I feel like I’m the one who’s done all the talking—too much talking—and it’s his turn, so I decide to redirect the conversation. “Going back to what we were discussing on theboardwalk…”
“Are things about to get awkward again?” he asks, still sporting that charismatic, dimple-filled smile ofhis.
“You’re going to have to stop smiling like that,” I tellhim.
His friendliness shifts to confusion. “Why?”
“Because I don’t have a way of hiding this boner in myshorts.”
“I have a few ideas of what you can do withit.”
This is my problem with him. He makes me feel like I’m twenty again and can let go of all my responsibilities and the day-to-daybullshit.
I can forget how serious the world has tobe.
That’s part of what makes it so exciting to mess around with him. It’s wild and carefree, me totally losing myself the way I would have back in the days when I didn’t feel so much responsibility weighing me down. But I’m not a kid anymore, and I do like substance. And I’m wise enough to know there’s more to Jesse than he’s let on so far. In the same way I have my barriers, he has his, and he keeps deflecting with that sexy smile ofhis.
“I was referring to when I asked you about your life,” I press. “I feel like you know way more about me than I know aboutyou.”
He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms out to either side. The sunlight glistens on his brown locks, the bangs clinging to his forehead reminding me of when they were covered in sweat in thebedroom.
“I’m an open book,” he says. “What do you want to know? I already told you about my relationship with Whitney. That’s the only major relationship I’ve had in mylife.”
“Well, further back than that, then. Where did you grow up? You mentioned something about fosterhomes?”
That easygoing attitude he’s donned dissolves with his smile. “Yeah, I grew up in some different foster homes. I can’t complain. I got really lucky when I was in seventh grade. I ended up with this very nice couple, the Morgans, and they’re my familynow.”
“Do you know anything about your realparents?”
“As far as I’m concerned, the Morgans are my real parents. I don’t know much about mybiologicalparents.”
He stresses the word like he’s trying to let me know how far removed they are from what he would consider to be parents. He can’t know how much that hurts, not because of him, but because I’ve imagined that Ty must have felt the same way aboutme.
“When I was little,” Jesse continues, “I had to travel back and forth between different foster parents and a couple of places run by the state. I was a baby when I was put into the system, and they say babies are always the ones that are most desirable to couples looking to adopt, but apparently I was theexception.”
He says it like it’s a joke, but I can feel the pain behind his words. I imagine this little kid running around on a playground at some school, wondering why his parents gave him up, but never having an answer. I know all about not having answers from my own childhood. It feels likeshit.
Even worse is always growing up with that burning question:Why did no one wantme?
Jesus, he was living with that question while he should have been carefree, not worrying about not beingwanted.
I almost feel like I’m projecting my own pain on him until I see the sorrow in his expression, and despite how he’s trying to curl his mouth into that familiar smile, I believe this must be one of the reasons he hasn’t been eager to divulge any information about hischildhood.
“So what was that like,” I ask, “growing up like that before you met theMorgans?”
He licks his lips. “That’s strange,” hesays.
“What?”
“Usually I mention shit like that and people want to talk about something else, but you just dig rightin.”
“I’m sorry. I know I have my own things I don’t care to talkabout.”
“No, no, no, no. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I don’t want to talk about it. It’s only that I’m surprised you didn’t immediately change the subject the way most people do. Like I said earlier, subject changes give you an easy out.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “It wasn’t the most fun thing in the world. I had some shitty families I had to stay with for a while, families who wanted another check from the man. But fortunately, I didn’t have to stick around very long. I wasn’t the most obedient kid. I was a little unruly back then. And when I was eleven, I ended up getting into sometrouble.”
“At eleven?” I ask, startled by this confession. “What kind oftrouble?”
“The family I was staying with lived in this very suburban town in Gwinnett County. I’d made a few friends, whom I guess I gravitated to because they were like me. None of their parents cared about them much more than mine did about me. We weren’t in the smart-kid programs or very active in sports in the town, so we didn’t have many options other than hanging around at the mall after school. The other guys I hung with were looking for trouble wherever they could find it. We’d smoke joints and cigarettes in the bathroom. The other kids would do it too, so no one could really get us in trouble for that. But one of my friends—his name was Danny—I always felt uncomfortable hanging with him because he liked to shoplift. I wouldn’t help him ever, but we’d just be leaving somewhere in the mall and he’d have something he’d collected, maybe a piece of jewelry, maybe a DVD, little stuff really. It was never a big deal, and he was good at it, so we never got introuble.
