That answer seemed to surprise her, but she removed her hand from the door handle, nonetheless. Once again rounding the hood, he opened her door, and without hesitation placed his hands on her waist and lifted her easily to the ground. With his hands still supporting her until she had snapped her cane into place, he reluctantly let her go.
He walked her to the front door of the apartment, surprised when she bypassed the security panel, and just pushed the door open. Stunned, he followed her through and asked, “The security doesn’t work?”
Shaking her head, she was busy pulling a key out of her bag as they stopped at the first door on the right and said, “I’ve been here for years, and it’s never worked. Don’t worry. I have good locks on my door.”
He observed as she unlocked the door and a deadbolt before turning to him and saying, “Thank you for the drive home.”
He stared down at her, still not wanting to lose their connection, but feeling as awkward as a teenager standing on a girl’s front porch, wondering if the father was looking at them through the peephole.
She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before licking her lips. “You’re still wet. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea to help you warm up?”
He wanted to tell her that just being in her presence made him warm enough, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Nodding while thinking of something else to say, he blurted, “I’ll take anything you want to give me.”
If she thought his comment was strange, she did not react. Instead, she nodded and pushed open her front door, stepping into her apartment. He rushed in after her as though afraid she might shut the door in his face if he did not come immediately.
She made her way into the kitchen, turning on the coffee maker. She looked over her shoulder at him and said, “I’m afraid I don’t have any dry clothes that would fit you unless you want to put on my fluffy robe.”
He was thrilled to see the twinkle in her eyes and quipped, “While I’m secure enough in my masculinity to not be afraid to put on a fluffy robe, I think you’re more in need of getting warm and dry than I am.”
She tilted her head in question, and he explained, “I was in the military for a number of years. I slept outside in the pouring rain on a bed of rocks. Granted, that wasn’t one of my favorite memories, but it would take more than a shower of rain to bring me down.” Nodding toward her, he said, “But I don’t want you to get a chill.”
He had not meant to make her self-conscious, but as she glanced down, she must have noticed her nipples poking through her bra and T-shirt.
Her face flamed red, and she said, “Oh, yes. Uh…I’ll go change. Um…be right back.” She moved past him and disappeared behind the doorway just down the short hall.
Unable to keep the grin off his face, he moved to the coffee pot to finish adding the coffee grounds. Once made, he found two mugs, and he poured the hot brew. A sugar bowl was sitting on the counter, and he dumped some in his. Not knowing how much she would want in hers, he left that mug alone. A sneak peek into her refrigerator revealed French Vanilla creamer. Pouring a dash into his, he left it sitting on the counter for her to use. Sipping the coffee, he had to admit it was the perfect way to chase off the chill.
He heard the door open and turned to see that she was now in sweat pants, a large pink sweatshirt, her hair now blown dry. Simple. Unadorned. And fuckin’ beautiful.
12
Penelope stood at the entrance to the kitchen and living room, her hands slightly behind her, propped against the wall to give her some stability. The sight of Asher standing in her kitchen, trim hip leaning against the counter, one leg crossed in front of the other, his still-damp T-shirt showcasing his upper body, sipping from one of her mugs made her dizzy.
Never in a million years would she have expected Asher to be standing in her apartment. Not just standing but giving off a casual air as though he had been here often, felt at home here, and enjoyed being here.
Her mind went blank at anything to say, and he dipped his chin toward the counter where a mug of black coffee sat.
“I didn’t know how you liked it. I hope you don’t mind, but I found the sugar and creamer for mine.”
Pushing off from the wall, she made it the few feet to the counter without falling into a puddle at his feet and said, “No, I don’t mind, I’m glad you made yourself at home.” She added two teaspoons of sugar and a large dash of creamer, stirring them together. Lifting the cup to her lips, she found him carefully observing her. “Is something wrong?”
Shaking his head, he smiled and said, “Not at all. I just wanted to remember how you took your coffee so I can make it for you the next time.”
If he had told her he was going to dance naked in the middle of the street, she could not have been more stunned. Not only was he here in her apartment, sharing a cup of coffee, he indicated that he would be here again. Not knowing what to do, she took another sip of her coffee, willing her nerves to settle.
Clearing her throat, she asked, “Would you like to sit for a little while?”
“Absolutely,” he replied. Reaching over, he took her mug from the counter where she had set it down and carried it to the coffee table.
She followed, sitting on the sofa, aware he sat on the sofa as well. Just like on the park bench, he shifted to the side, his knee on the seat cushion, his body facing her.
Suddenly uncertain what to say, she sat staring at her hands in her lap instead. She looked up in surprise when he spoke.
“Will you tell me more about yourself? I really want to know.”
She had no idea how to begin. No one had ever asked her to talk about herself. Oh sure, people asked how she became injured, but it seemed as though they often just wanted gruesome details. Looking over at his warm gaze, she had the feeling that he sincerely wanted to know about her.
