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I really liked Mr. Vanderbilt. He was a great teacher, but even more, he was a wonderful person. He really loved what he did. I can't believe he died that young; he was barely sixty.
"He had skin cancer for the last twelve years," Daniel continues, and I feel his voice trembling slightly, too, despite how hard he tries to hide it. "He felt awful for the last couple of months. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, I knew he didn't have much time to live."
Daniel lowers his gaze, looking in the distance, stroking my back with his fingers. His eyes sparkle in the light from the street, and I can see that they're wet, too. I know he'd never let me see him like this if we weren't lying in the darkness. I know he would never be this frank if it wasn't our last night together.
We're talking; we're actually having a real, honest conversation with each other. And it doesn't seem weird. It feels like we’ve known each other for years. I feel this strange connection between us, one I've never felt with anyone else before.
I try to remind myself that I shouldn't think of Daniel this way. He's not my boyfriend. But I can't help this warm feeling inside of me that’s getting bigger each second that we're together.
"Have you ever seen your real parents?" I ask, afraid that this question may trigger another wave of anger inside of him.
"Of course. I grew up with them until I turned eight," he says calmly, as if talking about them isn't as painful as talking about Mr. Vanderbilt.
Oh, my God, what if they died, too?
I hold a breath, unable to believe I could ask him something so intimate, something that reminds him of the deepest, darkest moments of his life.
"They didn't die," Daniel says right away because he could probably smell my fear. "I mean, they're dead now, but that's not the reason why I left them. I ran away."
And then there are another couple of moments in total silence. I hear his heavy breathing on my skin.
I try not to move, not to blink, not to even breathe.
Because I'm afraid. About what he might tell me.
"You can ask," he whispers after a couple of minutes in complete silence.
"I'm afraid," I confess, barely audible. "Why are you telling me everything?"
"Because I said I would," he says right away and presses his forehead to mine. "And I like to think of myself as a man of my word."
He is a man of his word, I know that. I figured that out from the moment I saw him. No matter how rude he seemed to me from the first impression, I somehow knew that from the very beginning.
"What happened?" I ask after a long pause, swallowing the massive lump in my throat.
"Do you really want to spend the last question on this?" he asks right away in response.
"It's not the..." I try to remember how many questions I already asked him. "It's the fourth."
"No," he shakes his head slightly. "You also askedWhy are you telling me this?"
I chuckle. "You tricked me."
"Be careful about what you're asking for." He smiles slightly.
I love it when he smiles.
Maybe I don't want to know what happened with his parents.
But deep down inside me, I feel like it's the only thing that'll help me understand him. I mean the real him, not the man who hides behind the mask, not an arrogant sex club owner, not a demanding professor, but the real Daniel.
"I do," I whispered finally, unable to believe I dared to say it.
He inhales deeply before answering. "They were addicts. They wanted nothing but another hit. They fought and beat each other every single time they had a withdrawal. They beat me so hard that I passed out. The only thing they taught me is to go on the streets and beg for money so they could buy another dose."
He pauses, taking a deep breath. I can't believe I'm forcing him to tell me this. I wasn't ready. I feel the first tear sliding down my cheek, and I do my best not to wipe it off, hoping he didn't notice.
"I ran away when I was eight. I lived on the streets for some time, then got into the system, but then ran away again," he continues. His voice is stable and calm, as if he's not talking about his life but describing a movie or something. "I met my father when I tried to steal his wallet to buy some food. He noticed and grabbed my hand. I thought he would call the police, but he fed me, asking nothing in response. And then he gave me a place to stay in one of the shelters he owned. I didn't believe him at first; I thought he was a perv or a pedophile. It was hard for me to believe that someone might do something for me simply to help."
