“My dad was weak. He couldn’t stick to just dealing. Eventually he started sampling the product, got hooked on crack. When I was old enough to have my own mind, he’d still leave me with Nina—the neighbor—and I’d end up taking care of her. Making sure she was fed when she stumbled into the apartment, that she could make it to her bed. I went to school, but it was off and on. Part of me understood that I needed education to survive, especially how to read. So I did that, read, acted like I belonged at school in three day old shirts and crusted-over jeans. I learned to hide my clothes in other people’s loads at laundromats, then sneak them out two minutes before the washing cycle ended. How to go out back behind restaurants right before closing. They throw out a lot of prepared food that people don’t eat or never order. It’s insane. They could give this stuff to homeless shelters—fresh, clean, cooked food—and yet they choose to throw it out. So I collected what I could, fed my father who was passed out in the corner of our flat, now with a needle sticking out of his arm. I figured out how to collect welfare checks. At seven, I filled out the application with a lot of misspelled words and God knows what my scrawl was like, but it was accepted. We had a residential address.”
Picturing Spence as a scrappy street rat wasn’t hard. It explained a lot, actually. His quick-thinking, his skills at paying attention. Spence’s ability to pick apart conversations and get to the heart of the matter, because frankly, he didn’t have time to dawdle.
“You were able to support your dad at seven years old?” I asked, aghast.
“That’s what ended up biting me in the end. I didn’t get my smarts from my mother, but my pops. He figured out what I’d done, started grabbing the checks before I could, and used them for more drugs. Then got Nina’s full name and social and collected checks on her behalf. That alerted the government, who visited us—because I did put our actual address on the papers. Child Services was called, and next thing I know, Pops is in jail and I’m part of the system.”
“You were never adopted,” I surmised.
He scoffed, and the sharp chest movement had me curling my fingers against his skin. This poor boy. “I was way too old. No one wants an eight-year-old street kid. So I was thrown into a lot of group homes, places where they pack in all the older children. And these kids, like me, went through shit. Either they ended up mean, or they curled up weak. I had to figure out which category I belonged to. It took being punched in the gut, thrown against sinks, submerged in toilets, to understand the need to fight back.”
“Other kids did this to you?”
“Most of the time. But those were territory claims, leadership competitions. Who could control the home and be the least likely to be messed with. It was the adults that were brutal. You ever heard of private corporations owning foster homes?”
I frowned. “I haven’t.”
“For-profit companies can gain fees from state and local governments for foster care services. Cuts of that cash are used to recruit foster parents as well as pay them a daily rate for the children they care for. They hire their own social workers, pay their own administrative overhead, but it’s a company. They want profit. So they cut corners on the more expensive services—like ensuring kids are safe—in order to keep more money.”
I raised my head. “And this is legal?”
“Perfectly so. And not governed by the state the way governmental foster care is. I was in many of those homes. They don’t screen potential foster parents as well, don’t do nearly enough home visits, look the other way often. I was belted, punched, kicked, and each time I wound up in the hospital, my foster parents du jour would explain that I was a temperamental, traumatized rescue kid from Brooklyn who couldn’t be tamed. I had one guy punch his own jaw after hurting me a little too much in order to adequately explain to the hospital staff that I came at him first and he had to push me off—unfortunately too near the stairs—in self defense.”
“And they believed this? Qualified doctors and nurses bought that crap?”
“These days, probably not. But things are always crazy in emergency rooms, overcrowded, understaffed, beds in hallways, a quick turnaround. They didn’t pay enough attention.”
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “My God, Spence.”
“These for-profit homes still exist,” he said. “Which is why I want to be an attorney, become part of the law and not just the system, and try to expose this thing for what it fucking is. Or at the very least, try to protect its victims.”