Making the decision to keep her explanation simple, she said, “Like I said in the park, I was involved in an accident when I was very young. I don’t remember a lot about the actual accident or what happened afterward. I remember being in the hospital, visited by a lot of people.”
He nodded encouragingly and asked, “Your family and friends?”
Her brow crinkled, and she shook her head. “No. No family. And no friends.” She watched as he opened his mouth to speak then closed it quickly, a questioning expression on his face.
Explaining, she said, “Mostly it was doctors and social workers. I remember the police came to visit me, but there was little I could tell them about what had happened. I know someone was arrested for the accident, but I was young, so no one ever gave me any facts. To be honest, by the time I was a legal adult, I no longer cared about trying to find out anything about the accident. I had worked too long and too hard to build my own life to go back and focus on that.”
“But…no family?” he prodded, his voice soft and gentle.
In the past, when anyone asked probing questions, she balked and would not give them information, but with Asher, she could feel his concern for her like a warm blanket. “My real father had never been in the picture, and my mother had died. So, I became a ward of the state. Social workers took charge of me, and I spent weeks in the hospital and then several months in a rehabilitation facility for children.”
Shaking his head slowly, Asher said, “Oh, Penelope, I am so sorry. I can’t imagine what you went through.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and cast her mind back to that time. “I sometimes wonder if I was given a great deal of pain medication because my memories of that time are so foggy.”
“How old were you?”
“I was six years old.”
Repeating, he said, “I am so sorry.” His hand resting on the back of her sofa reached forward, cupping her shoulder, his long fingers reaching underneath her hair to the back of her neck. The slight movement of his fingertips was relaxing, and she released some of the tension in her body.
“What happened afterward? Where did you go to live?”
�
��As I said, I was a ward of the state. I went into the foster care system.” Her gaze jumped to his as he startled.
“I was too,” he said with a hint of excitement.
Surprised that her statement would draw forth enthusiasm, she just stared numbly at him.
“I also grew up in the foster system,” he explained. “My foster mom is who I consider to be my real mom. The other boys from the home are my brothers.”
He looked at her with a certain expectancy in his eyes, but she could only shake her head slowly, her voice filled with a cool dejection. “I’m glad for you, Asher. Truly, I am. But those were not the kind of homes I found myself in.” At that pronouncement, she saw his face fall, regret filling his gaze. Please don’t pity me, please don’t pity me. I’m so sick of people’s pity.
They remained silent for a moment before his fingers began to slowly work circles around her neck muscles again. “Again, I’m sorry,” he said. “But you have to know how much I admire you. For going through everything you did, to come out the other side such a beautiful and strong woman…it’s humbling.”
Her breath halted in her lungs, the burn almost painful. Her eyes stung for a few seconds before welling with tears, and she blinked, allowing the tears to run down her cheeks. No one—in her whole life—had told her they admired her.
Unable to speak, she was grateful when he slid closer, his leg pressed next to hers as he wrapped both arms around her body and pulled her in tightly to his chest. The position was slightly uncomfortable, but she did not care. She would have fought to the death anyone who tried to make her move away from his embrace.
For several minutes they sat in silence, the emotions swirling about the room, but there was no awkwardness. Instead, there was just calm and peace, and maybe just a touch of hope. A box of tissues sat on the end table closest to her, and he shifted their bodies in that direction so that he could reach out and snag a few of them. Taking them gratefully, she wiped her eyes and her nose, dragging in a shuddering breath before letting it out slowly.
He no longer had to ask for more information, she was ready to unburden herself to him. Continuing to keep her head on his chest, she began, “The first several foster homes I was in were not bad, only temporary. They were established for children like myself who had physical injuries and needed a safe place to live with someone who could continue the physical therapy that was necessary. It’s hard for me to remember exactly how long I was at each one, but I think three to four months per home was the maximum. I turned seven years old in rehab and had my eighth birthday at my third foster home. By then, I knew not to expect to stay anywhere very long.”
Shrugging again, she added, “So much of that time is very foggy, though. There was a lot of pain and more surgeries. By the time I was ten years old, I had bounced from one foster home to the next, my life a blur of surgery, rehab, and pain. Somewhere in there, I suppose I must have been educated, because I could certainly read, write, and do math. I don’t remember going to a school building, but I do remember sitting with a teacher at the kitchen table, so I suppose it was a type of homeschool.”
His arms tightened again, his hand continuing to rub up and down her back and shoulders, providing as much physical comfort as possible.
“Asher, I’ve never told anybody any of this, and I don’t even know why I’m telling you. No one’s ever asked, and I don’t want to presume on our friendship to burden you.”
“Sweetheart, you’re not burdening me with anything. I want to know everything I can about you. I feel like I know so much about you from the time we spent together, but today is showing me that there is so much more to you than I ever realized. Please, tell me anything and everything you can.”
