Page 86 of Run Home

I sit down next to her at the edge of the platform, our feet dangling over the side. Because the Wests live on the outskirts of the city where houses aren’t on top of each other, a lot more of the stars are visible in the night sky. Sam leans back on her hands, staring at the sky above us, so I mimic her pose, trying to be patient. Trying not to push her to start talking.

“I can’t tell you the number of hours I spent up here,” Sam says, voice quiet. “When I had a hard day at school, or uncomfortable meetings with social workers, or court appointments, difficult therapy sessions, bad dreams, bad waking thoughts—all of it. I’d come out here.”

She blows out a long breath and finally glances over at me. “My world—my life, my brain—felt so big and so overwhelming for such a long time. It honestly still does sometimes.” She returns her gaze to the stars, and I shift so I can place my fingertips over hers against the smooth wooden planks. She explains, “Sitting out here under the stars, seeing how huge the sky and universe are, it helped me feel small. In a good way. It helped me feel like there was more out there, outside my life. Outside the crushing weight of my thoughts.”

Sam pauses, and I sense a shift in her mood as she shifts her weight forward. I hear the dread in her swallow, so I move closer, putting my left arm around her back, resting my hand on the dip of her waist. I’m grateful when she doesn’t pull away from the touch, when she places her right hand on my thigh, and I cover it with mine.

“You saw the results of how I struggled in romantic relationships. But you didn’t know how I drowned myself in them, lost myself in the need to feel loved, then fell apart when they were over. And you have to know about my childhood to understand where that unhealthy attachment style started.”

She takes a deep breath, then takes us back in time. “My biological dad died in a car accident a few months after Ian was born. I was only four at the time, so I don’t remember very much about him. I learned later that he had a gambling addiction, and my biological mom was left with two little kids and a mountain of debt after he passed. Long story short, she didn’t handle it well,” Sam says.

“My memories of those first years are sketchy. Stretches of sleeping in our car when my mom was between jobs. Being hungry a lot. Ian crying a lot. Me comforting him. My mom sometimes caring for us and sometimes completely checked out because she couldn’t deal with everything.”

Beneath my arm, Sam’s body starts to shake, and I tighten my grip on her waist, pressing her into my side.

“When I was seven, my mom got remarried. She was so desperate for help. Help paying the bills. Help with us. She didn’t care who the help came from,” Sam says, her voice beginning to quiver. “My stepfather, Charles, never even tried to be nice to me or Ian. He didn’t have to. My mom didn’t care.”

She breaks off talking, and my chest tightens with sickening dread.

“I never saw him hit my mom. Maybe he didn’t, or maybe it was always behind closed doors. Maybe she didn’t make him as angry as I did. I tried everything to keep him happy—being on my best behavior, helping around the house, anticipating what he might want and getting it for him, literally hiding. I even started going by Sam instead of Samantha because he said my name was a mouthful. But none of it mattered—I always managed to do something wrong. He was always angry.”

She’s quiet again, tensing in my arms like she’s struggling to continue talking.

Stroking her hand with my thumb, I offer the words for her. “He hit you?”

“For two years,” Sam whispers, and my muscles go rigid with rage. I make a conscious effort to loosen my hold on her waist and her hand, not wanting to transfer my agitation to her.

“I never told anyone. I mean, my mom knew, but she didn’t care. But at school, around other adults, I was good at hiding, at staying under the radar. I didn’t want to cause problems for anyone. Until one afternoon the first week of school, Ian and I walked home from the bus stop, and Charles was home early from work. Ian was whining about being hungry, like he did every day after school. Charles heard him complaining, and first he hit me for not getting Ian a snack fast enough. Then . . . he hit Ian for the very first time.” She closes her eyes against the memory. “I can still hear the sound. It was different from when he’d hit me. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Shaking her head, she continues, “That was it for me. When Charles and my mom went out later that evening, I took Ian and walked to the police station. They brought special social workers in to interview us and took so many photos. I was embarrassed because I had to show them all the bruises I was used to hiding. It was late, so they took us to the DCF office to spend the night while they looked for a foster care placement for us.”

“Today. On August twelfth,” I state.

Sam nods.

Understanding fits the pieces together in my mind, and I say, “This morning when I pulled you out of the way of the bike, it reminded you of Charles hurting you.”

She won’t make eye contact with me as she murmurs, “Yeah.”

Tipping her chin to look at me, I say, “I’ll never hurt you, Sam. Never.”

Pain scrunches her face as she brings both hands to her temples. “I know, Adrian. I know that. I promise you—I know that. But my brain, it’s . . . it’s broken. There are things that trigger trauma responses that I can’t control. It’s gotten better, but I think I’ve clearly proven that it’s never gonna go away completely.” Her chest heaves with panicked breaths as she continues, “I know it wasn’t my fault, that it was my mom’s fault and Charles’ fault, but I’m messed up. Probably forever. It’s not fair to you to—”

“Stop,” I murmur as I pull her head against my chest. I give her a second to slow her breathing, feeling her relax as she matches her breaths to mine. “I love you, cielo. I want you. Your whole heart. Your whole brain. Definitely forever. I’ve already decided.”

“But Adrian,” Sam moans against my chest, “I’ll weigh you down. You live at the top of the world. Your whole life is a highlight reel. Once-in-a-lifetime opportunities one after another. I’ll only—”

“You are my once in a lifetime, cielo,” I emphasize, gently nudging her shoulders back so I can look in her eyes. “Why do you think I nicknamed you ‘heaven’? Because I’m walking through heaven on earth every time I’m near you. Sure, I’ve had more unique experiences than the average person”—Sam spears me with a sarcastic look that I ignore—“but being with you is going to be the one highlight of my entire life. I don’t care about anything else. I’m going to love you every day I’m alive, whether you love me back or not.”

“I do—of course I love you back,” she says, placing one hand on my chest. “That’s not the issue. I love you so much, Adrian.”

Holding her hand tightly against my chest, I say, “Then there’s no issue. We love each other. It’s already decided.”

Sam launches toward me, clasping her arms around my neck as she kisses me. I’m thrown off-balance and have to catch our momentum with one hand behind me. Once I straighten, I wrap both arms around Sam, pulling her onto my lap, letting her take the lead with this kiss.

It’s thoughtful, almost tentative at first, like she’s testing for reassurance from my lips against hers. Whatever she’s testing for, she finds it. Gently breaking away, she holds my face in her hands. Her silhouette is framed by the midnight-blue sky sprinkled with stars—my heaven on earth.

“I love you, Adrian,” she repeats.