AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Not even close.” He laughed hollowly. “So it’s hard for some of us—for me—to accept food from strangers. But your dog seems to trust you, so I will too.”
I smiled, relief settling in my gut. “I assume you’ve had pets?”
“I did, as a child.”
I watched as he took a sip of coffee and seemed to savor it.
“Oh, there’s sugar and creamer in the bag too, if you—”
“I like my coffee black, so thanks. This is really good. Nice and strong.”
There was so much on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I wasn’t sure what could be perceived as rude.
“Well, I better get going.” When I reached for the leash, our fingers brushed, making my stomach feel all topsy-turvy. The whole scenario was so unexpected.
He swallowed thickly. “Thanks again for the food. I appreciate it. I have nothing to give you in return.”
“Watching my dog was enough.”
He nodded solemnly. “Anytime.”
Before we headed back home, something made me turn to him. “My name’s Foster, by the way.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Mine is Lachlan. Told you—Irish. Oscar and I have something in common.”
3
LACHLAN
I warmed my hands by the fire lit inside an old washing-machine drum. Yesterday had been chilly with a mix of snow and rain, so I’d taken to the Main Avenue Bridge to wait out the miserable spring sleet with the others last night.
The awful weather must’ve also been the reason why I hadn’t seen Oscar and Foster the past couple of days, and I couldn’t blame them.
I hated to admit that they were the brightest part of my day. We had gotten into the habit of Oscar staying behind with me—I might even call it a form of animal therapy—while Foster went inside the shop for our coffees.
I took whatever he offered, even though I didn’t want to get in the habit of relying on it—that would be dangerous. And I certainly didn’t want him to feel obligated. But the barista-made concoction beat the weak stuff at the shelter, and the muffin helped staunch the hunger pains on my walk over the bridge. I never ate it all, though. I always saved some, for days just like this.
The past two weeks, I’d learned that Foster worked at the CSU library, was very well-read, and was likely gay, if our Oscar Wilde conversation was any indication. Not that it mattered. I didn’t exactly have my life together and was still reeling from a bad relationship.
But no lie, the man was devastatingly handsome with his stylish fade cut and five-o’clock shadow. Add the nerdy glasses he wore sometimes, and it was hard to look anywhere else. What could I say? The man was interesting and easy on the eyes, and if that, along with dog slobbers, got me through my day, who could blame me?
I also recognized the pain in his eyes and was more than curious what caused it.
Thankfully this morning was dry, so I could get back to my routine. Might’ve sounded silly coming from a person experiencing homelessness, but predictability gave me a sense of purpose.
The slush on the streets had melted due to the warming temperature, and as the sun shined through the clouds, I felt lightness returning to my drearier thoughts. I wouldn’t have to spend another night under the bridge, which had almost felt claustrophobic with the number of people who’d arrived to seek shelter.
I was too far away to greet Oscar and Foster that morning, so I headed to the shelter instead. I hadn’t had much to eat yesterday and could use the sustenance breakfast provided.
Afterward, I met with the social worker about job opportunities for the first time, since residents got first dibs for everything, especially the housing waiting lists and training programs.
“Now that I know a little more about your past employment experiences, I’ll keep an eye out,” Tessa said. “It’s likely you’ll have to start at entry level again.”
“I don’t mind,” I replied because it was true. Besides, getting any sort of leg up felt like a long shot, so I wasn’t holding my breath.
The problem with finding employment was that it was next to impossible without a stable address and transportation. Sure, there was the bus, but you needed money for that too. Still, the shelter tried their best using their contacts, which I appreciated.
I thanked her for her time as she ushered me to the donation room, and I was able to leave with some toiletries and bottles of water.
By the evening, I was exhausted from the shitty sleep under the bridge and looked forward to setting up my tent, which had come to represent a safety zone. I’d swiped it from the garage of my childhood home when I’d shown up to beg for my father’s mercy after leaving Clint, even though we never saw eye to eye. The house reeked of cheap beer and musty furniture because he was rarely sober enough to take care of himself, let alone the house. I’d only stayed a few nights before the bastard picked a fight with me and told me I had to go.