She stared at him, wondering at the sincerity of his desire to know more about her. She was curious, but his gaze held genuineness. Sucking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly.
“I bounced between more foster homes until I was about fourteen years old,” she continued. “A lot of foster families only want younger kids, and they don’t want to deal with the hassle of teenagers. I finally ended up in a home where I was able to stay until I was eighteen years old and graduated from high school.”
“Please, tell me that was a good place to be,” he begged.
“I hate to disappoint you, but it was only tolerable at best. The family had three children of their own, and I was the only permanent foster child. There were one to three other foster children that would rotate through and make us a rather large family in a house that appeared to be bursting at the seams. They weren’t abusive, they just weren’t very involved. The foster father went to work every day, and when he came home, he was ready for dinner, spent a little time with his own children and then headed to bed only to get up and do the whole thing over again the next day. In four years, I barely remember ever having a conversation with him all by myself.”
Asher sighed but remained silent, and she could feel his frustration oozing from his body.
“Their own children were also disinterested in us, and I believe they were sometimes frustrated that their parents were taking in foster children. They were not mean, but very much like the father, distanced from us. Our foster mom kept a clean house, making sure we had food, but other than that had little time for us. Her own children were involved in sports, dance, band…you know, the typical things that teens are involved in that take a lot of time. I think the thing that bothered me the most about them was that I didn’t feel protected.” Shifting slightly, she added, “But then that probably taught me how to be more independent and develop a shell.”
As though he was no longer satisfied with just sitting next to her and having her tucked close, Asher shifted her gently so that she was sitting on one side of his lap, with her legs draped over. His arms were still around her, but this new position allowed them to stare into each other’s faces as she spoke. At first self-conscious, it was comforting to see concern and care in his eyes.
“You gotta tell me, baby, how they didn’t protect you,” he begged.
Shaking her head quickly, she assured, “No one hurt me, Asher. At least not physically. It was more like when the parents needed something done, I would attempt to help, but then they would tell me to stop because my disability kept me from doing the chore as fast as they needed. I think their own children began to resent me because my injuries became the cause of their having to do more of the chores than they considered to be their fair share. So, of course, like typical teens, they would snip at me. Over the four years, there was also a revolving door of other foster teens coming through, some with real anger issues, and there were always hurtful words that were thrown my way. ‘Worthless cripple’ comes to mind more than anything else.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Penelope,” he agonized. “You should have never had to deal with that.”
Shrugging again, she held his gaze, and said, “While I agree, in principle, Asher, what those kids said to me is no more than what I’ve heard as an adult. So, while it hurt, and I admit I had more than my share of tears, I sometimes wonder if I had been loved and protected as a child if I would have been less able to face the comments that come from adults.”
“Don’t take offense at this, but that’s bullshit. Any parent, natural or foster, should do everything they can to protect a child from hurt and pain. You’re right in that as adults, we have to face a lot of disappointment and being around assholes. But as a child, that shouldn’t be. And especially for those of us who are in the foster system. We already knew that there is pain in life.”
She held his gaze, his words moving slowly through her as she grasped the different perspective. “You had that, didn’t you? You had that kind of foster family.”
“Hell, yeah. I was taken out of a situation that wasn’t good, and while I’ll share that story with you sometime, that’s not for today. All you need to know is that the family I ended up with is the kind of family every child should be raised in. And the fact that you didn’t have that
guts me, baby.”
She had never been called baby, or any pet name, by a man before. She could have felt insulted or as though he was assuming an intimacy that they did not have. But instead, that simple word wrapped itself warmly around her. She knew it could be such a throwaway, particularly if a man could never remember a woman’s name. But he knew her name, and with his arms wrapped tightly around her, still called her baby. And she loved it.
“So, what happened when you turned eighteen?” he asked.
“I got a job in a fast food restaurant when I was sixteen years old,” she said. “Physically, it was hard, and I was not able to work more than about three or four hours at a time. A few coworkers were rude when I wasn’t able to move very fast due to the limp, but most of them were like me…they needed the money and didn’t mind doing whatever they had to do to get it. Since all my expenses were paid with the foster system, I was able to save every dime that I made for the two years until I graduated from high school. The foster family could have kept me for a little bit longer, especially since I wanted to take classes at the community college, which is also paid for by the foster system. But they had no desire to keep me past high school graduation, so I moved out.”
“Where did you live?”
“For several years, I bounced around. I kept working at a fast food restaurant, slowly able to work more hours at a time. Sometimes I slept on the couch of a coworker who didn’t mind me paying a little rent. Other times I stayed in one of the local homeless shelters.” At that, she felt his arms tighten in reflex, but when he didn’t say anything, she just continued.
Asher: Heroes at Heart Page 9
