Page 92 of Facing Off
I simplify it and say, “When I was a kid.”
“You said you’ve been told to be grateful you got a home. Basic food on the table. And back in that rage room, you said your foster parents never showed you any emotions at all.”
I shift uneasily against the door. “Foster guardians, not parents. And is there a question in all that?”
“Do you still talk to them?”
“No.”
“Thank fuck.”
It happens.
The apocalypse hasn’t been triggered, but it very well could’ve been.
I smile.
And I’m so glad he can’t see my mouth curve this way, because where did it come from? And why does my head also sag and rest against the wall beside the door?
It must be because I’m not used to a reaction like his.
Normally people judge you for cutting “family” out of your life. It’s something you’re supposed to feel guilty about.
I don’t.
I’m so proud of that decision, even if it meant shedding what other people tell me I shouldn’t live without. They don’t understand the peace it’s given me. How can you be a bad person when you do what’s best for your mental health?
“Tell me something about your childhood,” I demand out of nowhere. Not because we’re learning things about each other. I’m—collectingmore data. Yes, it’s all about that deal we made before. About balancing scales.
“I grew up poor.”
“Huh.” I pause. “Did not expect that.”
“Because of how I live now?” he asks, amused.
“It’s a lot of space for one person.”
Hughes chuckles for real, and some tension loosens inside me. “It’s not meant to be for one person. I wanted a home big enough for everyone to visit and stay over if they need to, where everyone gets their own space, but apparently people have lives and get busy and have other plans and don’t always have time to come over.”
“So you have a big family…”
“Six sisters,” he confirms. “Only one niece so far. And yeah, we hang out. But recently it’s been harder to plan things and coordinate.”
“Six sisters…is six.”A lot.
“My sisters and I—we all come from different dads.”
“Oh.”
“My childhood had a parade of losers walking in and out of our house growing up.”
“Um. Sorry?”
Hughes laughs more ruefully. “Don’t be. We made the best of it.”
A sudden image occurs to me. Him as a kid, clowning around joking and telling silly jokes. More or less what he does today. But back then, was it to make his sisters laugh as their bad dads strolled in and out of their lives? What about the fights? With a parade of losers, and that many sisters, theremust’ve beenfights and pain. Why can I imagine him as this toothy kid trying his best to be charming and yelling “look at me” just so the arguments blow over? So the tension defuses? So everyone stays as happy as possible?
The thought of all that, I don’t know, grips me. I’m aching in places I feel I can’t reach. I want to… I need to…
