Page 55 of Late Nights

“I’m sorry if you ever felt like I didn’t like you or made you think you weren’t worth getting to know,” I apologized. I ran a hand through my hair, letting out a breath before continuing. “As you well know, I struggle to get close to people.” As if that was a good enough excuse.

A silence filled the space between us, and as much as I wanted to make some flirty remark or some joke to move us beyond this serious moment, I kept my mouth shut.

Finally, she broke the silence. “Why?” Her voice was so quiet, barely above a whisper, that I almost hadn’t heard it. So quiet that I wondered if I could get away with not answering.

Why. It was a simple word but held so much power. It demanded an answer. And this why wanted an answer I wasn’t sure I was ready to give.

Another stretch of silence loomed, but she sat there patiently, giving me time to answer, time to process, time to shut her question down if that’s what I chose. She didn’t push, she didn’t expect, she just sat in the moment with me, seeming to be completely okay with however I wanted to answer. There was a type of peace and comfort in knowing that.

Several more seconds passed while I went back and forth on whether I could really tell Demi about my past, if I could really say the words out loud.

But as I looked at Demi, her face only showed genuine concern. She cared about me. In what capacity, I wasn’t sure, but knowing she cared gave me the courage to speak.

17

Demi

Ikept quiet as he seemed to have an internal battle, hoping he’d come to the conclusion I was someone he could talk to.

“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I think you know I didn’t have a great childhood,” he started.

I nodded but didn’t say anything.

“My parents were drug addicts. My dad was a drug dealer, so we always had people coming to our house. Some would come and go, some would come and stay for a few hours, and then some would stay for a few days.” He looked out to where the lake was in the black night, and I wondered if it was easier for him to feel like he was talking into the dark nothingness than to have to talk to someone face-to-face.

“I’d hide under my bed.” I didn’t recognize the monotone voice coming out of him, but he kept going, almost like he was forcing the words to come out. “Most of the time they were too high or hopped up on whatever drugs they were on to find me.”

“Most of the time?” I asked in a soft voice.

He nodded, like it was the only answer he could give me. “My dad’s anger and abuse had no rhyme or reason. You never knew when he was going to strike. My mom never tried to protect me. She hoped he would take his anger out on me instead of her. She blamed me for my dad changing, claiming they’d been happy before I’d come along.

“As you know, my grandfather is a wealthy man. My mom grew up with everything she could ever want. Her mom died when she was four years old, and my grandfather did the best he could raising her, but he’s not the most warm and fuzzy kind of guy. Mostly, nannies took care of her. She always had a rebellious spirit, and one day when she was sixteen, she ran off with my dad.

“Two years later, I was born. From what I understand, their life was chaotic, and they only contacted my grandfather when they needed money. My parents wouldn’t let him be in my life. It wasn’t until I was fifteen and my mom overdosed that my grandfather was able to swoop in.”

A small gasp escaped me. I’d had no idea his mom had died from a drug overdose.

“He put my dad in jail and then took full custody of me,” he continued, like he hadn’t dropped some big truths, just stating facts.

“So that’s the long, ugly story of why I don’t want to get close to anyone, why I don’t trust anyone. I couldn’t even trust my parents. I wasn’t even safe with my mom.” His voice broke on the word mom, and it had me wanting to reach out to him, but I kept still.

His jaw clenched, as he continued to look out into the dark night. “I’ve spent so many hours of my life wondering why they didn’t give me up for adoption. They never wanted me.” He shook his head, a tortured expression on his face. “Anything would have been better than living in that house.”

Finally he turned his gaze to me, his eyes glistening in the dark. “And I hate that I feel guilty that my mom dying was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I couldn’t sit here any longer and not touch him, not try in some small way to comfort him. I set down my mug on the coffee table next to us, moving to go sit by him. He scooted over on the couch, making room for me to lie next to him. I rested my head on his chest and put my arms around him. My eyes were watery too, and I hated how he’d had to go through so many horrible things. There was no way I could ever comprehend everything he’d gone through or understand how he felt, but I could be here for him, someone he could lean on.

He wrapped his arms around me too, like it was the most natural thing, like we’d done this a million times. And as much as I wanted to revel in the moment and enjoy being in Cannon’s arms, I couldn’t. My mind was stuck on everything he’d told me. This wasn’t a romantic hug. This was a comforting friend hug, and it had me somehow feeling even more special. Knowing Cannon didn’t get close like this with anyone but was willing to open up to me and let me be close to him in a more personal way—it meant a lot to me.

“My whole life changed when I moved in with my grandfather,” he said, his voice low, and I could feel the rumble of it through his chest. “I went from being the scrawny, dirty kid at school with no friends, the kid whose clothes never fit and usually had some kind of fading bruise or healing scab, to going to a private school with uniforms, access to more food than I could ever eat, and someone in my life who actually cared about how I was doing.”

“I’m so glad your grandfather came to take care of you,” I said. Next time I saw him I was going to give him an extra hug. He might be known as being reserved and aloof, but he’d always liked me, claiming I was the granddaughter he never had.

“I don’t know where I would be if it wasn’t for him,” he said, his voice full of gratitude. “I threw myself into school, working hard to not only be different from my parents, but hoping to repay my grandfather in some small way.” He pulled the blanket tighter around me. “When I got into Stanford, he was so excited. At first I was doing it all for him, but I grew to love what I was studying. And meeting West, and being roommates my freshman year, it finally felt like my life was beginning to click into place. In some ways, it feels like my life didn’t start until then.”

“And then my parents took you in.” I tipped my head back to look at his jawline and profile. “I remember the first time West brought you home. You definitely didn’t look like a scrawny kid to me.”

His chuckle rumbled against me. “Admitting to checking me out the first time you saw me, huh?”

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