“On any given day, about four hundred and fifteen thousand kids are in foster care in this country.”
Dylan lets out a strangled sound. “Honey, are you—”
I cut him off, knowing if I don’t keep going, I won’t be able to. “That house we drove by is my birth mother’s last known address.”
“Christ, Jasalie.”
“I haven’t heard from her since I was little. Then recently, I received a letter letting me know that my mother’s gambling debts have gotten the best of her. She owes twenty five grand, and the casino will take her home if she doesn’t pay off the money. I was told I had sixty days to help her if I could.” I take a deep breath. “So when you offered the money in exchange for some photo ops with you, I said yes.”
Dylan’s hand reaches for mine.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever actually knock on her door or not or if I’ll just mail her a check. I don’t know if I want to take the risk of seeing her in person or not. Because the chances are high that she’ll just reject me all over again.”
Except this time, I’d be old enough to remember every detail.
Dylan’s thumb is stroking my palm now. “How old were you when you lost her?”
“My dad left before I was born, and my mom turned me in to foster services on my fourth birthday. She was twenty. I never saw her again.”
I stare at Dylan’s thumb rubbing soothing circles on my hand as I continue. “I bounced around from family to family every couple of years. I finally settled down with one woman, Ilene, until I was eleven. She was my first real foster mother. Then, she had an accident, and I went to live with Zoe and Lionel till I was fifteen. And they were both fine. No abuse, ever, at any of the places. I was very, very lucky. Zoe and Lionel taught me about good food and how to toast properly. All the important stuff you know.” I break into a nervous giggle. “But that was pretty much it for me in terms of stability. I ended up on the streets for half a year and had to drop out of high school. I learned to defend myself with some basic moves, like the one I used on that asshole paparazzo.”
I breathe out the last of my confession. “I just had no sense of security or of love. So I guess I’m not too keen on opening myself up again. You know?”
I force myself to look up and meet Dylan’s gaze for the first time.
His eyes shine with unshed tears. “Jesus, Jasalie. I’m sorry. I had no idea. I wish I hadn’t been so clueless. I just…” He runs his hand through his hair. “I guess I’m spoiled. I assumed you had a family more like mine.”
“Stable? Loving? Normal?” I joke.
My secret’s out, and as usual, I’m ashamed. Like never having a family was somehow my fault. Because not being normal always has a sticker attached to the outside world that makes people think, “You could have prevented this, couldn’t you?”
Dylan grabs my hand. “Shit. You’re ice cold. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
As soon as we reach the car, Dylan turns the heat on full blast, but nothing’s warming me up.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I mutter as we reach the hotel. “I’m just so damn cold.”
“Let’s go inside the hotel and get into bed,” Dylan suggests.
* * *
I crawl into bed with all my clothes on.
“Baby, you should change,” Dylan insists. “It will help warm you up. I’ll get your pajamas.”
“I don’t own pajamas,” I tell him. “Have you ever seen me wear any?”
“I thought that was for my benefit,” he says with a grin. “I didn’t know you always slept in the nude.”
“I don’t,” I say, my cheeks warming. “I usually just wear a t-shirt or something.”
“Well, wear my sweats.” He rummages around in the drawer. “Here. These are warm.”
Cougars’ sweatpants and sweatshirt, plus a Cougars’ jersey. And thick white socks.
I smile my thanks as I change. My teeth chatter the entire time. Dylan turns on the heat in the room.
“Dylan, you must be so hot. Don’t worry about the heat. I’ll warm up once I get under the covers again.”
