“I’ll stop. For now.”
I wait for the cataplexy to pass and for Stefan to make himself comfortable, and then start. When I draw, I always start with faint lines first. I draw in the rough shapes that make up Stefan’s body—an egg shape for his head, a curved line for his shoulders with circles for the joints, and so on. It’s the quickest part of the process, one which I’ll eventually erase.
“Stefan.” I catch myself as I wonder if I have a right to ask about his past. ‘I love you’ doesn’t give me an all-access pass to his memories.
He arches an eyebrow.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course, it does. What were you going to say?”
“I was going to ask you something, but honestly, it doesn’t matter.”
“You can ask me anything, Quinn.”
“Anything?”
He nods.
“Would you tell me a little more about your family?”
Stefan flinches visibly.
I shake my head. “Forget it.”
“No. No. It’s okay. Where to start?” He shifts his gaze from me to the window. “Until I was ten, life was pretty much perfect. Better than perfect.” He lets out a pained sigh.
I concentrate on my sketch, giving him space to either carry on or stop. Whatever he needs to do. It’s starting to take shape as I begin to put in some rough detail, beginning with his hair and the shape of his eyes, nose, and mouth.
“Some of the happiest memories I have are from those first ten years, but it’s hard to recall them without them being tainted with everything that happened after.”
“That’s understandable.” I use the edge of the pencil lead to create stubble and shade on Stefan’s jawline.
“Going on holiday to sunny destinations. Building sandcastles with Beau and burying Dad in the sand. Mum helping us with our homework. Sneaking biscuits from the cupboard when we knew we weren’t supposed to.”
“I think every kid has done that.”
“Undoubtedly.” Stefan’s lips curve into the ghost of a smile. “Dad was arrested for embezzlement when we were ten. It completely blindsided us. Our lives got turned upside down overnight. All the money we’d had and everything that came with it had been stolen from Dad’s clients. Even at ten, I felt a huge amount of shame about it.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, messing it up. “But that’s how I felt. I was also angry. So damned angry. I hated Dad, but I couldn’t lash out at him, so I took it out on Mum.” His cheek muscles flex as he clenches his jaw. “We both did. We drove her away.”
I want to tell him it’s not true, but I don’t know that for sure. The only person who knows why Stefan and Beau’s mum left is her.
“When did she leave?”
“Right after Dad got out of prison. We were thirteen. She dropped us off at school one morning, and by the time we got home, she was gone. She left a note.”
“Did you see the note?”
“Only briefly. Dad waved it at us while he was ranting and raving about the fact she’d walked out. How was he going to take care of two boys? He didn’t have a job. Why couldn’t she just stand by him? We got enough of a glimpse to be sure it was Mum’s writing, but he never let us read it. Beau and I contacted our aunt Gill—Mum’s sister—but she wouldn’t tell us anything. We spent several weekends sitting in the cemetery at our grandparents’ graves, hoping she’d visit them and that we’d get to see her. She never came.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. My heart aches for him and Beau.
“My happiest childhood memories after that are from when Beau and I ended up in care. Dad got sent back to prison for selling drugs, and there was nowhere else for us to go. Thankfully social services found a foster family who were willing to have us both. For the next few years, until we were eighteen, we had a stable life in a loving home.”
“Do you keep in touch with your foster family?”
