The Problem with Forever

My tongue came unglued from the roof of my mouth. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“What?” he asked, propping his elbows on the table behind him. He leaned back, his lashes lowered.

“This. Being here like...like no time has passed.” Warmth crept into my cheeks. “It’s just weird.”

He was quiet again. “Yeah, it’s weird, but in a good way. Right?”

“Right,” I murmured.

Rider knocked his knee off mine. “I’m glad we’re here, though, to experience this weirdness.”

The warmth increased as the corners of my lips twitched into a small grin. “Me, too.” He held my gaze for a heartbeat and then flipped his attention to the graffiti-covered wall. I drew in a shallow breath. This was the perfect chance to ask him about how the last four years had been. There were so many questions. “How long...have you been with Hector’s grandmother?”

His brows furrowed. “About three years.”

“And the...group home before then?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he replied, stretching out his legs. “Not many kids.” He laughed softly, under his breath. “I was actually surprised when I was sent to live with Mrs. Luna. I was almost fifteen. Like what’s the point?”

I got what he was saying, but he was lucky, because not many people wanted to take on a teenager who’d been in the system their entire life. It was surprising that he found one that did. “You’re happy with...Mrs. Luna?”

“Yeah...” He squinted as he moved his fingers, opening and closing them. A raindrop hit the table. “She’s good people.”

I waited for him to say more, to elaborate, but he went quiet in the way that made me question what he said. I opened my mouth, but he looked over at me. Words scorched the tip of my tongue.

His voice was so low it was barely above a whisper when he spoke. “Do you ever... Do you ever think about that night?”

Muscles in my stomach knotted, and I shook my head, which wasn’t a lie. I did everything in my power not to think about that night. Except last night my brain had decided to give me a play-by-play recap.

“Do you?” I whispered, unable to look at him.

“Sometimes.” There was a pause as he slid his hands along his jeans. “Sometimes I think about other nights, you know, when that asshole would get drunk and his friends would be over.”

Every part of my body tensed, and I didn’t dare make a sound then, because I knew what other nights he was referencing.

“And sometimes I hope that every one of them, including Henry, is dead.” He laughed without humor. “That makes me a horrible person, doesn’t it?”

“No,” I said immediately. “That doesn’t make you a horrible person.” My mouth dried as my thoughts raced back to those nights when Henry’s friends would be in the house. Some would look at me in ways no man should look at a little girl. Then there were some who looked at Rider in the same way—some that had gone for him. The others would’ve gotten me if it hadn’t been for Rider. “Did they ever...?”

Rider shook his head. “No. I was always too fast and they were always too drunk. I was lucky.”

I wasn’t sure that made him lucky.

“We should head back,” he said, pushing to his feet as another drop of rain fell to the cracked asphalt. “It’s about to start pouring.”

Standing, I followed him to the Honda. My movements were stiff. As Rider got into the car and closed the door, I turned and stared at the painted brick wall. The graffiti might just have been letters, a bright flower, a woman’s face or a little boy staring up at the sky with no hope of a different tomorrow, but each piece of art had a story to tell. Each of them spoke without words. And while I’d tried for years to do the same, I wasn’t a painting on a wall.

“My name is Mallory...Dodge.” I drew in a deep breath, speaking to no one. “And I like...I like reading. And I don’t like...I don’t like who I am.”

Chapter 11

We didn’t make it to the Harbor to meet Ainsley until noon on Saturday since Carl wanted to make breakfast and do the whole caring-is-sharing routine, which was a Saturday staple unless he or Rosa got called into work.

Carl had made his famous waffles—famous in his own head—but they were special to me. Special because I’d never had this before them. Waffles with blueberries and strawberries every Saturday morning. Special because I knew there were too many kids to count that weren’t experiencing this and never had.

Halfway through breakfast, the idle chatter between them turned serious and it was directed at me. It was Rosa who spoke first, after her second full cup of coffee. “So, the school called us yesterday.”

With a forkful of waffle and strawberry halfway to my gaping mouth, I froze. So much for my promise to Rider about not getting in trouble.