Background checks. Home studies. Hearings.
I don’t have a stable income. I don’t have adequate housing. I don’t even have my own room—I’m staying in Jax’s guest bedroom because I have nowhere else to go.
How am I supposed to prove I can take care of her when I can’t even take care of myself?
A knock on the door startles me.
“Come in,” I say. My voice sounds hollow.
Jax opens the door slowly and stays in the doorway, observing me from a distance like he’s not sure if I want him closer or if I need space.
I don’t know which one I want either.
But I’m glad he’s here. Glad all three of them are here. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be right now. Would I be back at that house, about to be evicted? Where would I go?
A sinking feeling enters my mind the second I remember my dad was paying for my college tuition.
“What did they say?” he asks quietly, bringing me back to reality.
I take a breath. “She’s in a foster home somewhere in LA. They won’t tell me where. I can’t see her yet. There are protocols. Procedures. I have to prove I can take care of her before they’ll even consider letting me have her back.”
“What do you need to prove?”
“Stable income. Adequate housing. Character references. A background check. A house inspection where someone comes and inspects where I live to make sure it’s safe for her.” I frown. “I don’t have any of that.”
“You have housing.”
“I’m staying in your guest room, Jax. This is charity.”
“It’s not charity.”
“Then what is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those intense eyes that see too much.
I wipe my face with my good hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize.”
Tears fall from my eyes as I say, “I just feel like everything’s my fault. If I had just listened to him. Do you think he knew about Barnes & Noble? If you hadn’t seen him hit me in the parking lot, I would—” My voice is hoarse now, breaking in and out. My throat still hurts.
“Stop.”
I try to hydrate my throat by swallowing.
“None of this is your fault,” he says firmly. “Your dad shot you. He strangled you. He’s the one who created this situation. Not you.”
My throat tightens as more tears fall.
“I need to shower,” I say suddenly. My voice is squeaky. “I feel disgusting. They only let me sponge bathe in the hospital and I just... I need to feel clean.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“Can you help me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
I stand up slowly. My arm throbs. My whole body aches. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the weight in my chest.
