Chapter 16

Every partof my body felt numb.

And cold.

When I'd started to answer Dalton's question about how I'd figured out how to use a computer, I'd somehow bypassed the question and revealed so much more than I'd intended. I'd only meant to give Dalton a break from the other things he'd seemed to be willing to tell me about his childhood, but lying next to him on the lounger had made me feel safer than I ever had. In truth, I couldn't even remember what being safe felt like, but something about being around Dalton made me feel like nothing and no one could or would touch me ever again. If that wasn't what safe felt like, then I'd probably never feel it.

I couldn't even remember a lot of things I'd told Dalton because my mind had done what it always had from the moment Ivan had shoved himself inside of me for the first time. I put the moment away. I'd had to. Ivan's cruelty had taught me how to play the game if I wanted to live. And despite it all, I'd wanted to live even though there'd been no reason for it. I'd known my parents weren't coming for me. I'd known when Ivan tired of me, he'd rent me out to anyone who was willing to pay for me. He would have allowed his men to make me their plaything or he would have simply put a bullet through my brain.

Yet I'd wanted to live. I'd fought for it. I'd planned and plotted. I'd packed each and every assault, cruelty, and torture in a box inside my head because I'd instinctively known if I didn't, I wouldn't have survived more than a few days as Ivan's pet. My salvation hadn't come in the form of being rescued by someone who'd cared enough to even look for me. No, it had been the moment I'd opened Ivan's computer after realizing that between his broken mind and his need for drugs and alcohol, I could buy myself moments of reprieve. Instead of just a reprieve, I'd found a whole new world that I'd never known existed.

I wasn't sure how long I lay there in Dalton's arms before the present returned to me. Thankfully, whatever was holding that box inside of me closed had held up, but it felt like tiny holes were puncturing the box more and more every day. It was all I could do to keep the damn thing closed, so I had no idea how to shore up the holes.

"Are you warm enough?" Dalton asked, breaking the silence between us. I was tired but not cold. Not with my own living furnace wrapped around me. I nodded. "We can go inside or take a break…"

I wasn't sure if Dalton was stalling or if he needed more drink and pills to numb himself before he told me how he'd ended up where he had. I'd only had tiny glimpses of what I suspected to be the true Dalton, the man he'd been before alcohol and drugs had taken over, but I instinctively knew that few people, if any, had seen those same moments.

"I was telling you about my experience with foster care," Dalton stammered. "Some foster families are genuine and truly care about the kids they take in. They even adopt those kids sometimes."

"Adopt?" I asked.

"If the situation is right and a family wants to keep the foster kid and raise them as their own, they can legally become their parents. Most kids, especially the ones who are put into foster care when they're older, believe that they'll be returned to their real families someday, but more often than not, the real parent or parents have either passed away or committed a crime or are simply found unfit to care for their children. It means a lot of kids are angry and resentful when they're taken in by foster families. Some kids get lucky and eventually learn to trust their temporary families, and the really lucky ones find families who want the kid to stay with them forever. But there are also a lot of people who take advantage of the system."

"How so?" I asked.

"When a foster family takes in a child, the state—the government for that state—pays the family money to help support the cost of caring for that child. They're supposed to use the money to buy food and clothes for the kids, provide a safe living environment for them… stuff like that. The not-so-good families use that money on themselves and treat the kids like shit or ignore them or abuse them in different ways."

"Like what happened to me," I murmured. I knew Dalton was trying to spare me the grim details of the children who fell into the wrong hands, but I didn't need him to. Those kids had basically been bought and used like I had, only their so-called families had done it all under the eye of the people who ran the foster program. A terrible thought immediately popped into my head; one that made me physically ill and had me tightening my hold on Dalton's hand which was still linked with mine.

"Did someone hurt you like what?—"

"No," Dalton quickly said. "I had some rough times, but it was nothing compared to what you went through."

I wasn't sure I agreed with that viewpoint, but I kept my mouth shut.

"I stayed with both kinds of families, and like most kids, I secretly dreamed that one of the good families would decide to keep me."

Dalton paused for a moment. I could practically feel him trying to maintain his composure. I wondered if he had a box like mine and how many holes were in it, if any.

"None of them did, though. I guess I was around ten when I finally stopped wishing I'd be one of the really lucky kids. I stopped trying to become what I thought the families wanted and just let myself be what I'd been from the first time I'd understood that the first few families hadn't been my real families."

"Invisible," I murmured as I remembered that was what Dalton had said about himself.

"Yeah," Dalton sighed. "As I got older, I learned what happened to kids when they aged out of the system. That means when they turned eighteen and were considered adults who could care for themselves," he explained.

"What happened to them?"

"They were basically dropped off somewhere with a garbage bag with what few belongings they owned and handed a list of resources like job training courses, housing options, and counseling for those who suffered from mental problems. That and a few hundred bucks and you were no longer the state's problem. That also meant the foster parents weren't being paid anymore to support the kids once they turned eighteen." Dalton paused before adding, "Anyway, a lot of those kids ended up living on the streets. Some would commit crimes to try and make money, others would sell their bodies either for cash or drugs, and some would just… disappear."

