Page 17 of The Allure of Ruins

He’d cleared his throat. “You are dependent on Colton,” he’d explained, “but he is not dependent on you outside of the office, which makes this all right.”

And when I’d thought about that for a moment, it was true.

He had old Army buddies, he had friends from law school, he had the guys he played baseball with on a league every spring. His parents lived in La Grange, and his sister, Brooke, lived in Lincoln Park with her husband and two kids. Everyone loved him. He was a loyal and concerned friend, the one who showed up to help you move, took you to rehab, and came when you called in the middle of the night. He was a loving son, a doting brother, and the uncle the kids loved best because he treated them like people, not kids. I knew that because normally I was there when he was watching them. His sister preferred that I was in attendance because I made certain the movies they watched were age appropriate, that all the food groups were represented during their meals, and that suitable safety equipment was put on—goggles, for instance, when handling an acetylene torch—before anything was begun that involved fire, heights, or driving really, really fast.

“Having Colton in your life, someone you trust, has opened you up to others, and that’s an amazing change for you,” Dr. Butler had continued.

“Because I’m so broken.”

His brows furrowed, and I couldn’t help my smile.

“Don’t default to running yourself down. That helps nothing. You can accept what I’m saying to you without adding anything. Will you try and do that?”

And I had been. But at the moment, I was terrified.

“Hello,” Colton barked at me, and I turned my head so I could see him. After a moment of searching my face, he told the driver to pull over, that we’d walk the rest of the way.

Once we were out on the sidewalk, I realized how cold it was. Chicago in January was no joke. The addition of softly falling snow wasn’t making the situation any better.

“Why did you do that? You’re still going to have to pay for the whole ride,” I grumbled, hoping my scowl was as dark as my mood.

“I don’t care,” he replied, tipping his head to get me to move. “I need you to tell me some stuff before we get to the pub, and I didn’t want the driver to hear.”

“Like what?” I asked, falling into step beside him.

“I want to know about growing up.”

I shrugged. “There’s not a lot to⁠—”

“No,” he growled, rounding on me. “I want to hear it all, because God help me if you make me unseal your juvenile records and read whatever happened to you myself.”

“No one is going to unseal my⁠—”

“Oh no?” he dared me.

He could probably do it. Someone, somewhere, would fall for the lazy grin, the laugh lines in the corners of his warm, honey-colored eyes, and the rumble in his whiskey-soaked voice. It was inevitable. More importantly, the man had so many acquaintances practically everywhere. His network was unbelievably big. I was always surprised when we had to fly to some random place, like the last time when we were in some hole-in-the-wall part of Texas and someone walked up and greeted him warmly.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” I said tiredly. “What do you want to know?”

“You were in foster care, right?”

I nodded.

“Where?”

“Los Angeles. That’s where I was born.”

“And?”

And I had all trust beaten out of me by the time I was five. I didn’t say that, of course, and I had to think how to phrase what I wanted him to know.

“Just tell me. Did you get hit?”

I had to be honest. “Yes,” I husked.

“How badly?”