Page 99 of Wells

His hand stills on my back, and something rises to temper it.

"I used to dream about having a mother like that," I tell him. "One who wanted to create things, bring things to life."

"What was your mom like?"

The question is sincere. Just like I want to know more about him through who his parents are, he does about me. And I always defer here. I've never shared my home life with anyone.

But I've never been safe enough to, until Wells.

"When I was on the roof counting cars, I'd imagine a picture-perfect family, with a mom who greeted me as I came home from school, who made my lunches and came to my school events."

Wells turns toward me. Bringing his hand to my face, his thumb brushes my cheekbone.

"I take it your mom wasn't like that?"

His voice is gentle. He's not pushing, but I can tell he's genuinely interested. And for some reason, for the first time in my life, the intense desire to dress it up or brush it off doesn't rise. I didn't choose my family, but I've always felt so much shame surrounding how we behaved.

I close my eyes.

"No, she wasn't. My mom hardly left her bedroom. And my father was a raging alcoholic."

There. I said it. And I'm surprised to find it's a relief. It isn't the whole story, but saying even that much is enormous for me.

Wells doesn't say anything. He keeps his hand on my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and the silence between us shifts.

I breathe against his chest for a long time before I can find the words to go further. It's bursting out of me now. I couldn't keep it in even if I wanted to.

"My mother had an affair."

I say it flat, almost clinically, like it was a disease, not a choice. It's how I taught myself to think about it, so it wouldn't crush me.

"I was the product of that."

Wells says nothing, but his grip tightens.

"My father found out I wasn't his biological daughter when I was around four. He drank before, but after that, he lived in the bottle. When he came home, it was worse than when he stayed away. My mother couldn't look at me without seeing the mistake that cost her everything, so she stayed in her room and left me to figure the rest out myself."

Wells's hand stops moving on my back.

"I was the dirty little secret, the lie made flesh, the thing they both had to look at every day that reminded them the family was broken before I was even born. I guess I should be thankful for the few years we got before my dad knew and my mother had to face it.”

My throat tightens, but I keep my voice level.

"That isn't your fault, Cera."

"I know that on a basic level. I do. Our family probably could have survived the affair if my father hadn't been tricked by her. It was the lie that sank us, and it continued, even after my father found out. We protected it, keeping it inside our walls, and I've carried it ever since."

Wells doesn't speak. He pulls me closer, and the solid warmth of him anchors me somewhere I've never dared to go until this very minute.

"You don't carry any of that with me. I'm not going anywhere. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

"I've never told anyone else about this."

I press my face into Wells' shoulder.

Wells shifts, his hand coming up to cradle the back of my head. He holds me against him, and his breathing stays even, giving me something to match mine to.

After a long silence, he opens his mouth to speak. The shape of something starts to form, and then he catches it, swallowing it back. Whatever it was stays trapped behind something I can't see.