Mr. Beautiful (Up in the Air #4)(14)
"Don't be sorry. This isn't on you. It never was. I just . . . wish I wasn't like my dad."
"You're not. This violence is not who you are. It does not define you."
I let that penetrate, let it comfort me, as it was meant to.
"This is all temporary," she told me, her tone wistful. "Remember our little houses."
I smiled. This was a popular fantasy of ours.
"Side by side," I added.
"Neighbors," she agreed.
"I want grass in my yard."
"I want nothing but rocks and maybe a cactus." I could hear the smile in her voice.
"You'll get to keep all of the pictures you make."
"And give some to you."
Eventually I was comforted enough to drift off into sleep, her soothing chant calming me, as it always did—I'm okay, you're okay, we're okay.
We were having breakfast at a diner the next morning (a rare treat, and one courtesy of my fight money) when she became very serious, making me look across the table and directly into her soulful eyes.
"No more," she said, resolve inundating each word until it felt like she was raising her voice, though she spoke softly. "We'll try foster care again, but I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore. Not any of it."
I started shaking my head.
She kept nodding. "It won't be for long. As soon as you turn eighteen, we'll have more options."
"No. It's too risky. He'll find you again. I can do this."
"There are no good choices for us right now, but we need to do our best to take the safest ones."
I nodded in agreement. I knew she was right, but I wasn't sure how to follow through on it.
She knew me too well. She gave me a look.
"This isn't safe," she continued. "Don't you see? We weren't meant to be anything but statistics. We have no safety net. No one cares what happens to us except for us. If we don't make the right decisions, one bad night will be our last. I just know it. We have to get out of this and away from these people."
I knew she was right. We were statistics. Worse than runaways.
Throwaways.
We weren't even the faces you saw on a milk cartons. Those kids had people looking for them. All we had on this earth was each other.
If we wanted to survive this, we had to make it happen ourselves, because no one else would.
CHAPTER TEN
WOULDN'T EVEN BE ME
PRESENT
STEPHAN
A warm, firm hand clutched mine. I swung my eyes to meet watery black ones.
Javier cried my name, looking equal parts terrified and relieved.
I let out a sob, making agony course through my chest. I tried to hold it back, to stop the pain, but it took a long time before I was coherent enough to say again, "Bianca?"
I had to know. She had to be okay.
The alternative was unthinkable.
It was a fact that I would not be okay without her. I wouldn't even be me without her. I'd be someone else, someone with important pieces missing, pieces I couldn't get back.
He seemed to snap out it, leaning closer to me. "She's okay. She's recovering, but okay. She's in better shape than you, actually."
I studied him, wondering if I'd heard him right, wondering if I was dreaming. "She—she survived that?"
What I'd seen had looked like a headshot wound. How had she survived that, and in better shape than me?
He nodded emphatically.
I was so worn out that I was already going back under, but at least I knew she was alive.
She was alive.
I woke up again still remembering that. This time when Javier and I looked at each other, we smiled, though there were plenty more tears, as well.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE SAVED MY SOUL
STEPHAN
Growing up, I'd had a cloud of guilt that followed me around. Even before my uncle had started molesting me, I'd been plagued by nightmares. An overzealous Sunday school teacher told my class one week that those of us not paying tithing would burn when the world caught fire, during the imminent second coming, and my young mind had taken it very literally.
I was eight at the time, and over the summer I'd earned a whopping ten dollars of chore money, and blown it all on candy during a trip to the grocery store. I hadn't even thought of paying tithing for it. No one had told me.
I'd felt horrible guilt and fear about it, even when I'd earned more money, just to pay it back.
I was a wicked boy for so many reasons, the largest of which were my thoughts. I doubted, I feared, I resented, and in my resentment summoned up some pretty horrible opinions about my strict, mean father especially.
Mostly, I kept those opinions to myself, but occasionally, I'd snap back at him, and he always, always made me regret it.
Even after I ran away, that guilt followed me relentlessly. It chased me down, no matter how far I went to get away from it.
And then I met her.
Bianca put it all in perspective. She needed me. I protected her, she accepted me, and we became inseparable.