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“That’s a good question.” I wasn’t trying to dodge, but I didn’t have an answer. Plus, I wasn’t sure he was speaking geographically.
“Were you born and raised in Los Angeles?”
So hewasspeaking geographically. “Maybe,” I said. “I was raised here. I don’t know where I was born, actually.”
He raised an eyebrow in question.
I took a deep breath. “I was abandoned. They found me in a cardboard box at a hospital in Long Beach when I was a couple weeks old.”
I watched his eyes, waiting for the predictable sorrow, the sympathy most people offered when they heard about my inauspicious beginnings. Hale’s eyes reflected something else, though—they flashed with anger.
“I grew up in foster homes.” I shrugged.
“You were adopted?” He whispered the words, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying.
I shook my head, a little confused at his reaction. For a moment I wondered if the revelation made him think less of me. It had certainly made me think less of myself for a lot of years. “Nope. Never adopted. Just fostered.” My salad came and I was thankful for the distraction.
Hale watched me intently, a crease between his dark eyes. He seemed about to say something, but then turned his head and stared out at theocean instead. The sun was flashing on its surface, glittering like cellophane ribbons. I waited for him to ask more questions, but he seemed lost in thought.
We ate in relative silence, me enjoying the sunlight and warmth, and the entire avocado I’d convinced the waitress to bring me. Hale appeared to be focused on something inside his mind, something he didn’t seem apt to share. I decided to push. “What about you?”
His eyes snapped back to mine and then he shook his head, saying nothing.
“Seriously? I share but you don’t?” After spending most of the morning being thoughtful and kind, Mr. Big Dick was back. His face was closed and anger bubbled in his eyes as he turned his focus to his burger. “I see how it is,” I pressed.
He paused, a fry partway to his mouth, and then his hand lowered again, his shoulder slumping. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you.”
“Okay . . .”
He dropped the fry and leaned back in his chair, a deep sigh escaping his lips. “It’s more that I don’t really know.” He stared down at his plate as he said, “I was adopted, actually. But I’ve only found that out recently.” His voice was cold, almost clinical, like this was a distant fact to be examined, not something integral to who he was.
“And you’re upset?” It was a stupid question. A dark frown had crept over his face and he looked much more like the broody asshole I’d met at Cody Tech than like the almost sweet man who’d been helping me since then. He was clearly upset.
A smile flickered over those incrediblelips, but it did nothing to tamp down the sadness in his eyes. “I don’t know. Yes. It’s complicated.”
Without stopping myself this time, I reached for his hand, my own fingers covering the long square tips of his where they rested on the table. He started slightly, as if I’d shocked him, and then relaxed, his thumb reaching around to rub a line across the top of my fingertips. I suppressed the shiver that ran through me. The pain in his eyes had ebbed, and he looked up at me with something that felt a bit like wonder.
And then the moment passed, and I pulled my hand back, busying myself with my drink, my napkin. It had felt natural to touch him, but also strange—like reaching into a dark closet, not knowing what would be inside. His hand had been warm, electric. I fought to bring my thoughts back to the present. Hale was speaking again.
“Does it bother you?” he asked, leaning forward. “Not knowing where you’re really from?”
“It used to,” I said, realizing I wasn’t prepared to be completely truthful. “When I was a kid I wondered about it a lot. But that’s my reality. It doesn’t help to obsess about it. Besides, I had good foster families, especially the last one.” I had the sense that it wouldn’t help Hale at all to tell him howmuchit bothered me—not knowing anyone who carried my blood, not having any real connections in this world. I went with this lesser version of the truth.
He was quiet a minute. “What made the last home good?”
“Mama Gi—that’s what we called our foster mom—shereally cared about us. She talked to us, taught us about life. She made sure we studied, that we were ready for college. She gave Delia and me the preparation to be successful, to take care of ourselves.” I felt a pang of sadness thinking about Mama Gi’s sweet round face, her sharp sarcastic wit. “Plus, I had Delia.”
“Delia?”
“My foster sister. She’s three years older. We’re still close.” Sharing so much and touching him felt like opening a door that had been closed a long time. The parts of me that hid behind that door couldn’t handle too much glaring light at once.
I told him a little more about life with Mama Gi, and he watched me speak, his face intent as I talked, and when we’d paid the bill and risen from our table, he held the little gate on the patio open for me to exit back to the sidewalk. He shot me a sideways glance, and then quietly said, “I’m sorry if your childhood was ever hard. I hate to think of you sad.” The words were so quiet, and his tone so low and tender, something in my heart skipped and I had to do a double take to make sure this was the same arrogant ass I’d met in the coffeehouse. Hale flipped so quickly between arrogance and bravado, sweetness and vulnerability, I got the sense he might be struggling with himself.
“Thanks,” I said, completely thrown off balance by Hale’s intense attention and his sweet words.
I was going to have to be careful. If I wasn’t, I’d end up fallingfor this guy.
“So I should probably . . .” I indicated the sidewalk that led back to my apartment.
