp or two from there.”

“You sure you don’t want me going into the attic?”

“I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll be right back!”

I struggled a little bit to get the attic staircase down, but once I was up there the searching was easy. Until I tripped over my own two feet. At least, I thought I’d tripped over my feet.

It wasn’t until I looked down that I realized I’d actually tripped over a photo album.

I sat down on top of one of th

e boxes and picked it up. Part of me wondered if this was the photo album Gray had opened up during our first trip up to the attic. I smiled at the faded front cover and ran my hands over it. So many memories trapped between its pages. I opened the front cover and began flipping through the photos, but instead of finding smiling pictures and happy memories, I found something that made tears rush to my eyes.

Pictures of a tall, gangly teenager with his arms covered in bruises. Pictures of the tall boy running around with his shirt off. I could see every divot of his spine and every rib in his ribcage. His shoulder blades jutted out and every muscle was defined from hunger. I ran my fingers across the pages, taking in the anger the boy’s eyes held. Page after page, I flipped. Finding more bruises and more scars, watching that small boy grow up before my eyes.

The photo album slowly told the story of the small boy, who transformed from that gangly teenager into a sullen, bruised kid. And from there, he morphed again into a filled-out football player. A massive boy with fire in his eyes and clenched fists that looked all too familiar.

A picture fell out of the back and I picked it up, taking in that small boy again. He was hunched over a fire, picking at it with a stick while he hugged his knees. His hair was greasy and his back had what looked like fresh bruises on it. Tears dripped onto the picture as I turned it over, and I brought my hand to my mouth when I read the name on the back of the picture.

‘Grayson MacDonald, 2000’.

Oh my gosh.

The gangly little boy was Gray.

“Did you get lost up there?”

His voice ripped me from my trance, causing me to slam the book closed.

“Sorry. They were pretty buried,” I said. “I’m coming down now.”

“You okay? You sound like you’re crying.”

“The dust. It’s thick up here. I think it’s finally getting to me. I’m coming down!”

I set the book back onto the floor and quickly grabbed the two lamps in the corner. I wiped at my eyes one last time, then drew in a deep breath. But I couldn’t get my mind off those scars. I didn’t recognize them. And as I conjured memories of Grayson’s body, I couldn’t recall ever touching them, either. I handed the lamps down to Gray and took another second to gather myself, then started down the steps.

I felt his hands on my hips, guiding me down to my feet before he spun me around.

“Thought maybe you’d fallen or something,” he said.

He brushed my hair from my face while his eyes danced between mine. But all I could see were those bruises. The anger in that little boy’s eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Gray asked.

I didn’t know if it was something I should mention, so instead, I slid my arms around his neck and held him close.

“You know you’re a spectacular man, right?” I asked.

He kissed my neck, sending a warmth down my spine as he held me close.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get these lamps set up.”

We got everything looking nice, including the lamps that illuminated the library. Then, it was time for me to get to work. Gray offered for me to take a shower before my shift, and I gladly took him up on it. And there, I unleashed all the silent tears that ached to fall. I covered my mouth and sobbed into it. I cried for Gray’s childhood and the horrors he had been privy to. I ached for the little boy covered in those bruises and scars. I leaned against the shower and pressed my hand against my chest, trying to keep my heart from pounding its way out of my sternum.