Page 39 of Layla

I have to close my eyes when I think of Dee, the pang in my chest is so strong. “I haven’t seen her in a while,” I murmur. “We’ve been so busy. But, yeah. We’re close.”

I finally look up to meet his eyes and I’m not sure how to read what I see there. He has to know about my upbringing. The label knows, Louis definitely knows, and if he did any kind of looking there would have been plenty of shit for him to find. I guess I expect to see that reflected in his gaze—pity. Maybe judgement. The cliché assumption that I act the way I do because of all the trauma from my childhood. But I don’t see any of that. He’s just watching me, an even expression on his face, his brown eyes warm.

And for some reason I find myself wanting to talk about it.

“She took me in when I was fifteen,” I tell him. “That was when I finally told the state that I wanted them to revoke my mother’s parental rights.”

“Dee wasn’t your first foster home,” he says. Not a question.

I shake my head. “I was in and out of foster care my entire life.” When I was little, there were a few families that wanted to adopt me. But my real mother never let it get that far. She seemed to have a knack for showing up right when the courts were ready to seriously consider permanently rescinding her rights. She’d make a real big show of getting her life back together, making a safe house for us. I’d go back to her and things would be good for a while. But eventually, the entire sorry cycle would start again and I’d end up right back in foster care.

As I got older, the nice families looking to adopt got fewer and farther between. Turns out there aren’t as many people who think a surly pre-teen is the missing piece to complete their perfect family.

And I definitely got surly. That’s what a decade and a half in and out of the system will do to a kid.

Or maybe that’s too easy. Maybe I was just surly to begin with.

“Sometimes it sucks.” John’s voice is soft, and when I look up into his face, I get the feeling he knows exactly where my mind has gone. “The first goal of family court is reunification, and I get why that’s the case. They want to keep kids with their birth families whenever possible.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not always what’s best.”

“No,” I say, my voice harsh. “It isn’t.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, the shadow of all my dark memories hovering just above our heads. I feel edgy, like those things I don’t like to remember might crash down on me at any moment. But when I look up at John, I see that his gaze is fixed on the far wall, like he, too, is trapped in some distant memory. And then it hits me. He was a cop. John probably has a whole set of system related nightmares I can’t even imagine.

“You have experience with this.”

His eyes snap back to mine and he holds my gaze for a moment before nodding. “We’d get calls, sometimes. Kids that needed to be picked up. Domestic violence calls where we’d find evidence of abuse.” He clears his throat. “I worked on vice for two years. That was probably the worst, seeing what drugs can do to a person. Going into those houses was always a punch to the gut but when we’d find kids there…” he trails off, shaking his head. “It’s unbelievable what people will do to their own children.”

I make a scathing noise, full of bitterness, in the back of my throat. He doesn’t need to tell me that.

“It was crack for her,” I tell him, my voice flat. “Sometimes meth, which was cheaper. Things got real fun when she started with the heroin.”

He doesn’t say anything and I find I can’t look at him, my gaze traveling over to the TV where Mr. and Mrs. Beaver fuss over the Pevensie children. Strange to be talking about this with that in the background. Or maybe not that strange…

“You loving this particular book is making more sense,” he says, apparently noticing my attention has shifted to the TV.

“Why’s that?”

He tilts his head. “Little kids, escaping into a magical world where they have friends to protect them.”

I try to roll my eyes at that, but I feel a blush come to my cheeks. Instead, I shrug. “Like I said, it’s a comfort read.”

He watches me for a long moment but I don’t meet his gaze. “You want me to shut up so you can watch?”

I manage a small smile in his direction. “Nah. I’ve seen it a million times.”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I? What were you planning on doing tonight?”

“Honestly?” I ask and he nods. “I was going to dye my hair.”

His eyebrows go up. “Really?”

I pull a lock from the bun on my head, bringing it to my eyes to peer at it. “Yeah, I think I’ve had enough of pink.”

He blows out a soft breath and then says, so quietly I almost can’t hear him, “I like it pink.”

His words have my heart beating hard. Too hard. I need to do something to diffuse this tension between us. “You do?” I ask, proud of how light I’ve managed to make my voice. “I would think Mr. Straight Edge would not be a fan of the rainbow colors.”

He rolls his eyes. “Again, I’m not nearly as straight-edge as you think I am.”