"Did any of that happen to you?" I asked.

Dalton shook his head. "No, I had a plan. When you turn eighteen, you're allowed to join the army. In exchange, you're given a place to stay, food to eat, and training for whatever job you're going to be doing. The part that convinced me to enlist when I turned eighteen was that the army would pay for college when you were done serving your country. I kept my eye on the prize no matter what kind of family I ended up with. I'd enlist and then eventually go to college. I wanted to study marine architecture."

"What is that?"

"It's designing and building boats," Dalton explained. "I didn't want to build fancy boats that were meant only to go fast. I wanted to restore ships and boats like I did with this one. So it's basically taking something old and making it new again. Does that make sense?"

I nodded. "Did you do all of that—the things you'd planned?"

Dalton fell quiet and I could feel his body tensing up. "The army part," he responded.

I instinctively knew I was treading on thin ice, but I wanted to really understand the man, even if it meant it would tear me apart when I had to leave. I was already feeling things for Dalton that I shouldn't be.

"To study marine architecture you have to go to college. Getting into college requires graduating from high school." With every word he spoke, I could feel his body growing tighter. "Do you know what that is?"

I shook my head. "Is it where you learn stuff? Like how to read and write?" A brief image of a big blackboard with words on it and a man with nearly no hair on his head standing in front of it flashed in my mind. I managed to keep my focus on Dalton because he was more important to me than the random image.

"It is," Dalton continued. "When I was fifteen, I was living with this family that lived just outside of Baltimore. They seemed nice enough and I worked hard to follow all their rules because I liked the high school in their area. After a while, the husband and wife began fighting, mostly about money. Sometimes they'd argue about me, but it wasn't really arguing. It was more like they blamed each other for becoming foster parents. Apparently, the money the state gave them wasn't as much as they'd hoped for. I really didn't want to leave that high school, so I spent months trying to stay out of the way and I didn't ask for new clothes or junk food or anything like that. I got a job mowing lawns for some of the people in the neighborhood but instead of keeping it for myself, I gave it to the husband and wife, hoping they wouldn't fight about the money it cost to take care of me."

"So they were the money kind," I began. "People who only got kids for the money the state paid them," I clarified.

Dalton nodded. His tension ratcheted up considerably as he pulled in a deep breath. He was quiet for a long time, but I could feel his heart pounding beneath my hand.

"Fuck," he finally whispered.

The curse word could have meant anything, but with his body growing more strained and the upward tick of his breathing, I knew what was happening to him. I ran my hand around in slow circles on his chest. When he began to shift his body, I was sure I'd lost him, but instead of getting up, he rolled our bodies so that we were face to face. His arm went around my waist as he pressed his forehead against mine. "It shouldn't be this hard," he admitted, his words so softly spoken that I would have missed them if I hadn't been so intensely focused on him.

"I'm sorry," I said shakily. A part of me wished I'd never started this whole thing, but the rest knew if he didn't lance the wounds inside of him now, he never would. I didn't know his exact age, but I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, which meant he'd been carrying the pain inside of himself for more than half his life; probably even longer since he'd been through so many families. I lifted my hand to his cheek and smoothed my fingers over the stubble. When he pushed against my hand, I settled my palm over his entire cheek and jaw. I used my thumb to keep stroking his skin.

"That day was like any other. I'd gone to school, and I'd figured my foster parents had gone to their jobs like always. But when I got home and opened the front door to the house, it was empty. No furniture, no pictures on the wall, no rugs on the floor. Everything upstairs was gone too. The bed in their room, the dresser… everything. All the furniture in my room was gone, but my clothes and personal items were on the floor."

It was all I could do not to fall apart as he spoke each word. I couldn't find my voice, but it didn't matter because he didn't need words that wouldn't mean anything. Apologizing or telling him everything would be okay wasn't what he needed, so I gently tipped his head down and pressed my lips against his forehead. I grasped his face with both my hands and carefully pressed my forehead against his. Dalton pulled my body against his and tightened his grip. The move didn't frighten me, but it spoke volumes about the internal battle he was waging.

"They always leave," Dalton whispered. I could hear his voice breaking. "Always."

He didn't say anything else, but it didn't matter. Those few words had pieces falling into the jigsaw puzzle that was his life.

Neither of us spoke after that. We just held each other. The world around us fell away, but it wasn't hard to tell when Dalton had fallen asleep because his entire body finally began to relax and his once harsh breaths evened out. His arm, though, the one around my waist, continued to hold me tight against him.

By the time my own eyes began to grow heavy, I wondered which one of us was holding on to the other the hardest. The question went unanswered because it was replaced with another.

One I didn't want the answer to.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

What would happen to Dalton when I was forced to join the long list of people who'd left him?