Page 19
A heartbreaking sob escapes his lips. I lean forward, my hands inches away from his waist.
“Can I give you a hug?” The words are barely out of my mouth before he nods, tipping forward. I pull him into my arms, his head burrowing itself in the crook of my neck. His arms fist the back of my soaked T-shirt, pulling me tight to him. “We’re okay, Carson…I got you, you’re safe.” His breaths stutter as he clings to me. I smooth my hand over his back.
“We’re safe, I got you.” He relaxes in my arms, nuzzling his nose in the crook of my neck as the thunder outside lessens. “Sunshine?” he whispers, playing with the hem of my shirt.
“I’m here, I’m right here.”
“I’m sorry.” My chest aches from his apology. I pull back, cupping his face in my hands, lifting his head so he’s staring at me. The pure look of devastation makes my chest ache even more. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say, lifting his face higher when he tries to look away.
“No, look at me. I don’t want you to apologize for something that is not your fault. We’re all afraid of something. You should never apologize for needing comfort. I would never let you suffer alone. If a hug makes you feel better, then I will hug you.”
I don’t tell him, that this is the first hug I had gotten in years. “How do you do it?” His question surprises me.
“How do I what?”
“Be so good at comforting others.” I have no idea, Ash is the only person I really talk to, I try to treat people with compassion. The people that raised me didn’t, it was difficult for me as a child to show empathy, because no one I grew up with were kind. I have a lot of knowledge, but most of them wouldn’t be useful socially. I treat people like I would like to be treated, No one, told me it’s okay to cry. As a child I would hold my tears in because I didn’t wanted to look weak. But tears aren’t a weakness, they’re a sign you’re human. I want Carson to know It’s okay to cry. He doesn’t need to be scared to show emotion, that’s the last thing I want.
“I treat people like I would want to be treated.” He opens his mouth to respond but changes his mind at the last second.
“You can ask what you want, I don’t mind telling about my past.”
“You sure?”
I shrug. “Yeah, why not, it’s not my fault how I was raised.”
“No it’s not. Did you stay in the system when you moved away?”
“Yes, until I aged out.”
“Aged out?”
“Yeah, when I turned eighteen, you’re a foster child until you’re eighteen, then you’re on your own.”
Carson’s eyes widen. “You were in the system until you turned eighteen?”
“Yes, I was one of the unlucky ones.”
“How many homes did you live in.” He’s preparing himself for my answer.
“Foster homes or group homes?”
“Both.”
“Thirty-nine.”
Carson’s eyes widen even more. “Thirty nine? You lived in thirty-nine homes?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty high, it’s normally less than that. But I was a little shit, and wasn’t going to let myself live with rapists or child abusers.”
“There were rapists and abusers? What the fuck?”
“The foster system is not great, not as a child but also not when you turn eighteen, I was lucky I had money saved up, otherwise I would have been homeless.”
“Holy shit. I knew the system wasn’t great. But I didn’t think it would be so bad.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t great. I am one of the few that finish high school, plenty of kids I grew up with didn’t get the chance.”
Carson leans back against the couch, mouth gaping wide.
