“Okay,” I muttered. “What do you want, Pops?”
Everyone in my life wanted something from me.
“I would like to adopt you and Aiden,” he said, and my heart skipped. “I know you both turn eighteen in a few days. But how would you like to live with me and become a Wellington? It is your birthright.”
“Okay,” I said. “Yes, I want to be a Wellington.”
I had no idea what that meant. I only cared about being free of my mother.
My grandfather tucked a loose curl behind my ear, and I leaned into his touch. Apart from Aiden, no one had ever shown me any form of affection.
He smelled clean and manly. I hadn’t showered since Friday morning, and not by choice. My clothing smelled like a moldy closet and body odor. If he caught a whiff, he didn’t make it known.
“Sit here for a second,” Pops said, lowering me onto my bed.
The mattress and box spring were on the floor without a frame. By morning, my back ached from the springs digging into my spine. Some nights, my mom would toss me into the closet, forcing me to sleep on the dirty shag carpeting.
Aiden stormed into my room and pulled me into his arms. “Lexie, are you okay?”
I nodded. “I am now that Pops is here.”
Aiden seemed confused, so our grandfather explained that he hadn’t known about us until recently and wanted us to move with him to Devil’s Creek.
Aiden glanced at me. “Do you want to live with him?”
“Yes. Please, Aid. Don’t say no.”
Neither of us wanted to stay here, but Aiden was afraid to trust another adult when our parents and teachers had let us down.
“Okay,” Aiden agreed, lifting me off the bed. “I’ll help you pack.”
“No need,” Pops said. “You have new wardrobes waiting for you at home. I promise you will never want for anything ever again.”
“I need my painting supplies,” I told him, sweeping my hand over the mostly empty room.
I had a plastic dresser from Walmart whose drawers cracked and sank because of the weight of their contents. The drawers held brushes, rolled canvases, and paint tubes. My mother never had money for food, but we always had art supplies.
My mother was an artist. However, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t paint like me. Her canvases looked amateurish and silly. She hated my idol, Evangeline Franco, and tried to copy her work, only to punch a hole through it after failing at the task.
I could perfectly emulate Evangeline, which only made my mother hate me more. She was jealous of my talent and loathed that I was a younger, prettier version of her.
Aiden folded his arms over his chest, muscles bulging from the thin T-shirt. “What do you want from us, old man? Where were you years ago?”
He let out a sigh. “I’ll explain everything in the limo.”
“Limo?” I choked out. “You have one?”
“I own several dozen,” Pops said as if it were nothing.
In my small Midwestern town, no one owned anything fancy. Most people didn’t even have a car. They used public transportation. Haven was a speck on the map of Illinois. You could blink and miss it.
“Aid, I don’t care what he wants. We have to go with him. Please don’t ruin this for me.”
“Fine,” Aiden agreed. “But if he hurts you?—”
“He won’t,” I said, and knew without a doubt our grandfather would never physically harm us.
Before we left the house, Pops hovered over my mother as she smoked a cigarette on the disgusting cream couch.
