Page 86 of The Lost and the Found

“I want to.”

“But you don’t know how.”

I shook my head, the tears I tried so hard to keep in flowed down my cheeks. Somehow, even in the dark, Logan knew I was crying, because his hand was there, his thumbs wiping away the tears.

“You had a crappy deal in life. I’m so sorry your life has been the way it has, but baby, you have to know I will try my damnedest to always be here with you.” He grabbed my hand and placed it on his chest, right where his heart was beating. “Always here.”

I curled my fist around his shirt, pulling at the fabric while I uttered his name.

“Your mom had to leave you behind, and it wasn’t her choice. But she still left you.” I let out a small cry at the mention of my mom, startling even myself. Logan made sure I was with him when he continued. “I know you’re still feeling her loss, even now. But that doesn’t mean I’ll leave, too. Look at me. I’m healthy. And strong. And like you said, very capable. I’ll be here with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

I lost it then. With a loud sob, I moved closer to him, burying my face in his chest, and broke down.

“I was sick,” I cried out, my tears making my voice thick. “A stupid cold, and I wanted chicken noodle soup. Only, we didn’t have any chicken at home. It was my fault, Logan.”

I clung to him while I told him everything.

All of it. From that dreadful winter day, when my mom got into her car to go to the grocery store. We didn’t live in the best neighborhood, and that was the night the grocery store got robbed. They found her lying in a pool of her own blood.

So much blood.

She lost her life over a fifty-dollar bill and an eight-dollar watch.

That was it.

And then I told him about the time the social services lady came by. How she had kind brown eyes that were obviously dimmed with fatigue. That she spent so much of her time and energy fighting for the little ones in the system, she didn’t know how to fight for me.

I knew the moment I met the man who would soon be my foster dad that I was about to become another sad statistic. And I didn’t want my life to be identified by a number on a chart no one did anything about.

I didn’t see any other option but to run away.

Perhaps there was one—a better one. But in that moment, I didn’t see it.

I told him about my time on the street. About the constant moving with no clear destination in mind. That was the worst part, to have to keep moving without having a place to go to. Sometimes, I would beg for money on the street corners, but never at night. Then, if I was lucky, I would find a women’s shelter to sleep in. If I wasn’t lucky, the blanket I stole from a thrift store donation pile was my bed.

Women say they didn’t remember every detail of their labor. That perhaps the birth of a child was so painful, their brain blocked out the painful memory as a sort of survival mechanism. That was the same way I felt about that whole experience.

I didn’t remember every detail of living on the streets. But I remember enough to know I never wanted to go back.

I told him about the things I did remember. From almost getting raped, and the only reason I escaped was because the guy was so hopped up on whatever drug he was taking that he didn’t have the strength to force me. About how scared I was, and still am, even now. Even when I had a roof over my head and food in the fridge, I was still so goddamn scared.

And Logan scared me most of all.

Because I realized then that I would live on the street all over again, as long as it brought me to this moment, with him.

A part of me wished I had never met him. Never fell for him.

I still had my plan.

But Logan Cross was my greatest weakness. And he made my plan seem insignificant.

He wrapped his strong arms around me, and let me cry, let me rant. Through it all, he quietly listened to what I had to say, and his arms never wavered, not once.

The fight left me then, and I fell into a restless sleep for the rest of the night.

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