Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Gray walked over to a drawer and pulled out a wine opener. He took the wine he’d brought from the brown paper bag. “If we’re going to be sharing my childhood stories, I think I’m going to need this.”
Etta took my arm. “Come, sweetheart. Let’s go sit in the living room while Gray brings us some wine. By the way, before we get to the hot dog cooking story and I forget, let me tell you what Gray’s little speech issue had him calling his best friend Percy for years.”
Gray groaned and clunked the wine bottle down on the table as he mumbled under his breath, “Fuck.”
“Poor boy couldn’t pronounce his errr sound for a long time, so everything came out sounding more like an uhh. It was cute, except Percy became a word ladies don’t usually say—you know, a baby kitten.” She chuckled. “The funny part is, turned out he was right. That Percy grew up to be a big wimp.”
Etta and I went to sit in the living room together, and eventually Gray joined us with two glasses of wine and a drink he brought for Etta without having to ask what she wanted. She told me story after story about young Grayson, each more embarrassing than the last, until tears streamed down my face.
“Oh my God.” I laughed. “Stop. I can’t even sip my wine because I’m afraid it will come out my nose and stain your couch.”
Gray shook his head, but he wasn’t upset. I got the feeling nothing Etta could say or do would make him truly mad at her.
“I think we should stuff Etta’s face with some gumbo now to keep her quiet for a while.”
“Oh, Zippy. It’s all in good fun. I’m not embarrassing you, am I?”
Her use of his nickname made me realize I still didn’t know the origin. I took a drink of my wine, which was my second glass and nearly empty already, before asking. “Where does your nickname for Gray come from, Etta? Why do you call him Zippy?”
Gray’s shoulders slouched, and his head hung. “Shit,” he muttered.
He seemed to have given up on trying to keep Etta quiet by saying her name in a warning tone and dishing out subtle glances. Instead, he braced for it.
Etta’s eyes danced with amusement. “It was the summer between kindergarten and first grade. A real hot one, but Gray wasn’t one to stay inside and play in the air conditioning, even when it was ninety-five. So he’d gotten prickly heat.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “On his testicles.”
I covered my mouth and tried not to laugh. “Oh my God.”
“So that summer became known as commando summer. Gray said it was cooler without underwear on, and God knew he was itchy enough down there, so I didn’t force the issue. It was all well and good until the zipper incident.”
The snort I had been attempting to contain snuck out, and then Etta burst out laughing right along with me. She had to tell the rest of the story through fits of laughter.
“He was pulling on a pair of jeans and got the tiniest piece of the skin of his third leg caught.” Etta shook her head and cackled. “I put a Band-Aid on it. Didn’t bleed too much. Luckily, at that age the blood isn’t always rushing south. Think that was the end of commando summer.”
Gray was a damn good sport. He looked at the two of us laughing at his expense and leaned forward to fill my wine glass.
“Keep drinking. Maybe you won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”
I wiped tears from my eyes. “Not a chance, Zippy.”
He stood, lifting the now-empty bottle of wine, and stared down at me as he spoke to Etta. “This isn’t something I ever really wanted to hear you repeat, Etta, but I’ve heard you tell this story before, and you’re missing a part that I think is essential to restoring my manhood after the last half hour.”
Etta’s brows drew together and then she grinned. Leaning forward, she whispered. “He probably has a little scar, but by George, the boy had a big cannon for being such a little thing.”
I looked up at Gray, who wore a wicked smile on his face. Feeling flushed, I averted my eyes, and since he was standing, they landed face to face with the topic of our conversation. He had on a pair of jeans with a zipper, but it was the bulge that caught my attention.
I stood abruptly and took the empty wine bottle from his hand. “I’ll throw this out.”
Needing a minute, I stood looking out the kitchen window over Etta’s sink. I was so lost in thought that I hadn’t heard footsteps entering the kitchen. But I definitely felt the body standing close behind me.
I didn’t turn around when Gray started to speak. His voice was low. “When I was in Otisville, I had to eat when I was told, shower at an assigned time, and I couldn’t leave the same old gray building for three years. Yet the thing that made me feel imprisoned, more than anything else, was not being able to touch you the way I wanted to when you were near me. And I don’t even mean feel you up or anything sexual. I just wanted to put my hand over yours when you fidgeted every week when the guard told you it was time to go, rub my thumb along your arm to get your attention when you’d looked away from me after I said something that hit home, brush the hair off your face when you laughed and a piece got stuck on your long eyelashes.” He paused. “I’m free now, but a big part of me still feels like I’m in prison.”