11 #2
“That doesn’t explain why it’s in your refrigerator.”
“You complain when I buy the wrong kind.”
“I complained once.”
“You gave me a lecture about acidity.”
“It matters.”
I grabbed the bottle while Charm came closer to the island. When I opened the cabinet and reached for the mug with the faded Great Lakes design, she immediately smiled.
“You’re putting wine in that?”
“You like this mug. You always pick it.”
“I like making fun of that mug.”
“Same emotional category.”
I poured her wine, grabbed a beer for myself, then reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator for the tequila. Charm watched me set the bottle on the counter, and her smile disappeared as I poured a shot.
“Ryan?”
I knocked it back, letting the tequila burn clean down my throat.
Her brows pulled together. “What’s wrong?”
I reached for the beer but didn’t open it yet. “I needed a little liquid courage, mi bebé.”
“For what?”
I looked at her. “To help me explain.”
The kitchen went quiet. Charm wrapped both hands around the Great Lakes mug but didn’t drink.
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then sit down.”
I glanced toward the living room, but she shook her head.
“No, stay here.”
“Here?”
“You keep pacing when you’re trying not to say something.”
I looked down at my feet. She was right, which pissed me off enough to make her smile faintly.
“Sit down, Ryan.”
I pulled out one of the stools. Charm took the one beside mine instead of the one across from me, and that mattered too. I opened my beer and drank before resting my forearms against the island. For several seconds, I watched condensation gather beneath the bottle.
Charm didn’t rush me. I had spent most of my life around people who filled silence because it made them uncomfortable, but she sat beside me and waited.
“I told you about my mom.”
“I know.”
“You know the good shit.”
Her expression softened. “Juanita.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the bottle label. “You know my dad overdosed when I was seven, and you know she died when I was eleven.”
Her hand moved closer to mine on the counter, although she didn’t touch me yet. “I know she was murdered.”
I looked at her. “What you don’t know is that she left to go to the corner market.”
Charm’s face changed as I turned my attention back to the beer.
“She went for milk.”
The word came out rougher than I intended.
“Milk and tortillas. I wanted cereal, and it was a Tuesday, so in America, tacos are always on Tuesday.”
Charm’s breath caught. I could still remember bitching about wanting the milk. That was the part nobody ever told you about the last conversation you had with someone. It wasn’t profound. Nobody said goodbye like they knew they were leaving.
“She told me we were out, and I told her I didn’t want eggs again.” My mouth twisted. “I was being an eleven-year-old asshole because apparently eating eggs twice in one week was a human-rights violation.”
Charm’s fingers touched mine, and I let them.
“She grabbed her purse and told me to lock the door behind her.” I swallowed against the pressure building in my throat. “I was watching TV when somebody knocked, and I thought she’d forgotten her keys.”
Charm went completely still beside me.
“I remember being pissed because I had to get off the couch.” The laugh that left me sounded wrong even to my own ears. “I opened the door expecting her, but it was a cop.”
I drank again. Charm’s hand closed around mine, but I couldn’t look at her, so I stared at the refrigerator.
“I don’t remember everything he said. I remember his mouth moving and another officer standing behind him. I remember thinking they had the wrong apartment because my mom went for fucking milk.” My jaw locked. “They kept asking if there was an adult they could call.”
“Ryan.”
“I kept telling them my mom would be back.”
Her grip tightened around my hand.
“I argued with them.” The memory lived beneath my skin with a clarity I hated. “I told a police officer he couldn’t take me anywhere because she told me to stay home.”
I finally looked at her. “I waited for her to come through that door for two days after I already knew she was dead.”
Charm’s face crumpled, and I shook my head.
“Don’t look at me like that unless you’re staying with me through the rest.”
She blinked rapidly before lifting her chin. “I’m staying.”
I believed her enough to keep going.
“They put me in a temporary house first.” My thumb moved over her knuckles.
“I had a trash bag. That shit is real, by the way. People talk about foster kids carrying trash bags like it’s some fucked-up movie detail, but they really hand you one.
You put whatever shit they decide belongs to you inside it. ”
I drank before continuing.
“I had two pairs of jeans, three shirts, my mom’s dictionary, one book, and a toothbrush somebody gave me at the station.”
Charm looked toward me. “The dictionary you gave me?”
“Yeah.”