It was stunning, the hurdles Spence had overcome, the humor and good nature he continued to possess, as if he were a regular guy who’d grown up in a perfectly stable home, played sports, got good grades, made his parents proud—like me. Flash cards of my past splayed behind my eyes, like how annoyed I’d be when Mom burst in on me and my friends in my bedroom with snacks—always apple slices and cheese. Or how I’d sigh and roll my eyes when every day, as soon as he got home, my Dad would ask me, “how was your day, hun?” The same as it always is, Dad. All those times Dad helped me with math, a scotch at his elbow and chocolate milk on mine. Or how Mom took the time to edit my English papers. Warm, fire-crackling Christmas mornings. Chilly Easter egg hunts in my backyard. Birthday candles in homemade french vanilla cake.
Instead of all that, what sat beside me was a boy who bit and scratched his way to become what he was, turning into a man who understood the precious luck it took to be a child who grew up happy.
I dared, so gently, to slid my fingers over his arm, and barely touched the fabric of his shirt. “And…this?”
Spence’s chin dipped low, the muscles along his jawline rippling before releasing. “An unhappy foster father.”
“Was it a fire?” I whispered. Picturing Spence locked in a room, smoke filling the space, and then his airways, as he backed into a corner and crouched, crying, screaming for someone to save him, his thin—too thin arms stretching out for someone…I closed my eyes. But the resulting black made it much too easy to see.
“No,” he said, and I blinked. Spence’s voice had taken on a dull edge. “I was fourteen, fell in with a stupid crowd at the latest school. They were into the typical rebellious shit. Weed, liquor, beer, sometimes crack. I stayed away from most of it. Some part of me knew not to go the route of my father, no matter how easy it would make things. But cigarettes…yeah, I liked those. So I went into my foster dad’s room one night, when I thought he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV downstairs to steal a couple out of his pack. I didn’t have money—no allowance at this house, despite the chores—and he always kept a spare pack in his underwear drawer.” Spence stopped.
I ushered him to continue with a light squeeze to his arm, but his stare was filmed over, like he went back to ten years ago and had yet to resurface.
“There was more than I bargained for in there.” Spence swallowed and looked to his hands. “Pictures. Something else was going down in that house, stuff I…stuff with the girls. There were two of them in the house with me, and I knew there was a reason they always wanted to sleep in my bed, but a part of me…this new badass rebel, didn’t want to deal with it anymore. I wanted to be a stupid teenager, one who smokes behind bodegas and leaves empty bottles of beer in the school gymnasium closet. I wasn’t a savior. I couldn’t—couldn’t help those girls, but fuck, they asked me to every night.” Spence squeezed his eyes shut. “Until those pictures took it out of the maybe and into the goddamn truth. I couldn’t pretend anymore.”
I found his hand, and despite the softness, old, white scars showed through the knuckles. “What…what did you do?”
“I swear I sensed him before I saw him. So I recovered as much as I could, finding his stash of cigs and spilling a few into my hand, but he grabbed me by the back of the neck, tossed me on the floor, and he knew. Completely lost it. Would’ve killed me if it weren’t for his wife, who had to scream at him that I was next week’s paycheck for him to stop.”
Now my mind went haywire, thinking of this brute of a man pinning Spence d
own, lighting a match to his clothes as Spence bucked and punched…
“…But he’d already beaten me unconscious. I…I don’t remember a whole lot immediately after, except for when I woke up screaming. Convinced there was something tearing chunks to get out of my stomach. Something alive. Jesus, that pain…worse than a knife, than fire. Worse than someone’s hands reaching into the wound and stretching it wider, breaking my skin open inch by inch.”
My free hand covered my mouth.
“It was acid. Cops told me later after he’d beat me unconscious, he ran downstairs, outside to his car, then stormed back up, past his wife, with car battery acid. And he tossed it on me.”
Throat thick, I told myself not to cry. Spence did not need the tears. Yet, they pooled hot with anger.
“Fucker didn’t break me. I told the cops everything I knew. One of my foster sisters called the police with a phone I’d had hidden under my mattress. They stormed the house, arrested our foster parents, and that was my first taste that something could be done. Not justice, exactly, because those girls would never receive the type of revenge they deserved, but…something.”
