I’ve held all of this inside for so long, my eyes sting. Finally confiding in another person makes me feel seen. It’s also terrifying. I hope I’m not making a colossal mistake by telling him. I’ve been duped with false promises before. All it would take is Jackson telling one other person for our entire town to know. My insides go cold at the idea.
“Rosalie, you can trust me.”
Can I?
Fuck, I might be a fool, but I want to.
“Please don’t share any of this with anyone. If you do, it will jeopardize my son’s safety.”
“Are you and Edward in danger?” His jaw clenches.
“Just promise me.”
“You have my word.”
I sigh. “It’s hard for me to trust what people say.”
He brushes my hair back from where it’s fallen in my eyes and tucks it behind my ear.
“That’s understandable.”
I exhale a shaky breath and pick at a loose thread on the pillowcase.
“It’s more than Beckett. I’ve been let down by every person who promised to love me.” My mouth sours at the truthfulness of my words. “I never knew my parents.”
Jackson waits, his silence a gentle prod that encourages me to share even more.
“I don’t know much about them, only that they never got clean long enough for the possibility of reunification. I was three when I entered the foster care system for the first time, and I was eight when my mother died of an overdose. I spent my youth in the kindness, and sometimes cruelness, of strangers.”
“Oh, Rosalie.”
There’s pain in his voice, but no pity. I hate pity. The last thing I want is for Jackson to feel sorry for me. I lift my gaze to search for judgment in his expression but come up short.
“When I became older, I was placed in a group home. By that point, a huge part of me was relieved. No one wanted to adopt a teenager. That was well known, and I was angry—and so tired of playing the part of a perfect child. Being good enough that someone might finally pick me. Being good enough they might not send me away. Being good enough, they wouldn’t hurt me.”
“They made you feel as if you had to earn love.”
His observation lands like a grenade.
Yes!I want to scream. Instead, I tiptoe around his words and pretend they didn’t just implode the shaky ground around my heart.
“I never wanted to end up like my parents, and I guess I got that part right. Before this week, I never even got high.” I force a laugh, as if my life isn’t a tragic comedy.
“Shit, Rosalie. I’m sorry. If you didn’t want to . . .”
“No, I did,” I assure him. “But you’ll understand when I don’t smoke with you again.”
“Of course.”
“I never craved drugs.” I craved love. I craved belonging. If I’m honest, I still crave those things now, but I don’t tell him that part. “My escape is and always has been books. Before the group home, one of the families I stayed with took me to get a library card. That opened my world in countless ways. In that public building I was safe. I could truly escape. I could read whatever I wanted—go wherever I wanted. It expanded my worldview so exquisitely, I was forever changed. It allowed me to dream bigger, and that’s what I did.
“In high school, I used the computers to research schools and apply for scholarships. For the first time, my people pleasing paid off. My perfect grades coupled with my background made me eligible for full rides to several universities.”
He runs his hand down my back. “You’re incredible.”
There’s awe in his words that fills me with a sense of pride. Not that I did anything special.
“Maybe. Or maybe I just did what I had to in order to stay sane. To survive.”
