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“About what?”
“My family. Myself. Last time we talked, you said you wanted to know.”
This time the shock is too great for me to pretend otherwise. I turn around fully and grab my mug from the counter to keep my hands busy.
“Then tell me,” I say, like I did last time, when he told me I don’t know him. I consider his serious expression. “Does it have to do with what you were dreaming about earlier, when I woke you up?”
With Livvy?
Color touches his cheekbones. It makes his eyes very blue. “Yes and no.”
Right. Not confusing at all.
Then again, with this boy, everything’s confusing.
“I grew up in a trailer park outside Milwaukee.” He pokes at my Tarot cards, and okay, what’s the deal with that, huh? “With my folks and my brother Raine. It was kinda rough. Mom was rarely interested in shopping, or cooking anything, or looking after us.”
I swallow, a knot forming in my throat. “That sucks.”
He shrugs. “My old man receives disability benefits. Got injured on the job when I was too young to remember. He used to be a cop. He claims he has bad headaches and can’t work. Instead, he gambles. Plays cards and gambles away the money every single month, leaving nothing for food or bills.”
The venomous glare he directs at my Tarot cards makes more sense this time, and the knot in my throat is growing, not letting me breathe.
“I raised Raine,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I stole, and begged, and did every little job I could find to get money on the table, and clothes on our backs. Mom never really noticed us. She gets into these long depressions…” His face twists, and he grips the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turn white. “Fuck.”
“Oh God, I’m…” Kinda terrified of the sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s just that…” He kneads the edge of the counter, his mouth trembling a little before he clenches his jaw. “She’s sick. And I don’t know what the hell to do.”
It sounds bad, and he looks even worse, and I do the only thing I can do for him right now: I take two steps and wrap my arms around him, loosely, mindful of the bruises over his battered ribs.
His arms come up around me, his chin drops on top of my head, and he sucks in breath after ragged breath.
“What can I do?” I whisper. “How can I help?”
He says nothing, just holding on tight like a man sinking in mire, and I wonder how terrible things can be to shake him up so badly—and why I feel his pain cutting me as deep as if it were my own.
***
“I should head home,” he says. “Check on Jason. If he’s still there.”
I look up from pouring myself another cup of coffee.
He’s sitting at my kitchen table, cradling his mug in those big hands. One of his wrists is swollen.
He’s wearing Jesse’s clothes—jeans and a threadbare hoodie. I raided Amber’s closet, looking for something dry and clean for him to wear. The hoodie is a little tight over his chest and shoulders, and my gaze lingers where the green textile stretches over compact muscle.
“I’ll give you a ride.” I force myself to look up, at his face. He looks amused, a brow arched, one side of his mouth tipped up. “In my car,” I clarify.
“I can take a cab. You’ve done a hell of a lot for me already.”
“Don’t be silly.” I lift my mug and take a sip of coffee, burning my mouth. “Ow.”
He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, taking the mug away and running his thumb over my mouth. “Are you okay?”
I can’t reply. Not when he’s so close, the blue of his eyes dark and deep, his expression concerned, his big shoulders cutting off the light. Shutting away the world, leaving me alone with him.
Lifting my hands, I fist them in the soft fabric of the hoodie, forgetting why I’m here, forgetting all rational thought in favor of touching him, feeling him up. Having him close.