“And you,” I said. “You deserved something, too.”
Spence flipped his palm so it met mine, folding his fingers over my hand. His first movement in what seemed like hours. “I wanted more. That man sparked a rage in me that was just waiting to blow the fuck open. And this scar reminds me every day that I’m going to take on assholes like him and win.”
I held a hand to his cheek to steady him, since Spence seemed to be looking everywhere but at me. I said, very simply, “You are amazing.”
His lips twitched. “There’s a poison in me.”
“Don’t,” I said. “You are the most incredible man I’ve ever met. Not many kids come out of what you were drowning in. And you’ve exposed me to things in this world that we all know about but never think on often, because it’s too awful or it doesn’t directly affect us. Not the way it’s affected you. What you’ve told me, I’m going to keep it. Right here.” I tapped my heart. “And I’m never going to forget it. Or you.”
Spence’s eyes held mine, but I caught the sway of unsurety underneath. “This hasn’t scared you off?” he asked with the air of a joke. “I don’t tell people this. Especially not like this. It’s too much.”
“Spence, everything you tell me, it fits another piece into the puzzle,” I said. “I’m finally seeing the whole of you, the very stitches that have formed you into the guy you are. Any person who can’t handle knowing you, understanding your flaws and successes and passions, doesn’t deserve to.”
His brows pressed in. “To be honest, I don’t know why I blurted it all out. I don’t fucking ponder my memories near a window, chin in hand as I make wishes on stars. Here, the only person that knows is Knox, because my life, this Spence, is new. I don’t want the past anywhere near it.”
“You may not have to think about it or even remember it,” I said. “But it’s inside you. This person in front of me, this guy, wouldn’t be the Spence Rolfe I know if he didn’t come from a juvenile delinquent who survived off open food wrappers and fists.”
Spence opened his mouth to smile, then seemed to think better of it because his lips turned down before he said, “I can only think that the reason I told you is because when you touched this part of me, the worst part of me…I trusted you.”
They were the most beautiful three words I’d ever heard. More than affection, more than love, trust is a trait earned, a gift that doesn’t come from instant attraction or a tug at the heartstrings. It was solid, precious gold.
“I will never take that lightly,” I said, and laid my lips on his.
To my chagrin, I had to end the kiss before it rose in to passionate territory, because I couldn’t breathe. The choke-snort that occurred while our lips were still touching turned into an embarrassed laugh as I pulled away, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, I’m—”
But I was cut off by the pure sparkle, his utter amusement at seeing me, and the lightness that hit his gaze because of something as simple as a clogged smooch from me.
“You have me on some kind of coal miner’s coaster, Em,” he said. “Taking loops and whirls in the underground, not sure where the hell I’m going.”
“Don’t expect me to have the flashlight,” I admitted. “I’m just as blind as you are.”
Spence grew serious. “Every scrap of me that’s left wants to protect you.”
I let in a big inhale before saying, “Honestly, I’m sick of other people—mainly you—having to clean up my messes. It’s crap. Trev and Ed, they’re my bullshit problem. I can take care of it myself. I don’t need to be saved anymore.” I frowned. “It…it irks.”
“All right. Fine.”
He sounded so cold, so factual, that he had to be screwing with me. “So…you’re not going to fight Ed?”
“No, you will.”
“Uh…”
Suddenly my speech seemed rather stupid.
“He’s not another mess. What Ed’s doing, it’s illegal. So you can do it the official way. Report him to the administration, and if he still doesn’t get the hint, get a restraining order.”
“We can do that?”
Potential Prosecutor Spence was back. “Yes. There are stalking regulations in place in New York City, and I plan to use them to full effect when it comes to protecting you. I told you.” He offered up a tentative smile, which I mirrored. “I don’t resort to fists anymore.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. As soon as my back was turned, he’d hurl Ed into a dumpster. By the neck.
