Page 23 of Mountains Divide Us

“Are they still alive?”

“Yep.”

“And do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“They adopted other kids after me, but I was grown by then, so we’re not close.”

“And what about your… birth parents?”

And here was the hard part. The less detail I gave her, the better off this date would go. Who wants to hear about a kid living alone on the street at thirteen years old, sleeping in train stations and under railroad tracks, eating food out of dumpsters, even stealing from restaurants and grocery stores? And that was after living in drug dens and sleeping on other addicts’ filthy couches while the person who was supposed to be looking out for me was getting high in some back room, probably having sex to pay for her drugs.

“My father died overseas when I was ten, and then my mama got… sick.” Sick of being a mother. Did that count?

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t remember it much. I was adopted in my teens, graduated high school, and then I joined the Army.” Hopefully she was picking up on the finality of that last word. No use going back and crying over spilled milk. “The Army’s where I learned to be a man. It’s where I grew up. Taught me a lot.”

“You liked the Army?”

“I did.”

“What was your job?”

“MP.”

Her eyebrows were doing that rising thing again. “I don’t know what that is, Frank.”

“Military police.”

“Oh, so that’s where you learned how to be a deputy?”

“Basically.”

“What made you want to join the Army?”

I shrugged. “My dad.”

She twisted her lips a little, taking her time before she said, “You’re kind of clamming up on me again. Do you not like talking about your time in the service?”

It was a hell of a lot easier than talking about my childhood.

“Frank, why did you ask me on this date if you don’t actually want to talk to me?”

I grumbled at her but then realized it was a fair question. “It’s just that you went right for the heart of the matter. I haven’t talked about this stuff in a long time. And…”

“And what?”

“Don’t talk about myself very often.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting forward. She propped her elbows on the table, cupping one hand over the other. “But isn’t that the whole point of a date? To get to know each other? But I didn’t mean to get too personal. We can talk about anything. What would you like to talk about?”

“You.” It was the truth. I wanted to know what made Samantha Russo tick.

Did I see red flags everywhere? Yes. Did I care? Not so much.

Why was that?

Seemed I was taking all kinds of risks tonight. “I want you to tell me about the things you love.”

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