Page 25 of All the Ugly Things
“What do you and your dad want with me?” I pried my fingers off my book bag straps and flung them to my hips. “Why are you here?”
“We just want to help.”
“Who says I need it or want it?”
I did. Both ways.
A muscle on the side of his nose twitched. I hated I saw it. Hated I was paying that close attention. He was Mr. Valentine twenty-some years younger but a heckuva lot higher on the attractive scale. He also wore an irritated, pained expression I actually enjoyed seeing.
Most people I saw walking around always seemed too damn happy.
Not Hudson. At least not in the few minutes I’ve spent with him. He walked liked he carried a grudge and wouldn’t give it up without a fight.
Without answering my question, he swung out an arm, gesturing to a wood bench under an oak tree. “Can we sit? Please? Just a few minutes and then if you’re totally uninterested, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
It was the please that did me in and the genuine expression, almost pleading in his dark eyes. I followed him to the bench, but pretty sure I did it still scowling.
I sat on the bench with my ass propped at the edge in case he pissed me off and I needed to jump and flee. Prison taught you a lot of things. Few of those were how to relax.
I was going to have to talk to my therapist about more stress-release exercises next time we talked. I had a feeling I was going to need them.
“My dad and mom used to be foster parents. I grew up in this wild, loud, crazy home. Kids stayed for years, sometimes only months. We had up to twelve kids at one point and all of it was insanity. But my parents, my mom especially, she loved every minute of it. She had this spirit about her… warm, kind, so damn gracious and understanding.” He paused and shook his head. “It didn’t matter what someone went through in our house, how many times they screamed at her, stole from her, said they hated her. She took it with a smile and would say, ‘I hope someday you look back and always remember how much you were loved within these walls.’”
My jaw might have been brushing the grass it was hanging so far open. I snapped it closed.
Hudson didn’t notice. He was in another world, leaning forward, eyes straight ahead. His hands were clasped together, forearms resting on his thighs.
Damn, he was a good-looking guy. The kind of guy, when I was younger and before I was damaged, I would have wanted to ask me to homecoming if we were closer in age. I bet he played football, too. Baseball or something. He had that look about him, an athlete, competitive.
But he wasn’t on that bench with me. He wasn’t talking to me. His eyes were tight, pupils almost glazed over. He was somewhere far away, remembering something beautiful that still hurt.
For the first time in a long time, I wanted to reach out and comfort someone.
I gripped my book bag tighter and said nothing. But it hurt. It hurt a lot not to give that to him.
He continued anyway and I wasn’t sure if he still knew I was sitting next to him.
“Mom and Dad.” His soft smile tipped up his lips before he cleared his throat. “They had all this love to give and share. I’m pretty sure they could feed every homeless and needy person in the world, and it wouldn’t have been enough to give. They came from pretty ugly scenarios and Dad always swore, said he remembered doing it when he was twelve, that someday, he’d be in a position to help others escape their situations and he’d give them somewhere safe and warm to lay their heads. Mom was all in.”
“They sound like beautiful people.” I didn’t recognize my own voice as the words slid out without thought.
“They are. Or were. Mom died seven years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” And I was. My tears burned, pricked at the back. His mom sounded like an angel and my own wasn’t horrible, just beaten down and weak.
“We miss her. All of us do.” He cleared his throat again. “After… well, after she died, Dad quit fostering kids. He didn’t feel it was right to do it alone, not at his age with his kids now grown. I might have said it wrong, but I wasn’t lying. He gets off on helping others. It’s his drug, gives him this high, and he’s been lost for a while, figuring out what to do, how to help.”
“So he chose me.”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
He turned to me, eyes so dark they were almost black glinting with emotion and sunshine and shrugged. “That’s his story to tell.”
Irritation was a pulsing, living thing beneath my skin. “That’s not a good enough answer. You’re asking me to take a chance and no offense, but I’ve already rolled the dice once or twice and it hasn’t ended up that well for me.”
“I know.”
