He stared at me. It was probably supposed to be intimidating or rude, but all it meant to me was that he was still here, and if he was still here, maybe I could help.
“Argento. You Italian?” he asked finally.
“Half.”
“What’s the other half?”
“Pure charm and outrageous good looks,” I deadpanned. “So you wanna keep shopping the Mariposa staff or you wanna let me help you?”
He snorted and dropped into the plastic seat, legs spread, slouching. Then he leaned forward, eyes narrowing again. “Puerto Rican?”
I rolled my eyes. “My mother was from southern Italy; my father was Mexican-American. My blood type is A positive, I’m an Aquarius, and I like long walks in the park. All right? Anything else?”
“It’s chill,” he said, adjusting the brim of his hat.
“What a relief,” I said, and he gave me a wry smile that was the twin of the one I felt on my own mouth.
We spent the next hour going over his transcripts and job history, both of which were moth-eaten with absences and notes on his authority-averse behavior. He had a juvenile record that was sealed and insisted that it didn’t matter what he wanted to do because no one was going to let him do it.
“You don’t know that,” I told him. “Expecting the worst is useful for managing disappointment. But after a while it just means you don’t try shit anymore. Then you’re the one not letting yourself do anything.”
He glared. “That’s a good one, you got postcards?”
I glared back. “Sure, lemme write it down for you.” I took out a half-piece of scrap paper, flipped it over, and wrote, Sometimes other people stop you. They’re dicks. If you stop yourself, it means you’re a dick too.
I handed it to him. When he read it he smiled. A real smile, warm and unself-conscious. Then he folded it into a small square and shoved it in his pocket.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “I get it. They stuck me with you cuz you’re one of us.”
“Yeah, how could you tell?”
He tapped his temple. “I got foster-dar. I can always tell.”
He was trying to get a rise out of me, but it was an interesting way in.
“What is it that you think we all have in common that you’re picking up on?”
His shrug was a quick roll of the shoulders. “Big talk.” When I didn’t say anything, his gaze dropped to his own hands on his bouncing knees. He shrugged again, a nervous tic. “Gotta talk big if no one else’s gonna talk for you.”
I nodded. “I want to help you think as big as you talk. Maybe you’ll fail. Maybe you won’t get everything you want. That’s okay. It happens to everyone, even people with parents and money and fancy cars.”
“You think as big as you talk?” he asked, gaze intense.
I considered my life, so very far from what I had ever imagined it might be when I was Noé’s age. The fear that still held me hostage despite it.
“Some days I do.”
* * *
—
The night before, I’d fallen asleep with Rhys still inside me and woken hours later to his hot breath on my neck and his cock swelling in my ass as he rocked gently against me. We’d fucked slowly, dreamily, until the fire caught us and I found myself sprawled on my belly with Rhys groaning into my back and my erection catching wicked friction on the sheets.
My orgasm was almost painful, wringing me dry, and Rhys came with a muffled whine before gathering me in his arms and falling back asleep.
I’d awoken this morning with my face in Rhys’s armpit and him sprawled on top of me. I’d felt raw, my eyes like sandpaper, lips kiss-swollen, and ass sore. Then I’d remembered that Rhys was leaving, and the ache in my belly eclipsed them all. We’d showered together without talking, and I’d trailed after Rhys as he gathered his things in the early-morning light.
When his ride had arrived, he’d swept me into his arms and held me close, and it had taken an actual push of willpower to wrench my arms from around him. He’d kissed me and promised he’d call whenever he could and told me he loved me. I’d whispered it back against his lips because I hadn’t trusted my voice.
I’d left for work right away so I wouldn’t have any time to think about him being gone. Now it was seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I wandered through the empty house as if I might find Rhys in a cupboard or under a chair like a misplaced book. I’d been in the house without him before, of course, but never without the promise of his imminent return.
I was used to feeling alone, but being alone wasn’t something I had much experience with. Living in a two-bedroom apartment with my mom, an aunt, and four cousins as kid, it was catch-as-catch-can with beds, couches, and sleeping bags. Foster families meant sharing rooms, always hyperaware of every sound and movement. At St. Jerome’s it was rows of bunk beds in each room, always someone snuffling, snoring, or talking in their sleep. And New York rents never found me with fewer than three roommates at a time.