Her hand tightened around mine. That fucking book had been touched by my mom’s hands, and mine had carried it through places I still had nightmares about. Now it sat in Charm’s apartment with her notes folded between the pages.
“That was one of the only things I kept from house to house.”
“Ryan…”
“I’m okay.”
Her expression sharpened. “Now you don’t get to do that.”
I looked at her.
“You don’t get to tell me all of this and then make it easier for me by saying you’re okay.”
Something almost like pride moved through me despite everything. “Look at you getting mouthy.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” I took another drink. “The first few houses weren’t all bad. Some people wanted kids, and some wanted checks. Then there were the ones who wanted somebody small enough to control.”
My jaw tightened as the kitchen seemed to grow colder around us.
“I learned quickly that adults could say you were safe and still lock the bedroom door from the outside.”
Charm stopped breathing for a second. I continued before she could ask for details I wasn’t ready to put inside her head.
“I learned which men drank enough to forget boundaries and which women would hear something happening and turn the television louder. I learned that getting hit wasn’t always the worst thing an adult could do to you.”
Her mouth trembled while I stared at the bottle.
“I learned how to leave my body before I learned how to shave.”
The sentence stayed between us while the refrigerator hummed and the bottle sweated beneath my hand. I didn’t explain it because I didn’t need to. The only thing worse than the beatings was being fucked before I understood the difference between rape and consent.
Charm’s hand shook around mine as she shifted closer. “Can I touch you?”
That question almost fucking destroyed me.
I nodded, and the instant she caught it, she slid off her stool and stepped between my knees. Her arms went around my shoulders slowly, giving me time to stop her, but I let my forehead rest against her chest.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak. She didn’t tell me she was sorry, that I had survived, or that I was strong. She simply held me, and somehow, that was harder to take.
I wrapped my arms around her waist. “At thirteen, I started leaving.”
Her fingers moved slowly through my hair. “You left the foster houses?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you go?”
“Anywhere I could get to. Parks, laundromats, stairwells if the building stayed unlocked, and bus stations when I could get there.”
Her body tightened beneath my hands. “Ryan.”
“I got good at being invisible.” The words came easier when I wasn’t looking at her. “That’s what people don’t understand about being homeless. Everybody thinks danger looks obvious, like some guy jumping you in an alley and taking your wallet.”
Charm’s hand stilled in my hair.
“Sometimes it’s a group of older kids who notice you’ve been sleeping in the same place for three nights.” I closed my eyes. “Sometimes they want your shoes. Sometimes they want to know what you’ll let them do before you fight back.”
My jaw flexed against the memories.
“I fought back. Every single time, I fought those motherfuckers back. I can still taste blood in some of those memories. I can still remember the concrete beneath my palms, a boot against my ribs, and laughing because showing fear made some people enjoy themselves more.”
I leaned back far enough to look up at her, forcing a taunting smile onto my mouth. “I got my ass kicked a lot.”
Charm’s voice broke slightly. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” I lifted my eyes to hers and found her looking wrecked. Touching her cheek, I forced my voice to steady. “Don’t imagine every scar.”
“I already am.”
“Then imagine me hitting them back.”
A wet laugh escaped her. “Did you?”
“Every fucking time I could, mi hada. I never went down gently, even when I was outnumbered or outweighed. Era un pendejo bien peleonero.” I looked at her and gave a rough laugh. “I was a scrappy little asshole.”
“That sounds more like you.”
“Yeah.” I brushed the tear from beneath her eye. “I got mean.”
“You got alive.”
Her words hit me hard enough to stop everything inside me.
Charm looked straight at me. “You got alive, Ryan.”
Something burned behind my eyes, and I had to look away. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say shit like that while I’m trying to keep my dignity.”
She gave me the smallest smile. “You’re holding me around the waist after drinking for emotional courage. I think your dignity survived.”
A rough laugh dragged out of me despite everything. Charm stayed between my knees while I rested my forehead against her stomach for another moment before looking up again.
“Hockey happened before most of the people in my life who stayed.”
She touched my face. “I know.”
“You know I love hockey.” I caught her wrist gently. “You don’t know what it was.”
Her eyes held mine while I looked toward the dark apartment behind her.
“It was the first thing I could trust. The rink opened at the same time every day. The boards stayed in the same place. The ice didn’t give a shit if I had slept in a bed or behind a laundromat. Nobody asked who my parents were before the puck dropped.”