More Than We Can Tell (Letters to the Lost #2)(8)

“His name is Matthew.”

“Okay.” I’m waiting for him to drop the hammer, because bringing a new kid into the house isn’t a sit-down-and-talk-about-it event. I’m used to it. I usually like it.

“Matthew is fourteen.”

I freeze. “Oh.”

I’m not sure how to react. They’ve never taken in a teenager before. The oldest kid we’ve ever had was nine, and he stayed for one night after his father fell down some basement stairs and his grandmother couldn’t catch a plane into Baltimore until the morning. I turn the idea over in my head and imagine I should be glad I won’t need to change any diapers.

I’m not opposed to an older kid living here. At least I don’t think I am. Part of what I love about Geoff and Kristin is how they welcome everyone.

But as soon as the thought enters my head, doubt crowds in with it. Another teenager will mean someone with questions and judgments about our family. About me. I felt it the instant that girl beside the church realized who I was. Everyone at school knows who I am, even if it’s only distantly. It’s hard to hide your freak status when you wear long-sleeved hooded sweatshirts in the dead heat of summer. It’s harder to hide that you’re adopted when you’re white, and your parents are black.

Not that I’ve ever wanted to hide it. But people talk.

“Matthew has been in four foster homes over the last year,” says Geoff. “He started a fight this afternoon, and the family called the cops. No one pressed charges, but they don’t want him living there anymore.”

Four foster homes over the last year? I’m not sure what to say to that.

“What happens if he doesn’t stay here?” I say.

Geoff hesitates. “He’d go to Cheltenham. He’s already got two strikes with group homes.”

The juvenile detention facility. “Wow,” I say softly.

“Bonnie doesn’t think he’ll be a problem,” Geoff continues. “And you know Kristin would open the door to every child in the county. But I want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

“I’m okay.”

Geoff leans in. “Are you sure?”

I have no idea. My emotions are scattered in a million different directions. I’m not sure about any of them.

“He can stay.” My voice is rough.

“Rev. I need you to be honest with me.”

He’s talking about Matthew, not the letter hidden in my pocket, but the words make me flinch.

I need to speak to cover it up, because I can see Geoff’s expression shift in response. “It’s fine,” I say quickly. I have to clear my throat. “It’ll be different, but it’ll be okay.”

Then I look up. “Where’s he going to sleep?” The spare room is made up for younger children. There’s a toddler bed and a crib, with a dresser, a changing table, and a rocking chair. The color scheme is peach and white, with alphabet letters stenciled along the ceiling. Aside from the rocking chair, there’s not a single piece of furniture in that room that would support a teenager.

Geoff sighs. “That’s part two of why I needed to talk to you.”



This is not my first time sharing a room. Declan spends the night all the time. Geoff and Kristin put the futon in here specifically for him. Geoff said it’s only until Saturday, when he can buy a full-size bed, but by law, Matthew needs a bed, so here he is.

It’s after midnight. He’s not sleeping.

Neither am I.

He’s smaller than I expected, though he’s got some muscle. Geoff said Matthew started a fight, but he clearly wasn’t the one to finish it. The entire left side of his face is a mess, swelling and bruises running from temple to jaw. His cheek split and bled at some point, and flecks of dried blood cling to his face where it was probably too painful to scrub. His movements are stiff and careful. I wonder who he fought with.

I’ll probably wonder for a while. He’s said exactly two words to me.

“Hey” when Kristin introduced us.

“Okay” when I told him where he could put his things, which he carried in a white kitchen trash bag.

And that’s it. He brushed his teeth and climbed into bed. Fully clothed. Jeans and everything.

I’m not in a position to judge. I’m wearing long sleeves and sweatpants.

After Geoff’s description, I expected … something else. Belligerence. Anger. Defiance. Some swagger.

Matthew is quiet, but watchful. He’s watching me now, peripherally, though his eyes are focused on the ceiling. Tension has settled over the room like a too-heavy blanket.

“Go to sleep,” I say quietly. “I’m not going to mess with you.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

My phone pings. Declan.

Dec: How’s your new roommate?

I texted him earlier to let him know what was going on, but I never answered his first text about what was wrong. Now it sits above our more recent messages, a giant elephant in the room. On the screen. Whatever.

I stick to the matter at hand.

Rev: Quiet

Dec: What’s his name?

Rev: Matthew

Dec: Is he going to school with us tomorrow?

That’s a good question. I always ride to school with Declan. I’ll have to ask Kristin.