“You punched Trev.”
“I’m wishing I’d saved it to punch Ed.”
“So many men to punch, so little time.” I tried laughing, but it came out as a morose sort of groan.
Spence found a tendril of my hair and twirled it around his fingers. “You need to promise me something.”
I remained pouting at the ground. “Yeah?”
“Stop blaming yourself for other people’s fucked up motivations.”
“It’s just…” I swallowed. “It’s not them. It’s—every time I think I’m happy, and that I have you, something like this always happens. Like the universe isn’t happy with screwing up my goals, it also wants to mess with yours, too. You should be home, finishing with your LSAT prep. Instead you’re nursing me. I’m getting in the way of things, Spence.”
His expression darkened. “You need to let me decide that.”
“You can’t—you can’t ever—promise me you’ll never give up your dreams.”
“Emme.” He shifted closer. “You’re part of my life now. Because I want you there.”
My lips sealed shut with hope I didn’t dare express, for fear of scaring him off. Spence had told me so much. What if he regretted everything?
“You could confess about another guy or girl who’s making your life hell, or twenty of them back in Wyoming who’re working to ruin your life, and I’d say, ‘let’s get through this one asshole at a time.’ You could tell me you want to start again somewhere else, away from Trev, away from Ed, and I’d follow you.”
I shook my head, eyes wide. “Spence…”
“Emme Beauregard, I’m into you. Your past, your present, your friends and your life. Everything that’s created who you are. Even fucking Trev. I told you I don’t like memories. But with you, I’m okay looking back. I enjoy thinking about the first time I saw you, bursting in late to my tutorial lesson with disgusting coffee you thought could buy you some leeway. And those yoga pants. I’m a sucker for yoga pants.”
I tentatively smiled. “How do I deserve you? There’s so much about you that I…who you are. What you’ve overcome. What you’re willing to continue to endure.”
Spence pulled me in, squeezed. “I can’t think of anyone else I want to battle epic shit with. Because I promise you, honey, my life isn’t a funhouse.”
“Spence, I love you.”
I said it in a rus
h, in the moment, feeling the affection with every nerve in my body and every synapse in my brain. This man was with me. He wanted to be mine. And hell, I wanted to be his.
“Ah, come here,” he said, but his voice was rough with emotion.
I burrowed into his warmth as much as I could, considering my clown nose. Spence held me tight, but I didn’t protest. I wished I could feel this secure always.
“I love you, too,” he said.
The room didn’t explode with bright colors, fireworks didn’t ignite my window. It was the feeling inside me, the electric bloom of a full-blooded heart, that gave me the rush of crackling, multi-color lights in the sky. A few more seconds in this hug, and Spence would have me believing in anything.
“So,” Spence said, rubbing circles on my back. “Now that that’s over with.”
I sensed his joking eye roll and my shoulders shook with mirth.
“Want to get our minds off things and do some LSAT logic games?” he asked.
“Hah—ow, ow, ow.” Air tried to get out of my nose as I laughed, which ended up as more of a snort with no escape. It was also the most godawful pain I’d ever experienced.
“Oh—oh no, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” Spence said, rubbing my arms, but also trying to hold back any laughter. Which could get him killed. “Bad joke.”
“No, that’s a goog idea,” I said. My voice was getting worse the more breath I required. I could only use one air hole. “My head’s totally ready for the puzzling reasons why letters of the alphabet have chosen their particular seats in an amphitheater.”
At least, that was what I thought I’d said. By Spence’s expression, I’d spouted Satan’s gibberish.
Absolute horror set in. “Wait…have I been sounding like this the entire time?”
Spence wisely remained silent.
“During my speech about taking things into my own hands?”
He angled his head.
“When you were exposing your heart and soul to me?”
“Now, now,” Spence said. “I wouldn’t exactly call it that…”
“My God, Spence! Why didn’t you tell me you were communicating with a muppet?”
From This Day Forward Page 17
