But the man next to her—he’s not. He stands there, stoic like a statue, anticipating our arrival with careful, calm restraint.
I gently shake Sloane awake and she flinches, her eyes shooting wide open. When she looks around and realizes where we are, her panic only somewhat subsides.
“We’re here, Sloane.” My smile is tight this time, as is hers in return, because we’ve done this before. How many times have we been shuttled, either by our uncle or a social worker, to a “home”? We get the whole spiel:This family is so excited to meet you. They love that you’re twins! Be good—they just might adopt you.
It never makes us feel the way I think they imagine it does. Getting adopted isn’t the dream; getting back to Mom is. Everyone speaks to us like she’s part of the past, like she’s a story and not a real person. But our mom is real, and shesees us when she can, and I think Sloane is right that eventually, when she figures her stuff out, she’s coming for us. When she comes to visit, which admittedly isn’t often, but when she does, the reminder is clear: it’s the three of us. It’s me and Sloane and her.
“Ms. Schaffer,” our uncle greets the social worker. “Mr. and Mrs. F?—”
“Just Evangeline—Evie. And Beau,” the blonde woman interjects, her smile a little too eager. The corners of her eyes crease as she does it, and I feel bad that she wants to impress us at all.
I feel a nudge on my shoulder and know I should probably speak up. God knows Sloane won’t.
“Hi,” I say, my voice sounding smaller than usual. “I’m Grant. This is Sloane.”
Sloane’s gaze flits over the couple and she manages a cordial smile. Better than nothing, I guess. The friendly face, Evie, extends a hand instead of offering the hug she clearly wants to give, and I take it, giving my firmest shake. Sloane might not care about making a good impression, but she doesn’t consider that the good will of others is all we have until Mom comes back. Unless we want to sleep on the pull out in the double-wide until we turn eighteen. And then what?
“We’re so happy to see you,” Evie says. I swear I see her eyes dampen, but it’s so bright out.
“Evie and Beau are going to be your new foster placement,” Ms. Schaffer tells us, pointedly. “If you need anything, you can call the number I gave you. But we—” she pauses, glancing around at the adults, “—we all think you are going to like it here.” She’s beaming, like this moment is career defining or something, and I decide tobelieve her. Ms. Schaffer’s been the best social worker we’ve been assigned, and I believe her when she says she cares.
Sloane's derisive snort cuts into the Hallmark Movie moment, though, and my lips press into a firm line, bracing for what’ll come out of her mouth.
“Because you just know ussowell,” she says, eye roll included.
Our uncle roughly clasps her arm without thinking, saying low enough for only us to hear, “Stop bein’ so damn precocious. I’m not takin’ you?—”
Evie’s soft laughter filters the rest of his statement, and the chime of it makes him drop Sloane’s arm. Lips pursed, Sloane looks straight ahead, zoning out.
“I hope we do get to know both of y'all. Really well. We’ve always wanted kids. Right, Beau?”
Beau nods to himself, considering his next words carefully by the look of it. “I don’t presume to know you, Sloane.” Sloane’s eyes dart to his and stay there. “But we sure would like to give you a home. For however long you want it.” Her breathing goes steady, her grip on the sketch pad loosening. “And maybe we’ll get to know you along the way.”
Sloane’s shrug is as much as he's going to get, and he knows it. When he turns to me, hand outstretched, I stand up a little taller.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, son,” he says. His voice reminds me of a bale of hay rolling down a hill—it kind of lulls you, kind of makes you want to listen real close. His smile isn’t as friendly as Evie’s, but for some reason that feels more genuine right now.
I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me.
I give him a quick nod of acknowledgement, and apleased smirk appears. I didn’t know I cared, but I think I just won his approval.
“We’ll have Anders grab your bags,” Evie offers, before Ms. Schaffer whispers something. I hear “only” and “nothing else” and know she’s saving us the embarrassment.
“Anders?” Sloane whispers, cracking her first giggle of the day.
Finally. The laugh lets me know we can do this. Stick this out, until.
13
Grant
It’s been three hours since I dropped Sloane off at the Boston Ballet. Not only did I get in a solid two hour workout, but I showered and grabbed lunch for myself. Even so, when I pull into the parking lot of the ballet I can’t help but feel like some kind of stalker. Gen and I have been texting non stop, but the past few times I’ve surprised her with my presence I could tell how uncomfortable it made her. Like having to explain whatever was going on between the two of us caused her to question it too. If I’m being honest, I’m worried that the more that question enters her mind, asking us to articulate exactly what we mean to each other, the less likely she’ll want me to mean anything at all.
I’m fiddling with the radio, trying to pass the time when I hear a sharp knock on my driver's side window. I’m about to jump through my skin when I see Jean cackling outside. I don’t know Jean well, other than that he’s friends with Gen and dating the newspaper editor, Ian, who seems to be in everyone’s business.
I roll the window down, clearing my throat. “Uh, hey…”
Jean is still snickering at my sheer terror from his knock.
