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She shot him a quizzical look. "Do you think it would make a difference?"
"A difference?" Dylan gave an ironic laugh. "I think it would give Carson the motivation to jump out of that hospital bed and host a party."
"That's a little on the optimistic side. I'd settle for him taking a sharp turn for the better."
"I second that."
"So you don't think the idea's crazy?"
"The only thing that would be crazy would be your walking away from a chance to get to know him." Dylan's jaw tightened, as did his tone. "Then again, my perspective is different from yours. You see how much this is going to screw up your life and your family. I see how lucky you are. And frankly, no matter how much you're sacrificing, it's hard for me to feel sorry for you."
Sabrina should have been put off by the harshness of the comment. Instead, she found herself contemplating its basis. There was too much emotion behind it, too much personalization.
Mentally, she reviewed what Dylan had told her on the flight to New York. He'd said he owed Carson everything.
Just how bad was the life Carson had rescued him from?
"Now you're angry," Dylan surmised, as the silence between them stretched out. "Don't be. I'm not callous to what you're going through. This whole situation came at you out of left field. But compassion only goes so far."
"I'm not angry. And I didn't expect you to feel sorry for me. Actually, I was thinking."
"About...?"
"You. Your commitment to Carson. How strong it is. How far back it goes. On the plane, you mentioned having foster parents."
"When I wasn't living on the streets, yeah."
"These foster parents—was it a bad situation?"
"Which time?"
She blinked. "How many families did you live with?"
"Five. Four of which I'd like to forget. The fifth was the couple I was living with when I met Carson. They were decent people. They were older and childless. They really wanted to make a difference; they just weren't sure how. They tried. It wasn't their fault that I was too desensitized to be reached."
He sounded dispassionate enough. But Sabrina had the feeling she was poised in the eye of the storm. "Am I overstepping?"
"Nope." Dylan took another gulp of coffee. "I told you, my past is part of another life. It doesn't bother me to talk about it. Ask whatever you want."
"The other four families—were they cruel to you?"
"They varied from screwed up to emotionally abusive. Oh, and number four was physically abusive, too. Unfortunately, that's the family I was with the longest, and during my so-called formative years. I left there with lots of scars—some physical, some mental—and lots of anger. I became the classic street kid. I racked up three juvenile arrests and more drunken brawls than I can recall. The only thing I wasn't stupid enough to get into was drugs."
Sabrina was suddenly and completely sober. "What about your biological parents?"
"What about them?"
"Did they die?"
"My mother did—eventually. At least that's what I've been told. We never got to know each other. And my father? Your guess is as good as mine. I never even met the guy."
"He took off when he heard your mother was pregnant," Sabrina deduced quietly.
"Oh, long before that. I was the product of a weekend fling in Newport, Rhode Island. My parents were college kids having some fun. My father—Jamison something-or-other; he didn't give my mother his real last name—was a spoiled rich kid looking for some action. He found it My mother went through with the pregnancy. She even managed to get word to Jamison— one of those friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend deals, where the last in line actually knew Jamison, and his real last name. That plan fell flat. Jamison blew her off in a hurry. So she had me, dumped me on the steps of a New York City church, then spent the next bunch of years in and out of rehab as she drugged and boozed herself to death. End of story."
Sabrina wasn't fooled by the unemotional recounting. No one emerged from a life like that without baggage. "So you never found out who your father is."
"Nor am I interested."
