Page 44 of Blurred Lines

Curiosity pokes at me. "Bad family situation?" I ask, cautiously.

"Let's just say home was never a safe bet," he says, his tone shutting down further discussion. "Foster system's great at teaching you not to trust anyone."

His words hit an unexpectedly painful chord. Loneliness is never easy, especially not for a child.

"I can't imagine what you went through. I didn't deal with the same shit, but I had my own troubles."

Silas reaches for my hand from across the table. "Talk to me about them."

I shrug. "They're immaterial compared to yours."

He quirks a small smile at me. "But I'm not comparing. Sadness is sadness."

Suddenly, the words tumble out. "When Dad was here, he'd have good moments. But he was the absentee parent most of the time, leaving Mom to play bad cop. Mom …" I stop, then choke a little. "She was the one always left with the mess. The broken promises, the … aftermath. Makes it hard, y'know, to have a normal relationship."

"Don't I know it," he mutters, staring into his grape juice like it holds the secrets of the universe. "Growing up too fast, having to be the adult when you're still a kid … messes you up good."

It's a heavy silence, loaded with things neither of us will unpack fully. Yet, somehow, it doesn't feel suffocating. Just … shared.

I want to know more about his history.

"How many …" I falter, then start again. "How many families?"

His knuckles turn white as he grips the table's edge. "Too many. Some were just overworked, barely keeping up. Others …" he trails off, then forces the words out, "Others saw a scrawny kid as an extra pair of hands they didn't have to pay. Or worse."

My stomach churns. "Silas …" I reach out, wanting to offer comfort, but the words feel hollow. What can I possibly say?

"There was this one guy," he continues, his voice a strained monotone, as if he's reciting a story he's told too many times. "Big, burly, always smelled of stale beer. He'd smile real wide, promising good food and warm beds." His hands clench into fists.

The air between us crackles with unspoken horrors. I swallow hard, my throat tight. "I'm so sorry …" Platitudes feel useless in the face of his pain. "Silas," I whisper, squeezing his palm tightly. "You … to think you picked up from there and came so far."

He shrugs, a heavy movement. "Well, I figured I needed to take care of myself along the way. I'm not good at backing down." That familiar smirk flickers back, but it's brittle, unconvincing.

He pushes his chair back, breaking eye contact. "Think I need some air."

I stand up with him. "Silas, you shouldn't drive back tonight," I say as leave the kitchen. "It's too late, especially after that meal."

Silas turns, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Worried I'll fall asleep at the wheel, little fox?"

The endearment is unexpected and sweet. I smile. "Worried you'll become a permanent fixture on my couch." I shoot him a teasing look. "Come on, let's watch a movie."

"My cinematic taste might disappoint you," Silas says, a hint of his usual grin returning.

"I once survived an entire marathon of those nature documentaries with talking penguins," I retort, stepping inside. "I think I can handle anything."

He knows his way around the mansion, I notice. There's a room here that's devoted to movie nights. I'm surprised Dad left it intact after we left. Silas and I go there together.

The room is spartan, the contrast with the rest of the mansion stark. It's tidy, almost impersonal, like a hotel room left untouched. I try not to focus on the ache in my chest.

"Alright, let's see what horrors we can find." Silas clicks around on the streaming service, eyebrows raised in mock horror at the selection. We settle on some ridiculously over-the-top thriller, the plot so nonsensical it becomes hilarious.

Midway through the movie, he shifts beside me, his arm brushing mine, and a shiver runs down my spine. "Cold?" he asks, his voice low.

"Maybe a little," I admit, even though the warmth radiating from him is making me feel anything but chilly.

Silas stands, moving with fluid grace. "Wait here," he murmurs. He returns with a soft throw blanket, draping it over my shoulders with surprising gentleness. "Better?"

"Much," I whisper, my gaze snagging on his hands, strong and sure. Suddenly, the ridiculous B movie seems far less interesting.

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