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But then he opened his mouth and ruined the illusion. He was so fucking earnest, in a completely obnoxious way that I couldn’t stand. At first, I genuinely believed he was messing with me, playing some kind of prank on the new kid. You know, offer to show him around town, be his friend, only to stand him up and laugh behind his back. However, as time went on, I found myself noticing the little things he did for other people.
He went out of his way to brighten people’s day. Constantly carrying snacks, just in case someone got hungry or needed a sugar hit, always volunteering to clean up after gym class, even if it meant sacrificing his lunchtime. I even once overheard him hollering about running to the nurse’s office to grab a tampon for his friend at the top of his lungs.
I mean, who the fuck announces that loud enough for the whole damn world to hear?
It was like he felt a compulsion to prove how good he was.
Except, I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t an act. That it might just be who he is.
Did I mention how much I hated it?
Especially when he directed that attention towards me. I had feigned ignorance about knowing Grayson often sat outside the music room, listening to me as long as he could before heading to practice. I dismissed the look of awe on his face when I sang, convincing myself it didn’t stir butterflies in my stomach. It made me act like a fool around him—either hurling insults straight to his face or running away as if I were scared of him.
Which, truth be told, was closer to reality than I cared to admit. I was scared—not that he might harm me, but that I was starting to entertain the idea that I might let him.
And now, he had swooped in like some white knight, rescuing my ass from freezing to death.
In every place I’d ever lived, if you saw a homeless person freezing their ass off on the streets, you kept walking. Survival of the fittest and all that. I tried to convince myself he’d only been worried about the inconvenience of dealing with my lifeless body on the sidewalk come morning. I thought if I assured him I was fine, he’d move along on his merry way. Instead, Grayson had seized my only possession worth having—my precious guitar—to coerce me into his truck. Now we were on the way back to his place.
How would I manage to keep resisting the emotions that bubbled up when in his presence? Emotions I had no business feeling.
Then curiosity crept in, and I began wondering how exactly he planned to explain bringing a cold, wet, and bedraggled stranger home to his parents like a stray cat. But I guessed that was his pushy self’s problem. They’d likely take one look at me and call CPS. Well, jokes on them, because I ain’t their problem anymore.
I’m not anyone’s problem anymore.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
On what was meant to be one of the happiest days of a young person’s life—their eighteenth birthday—I’d officially lost the last tiny shred of dignity I’d had.
A roof over my head.
Normal teenagers might wake up to presents and maybe a cake. I knew not to expect anything, but waking up to the modest belongings I had accumulated over the years, packed surprisingly neatly by the front door, still managed to shock me. A pit of dread settled in my stomach when I caught the expression on Mrs. Danforth’s face.
The Danforth’s were my eighth foster family in as many years, and while they weren’t terrible people, it had been clear from the beginning that they were in it for the government check and not much else. Some help with chores was a bonus for them, but not enough incentive to keep me around.
In true Colton fashion, it was just my luck that I had aged out of the system months before high school graduation. A few weeks back, I tried negotiating with Mrs. Danforth to see if I could do some extra work on the farm for them in exchange for letting me stay with them until after graduation. She’d said she’d try and talk to her husband and we hadn’t mentioned it again.
Even though I’d known it was coming, I had thought they’d at least give me some warning. Maybe a week or two to find somewhere else to crash. The realization that I was being tossed out with the clothes on my back, my guitar, and a ratty old sleeping bag into a brewing winter storm, without a dollar to my name, felt utterly fucking humiliating.
Apparently one day I’m a child in need of protection, and the next day I’m an adult, supposedly capable of handling everything on my own, with not even a few dollar bills to send me on my way.
Everyone knows the system is broken. You hear about it all the time and how foster kids need more help. But there’s never any mention of what happens to the kids that have aged out of the system. Spoiler alert—it’s not exactly easy to be a functioning member of society when you’ve been raised by crack addicts and abusers. Even the homes that weren’t totally terrible, it’s not like they were concerned about teaching me how to get a job or do my taxes and shit. They gave me the bare minimum amount of food and a roof over my head and they got a pat on the back for keeping me out of trouble.
Never mind that now I’m totally alone and totally fucked. I used to shake my head at the statistics of incarcerated adults who were former foster children. In my head, I had looked down on them, convinced I’d never be in the same boat.
Then, Mr. Danforth had shoved my stuff at me this morning, telling me that since the government would no longer pay for me to live with them, I needed to leave and not come back. He mentioned they had another kid coming soon and only one spare room. Mrs. Danforth looked like she wanted to say something to me, but she’d never openly disagree with her husband. So, out I walked into the frigid air, no well wishes, no nothing.
The icing on the shit sandwich that was my life? Mr. Danforth had refused to let me get a job when I moved in, saying I had to pay for my room at their house by working on the farm after school for free. Yet, when I offered to keep doing that in exchange for staying, he scoffed and told me he didn’t need a pussy working for him.
So that was how I’d found myself penniless, starving and freezing in the alley behind the gas station. I didn’t want to admit that the only reason I’d gone there was a hope that I could maybe sneak in before closing and sleep in the bathroom, maybe steal a little food. However, when I’d seen Grayson behind the counter through the window, my pride hadn’t let me stoop that low. My God: it was stupid, but I’d rather freeze to death than beg, borrow and steal from someone like him. It’s not like there was much in my pathetic existence to keep living for anyway.
“You’re awfully quiet over there,” Grayson’s deep rumble cut through my thoughts. Jesus, how could one man’s voice sound like pure sex? It irritated me. And it was hot. But mostly irritating.
“Don’t have anything to say,” I muttered in response. There was absolutely no way I was going to spill my sob story to him. He could just forget about any deep, heart-to-heart conversations.
“Fair enough. Well, you can take my spare room when we get home. It smells like a locker room because I tend to just toss my dirty laundry in there so I don’t have to look at it, but I figure it can’t be worse than that alley. I know for a fact all the male employees at the gas station use it as a bathroom… not me of course,” he smiled sheepishly at the suspicious glance I’d cast his way. “Pretty sure Pete’s family of raccoons lives in the dumpster as well. So my dirty socks will be like the Hilton in comparison.” He flashed me that winning smile again. He sounded so sincere, and it was completely ridiculous. Surely he was messing with me; I just couldn’t figure out how yet.
“Why doesn’t your mom handle your laundry? And crashing at your place? That’s bold of you to think your ‘rents will be cool with that,” I shot back, full of my trademark snark.
