Down and Out(25)

My breath leaves me on a long exhale and I shrug as well as I can against the back of the couch. “Partly out of necessity and partly out of desire to please my foster parents.”
At his furrowed brows, I say, “Foster parents are the same as regular parents—some are great, some are okay, and some have no business raising kids. When I was younger, I got stuck with this upper middle class couple. They seemed perfect on paper—good jobs, nice house, nice cars—but they were neglectful and abusive. They had two other foster kids, and the three of us were their little maids. We were in charge of cleaning their house, doing their laundry, cooking their food, and if we messed up or fell behind schedule, they hit us. They were smart about it, too. Knew to hit us where it wouldn’t show.
“They liked my cooking, so I tried harder, branched out.” I stare into space, remembering things I spent so long trying to forget. Like the stinging whip of his belt and the taste of the sock she’d shove into my mouth to muffle my screams. “It really messed with my head, you know? Trying to please people I distrusted and loathed so much. In my young, na?ve mind, I kept thinking, ‘If I could just get them to like me, then maybe they’ll be nicer.’”
Declan leans forward, his jawline tense as he rests his elbows on his knees. “I want to know more about you, but the more I learn, the more it pisses me off.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “So quit asking.”
He looks positively enraged as he stares at the floor, shaking his head minutely. “It ain’t f*ckin’ right, Savannah. Did you tell anyone? A social worker, or. . .?”
“The only time I saw my social worker was when I’d get moved to a new home, and she wasn’t exactly helpful. She never talked about the why’s and how’s of things. Every time I got moved, it was scary and confusing, and I quickly learned to act out if I didn’t like a house, because the foster parents wouldn’t put up with that shit. It was kind of like my ‘get out of jail free’ card, only instead of getting free, I’d get moved to another jail.” I run my hands along my faded shorts, my voice coming out soft. “That’s how I eventually got out of there.”
His eyes narrow as he studies me, like he’s truly seeing me for the first time. No one’s ever seen this side of me before. It’s scary and unnerving, and it makes me want clam up and not share anything else with him.
Amazement laces his tone as he asks, “How are you not just . . . broken?”
A sad smile parts my lips as I shrug. “Who says I’m not?”
His eyes search mine, stripping me raw until I feel more exposed than I’ve ever been before. “You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re too feisty. If you were broken, you wouldn’t have any fight left in you.”
And then he has to go and say something like that, something that makes me want to give him more of these little glimpses past my wall. I know I’m setting a dangerous precedent, but I can’t seem to stop.
“So what happened to the other two kids?”
I shrug. “Hell if I know.” I didn’t have a way or desire to keep in touch.
Declan’s eyes grow wide as they land on me, like he’s coming to some horrifying realization. “Please tell me you understand that you don’t have to cook for me. You know that, right? You don’t have to do anything for me in order to stay here.”
He’s made no secret that he’s concerned for my well-being, and yet every time he shows it, I’m stupefied. I never would’ve guessed that under all that muscle and ink is such a big heart.
I’m terrified he could actually show me how to use mine.
My eyes drop back to my lap. “I know. But I want to. It’s my way of giving back.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t have negative feelings attached to it?”
“Declan, you’re nothing like them. The fact that you’re even worried about it proves how much different you are. I promise you, it’s no big deal.”
He frowns and rubs his jaw. “I don’t know . . . I still feel shitty about it.”
“And I’m gonna feel shitty if you don’t eat my food.” A soft chuckle bubbles out of me as I stare at him. He’s being ridiculous. “Declan, I still need to eat, so I’m still gonna cook, and it’ll be silly for you to eat something else when I’ve gone to the trouble of making a whole meal. Do you want to hurt my feelings?”
He sighs dramatically and rests his head on the back of the couch. “Fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you?”
My eyes automatically stray to the patterns and colors embedded into his skin. “I wouldn’t do that to such a nice arm.”
“You think it’s nice?”
I hear the grin in his voice, but I’m lost in the mural along his forearm. My eyes roam over the roses, the pocket watch, to the skull and shading that connects everything. It’s mostly done in shades of black and gray, but the roses are a muted red and the watch is a dull gold so as not to overpower or detract from the whole image. There’s a scrolling banner between the watch and skull that says Time Waits for No One.
The mural blends into the very lifelike black and gray angels on his biceps, their wings spreading up into the blue-tipped heavens peeking out from under his t-shirt. It’s almost understated and surprisingly tasteful for something that takes up every visible inch of skin.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I say, my fingers reaching up to graze the angels’ wings. His skin, stretched taut over so much muscle, is feverishly warm and sends a tingle straight through me.