Page 33 of Daring You

Mom.

It’s been a few days. No doubt she’s worried about me.

I don’t call her my adoptive mom. She’s only Mom. Remembering my real mom is tough, considering she died when I was four. I wasn’t allowed to bring any pictures with me, either, so all I have are vague flashbacks of feeling warm against her chest, and the smell of gardenia.

To this day, I don’t like the smell of gardenia.

I’m told I was found crying over my mom’s blood-soaked body.

My adoptive parents, my new parents, don’t have a clue about my past, either. I mean, my fuckin’ dumpster fire history was only made known to me when I was sixteen, and a guy in a suit pulled me aside at the school playground, informing me I may be “compromised.”

Compromised. Like I knew what that meant.

Aiden made sure I grasped the seriousness of my situation, grimly stating he didn’t want to do this, but I may have to leave with him that second, and never turn back.

I thought he was full of shit. Wouldn’t you, if some Men in Black dude told you a secret universe existed where you were the victim of a violent drug cartel who was currently in the midst of figuring out who you were? I was always told I was adopted and that it was closed, meaning the birth parents didn’t want to be identified. Never did I get a whiff of the tragic circumstances that brought me to the Donahues. For all they knew, I was from an abusive family that burned me severely, forcing child services to step in. They were told my name was Ben, and that was all.

I went home that day, told I needed to pack a duffel bag, and if necessary, he would be there to pick me up in an hour. I was young, stupid, vulnerable. Scared. He showed me a badge and I figured him for real. I called the number he provided and asked for his badge number, and it matched. I raced past Mom and up the stairs, before she could see the tears in my eyes.

Luckily, it never had to happen. Whatever was blowing the lid wide open in my identity was firmly shut.

But that night, my dad peered at me strangely. Held my gaze too long at the dinner table. And when I finished Mom’s famous pot roast, he said, “I love you, son.”

Ronald Donahue doesn’t say things like that. He’s more one to express love through actions, in cheering for me at every game and talking me down when I’ve lost. Training with me, running with me, and outfitting our garage as a makeshift gym so I could do two-a-days whenever I wanted.

Even Mom gave Dad the side-eye when he said that, but he patted her hand, said “I probably had too much of a nightcap,” and left it at that.

But right then, I thought he might’ve known. About me.

I like where I am. I love being Ben Donahue. Some decades-old case about parents I should love but don’t remember can’t take that away from me. There’s no way these murderers can find me. Aiden assured that any documentation about my identifiable burn marks are long buried and sealed shut.

All I have to do, while this case goes on, is lay low.

Astor.

The name comes unbidden, and I shove it aside by answering Mom’s call. “Hey.”

“Honey! I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.”

“Sorry, Mom. I shoulda called as soon as the game was done, but I got caught up—”

“Oh, it’s all right. I’ll forgive you if you come to dinner tonight.”

“Ah, Mom…” Guilt makes me trail off. It’s been a day full of trials, and I’m looking forward to crashing tonight as soon as I finish up with Ash.

But somehow, telling that to my mom doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse to ditch her for dinner.

“It’s okay if you’re busy, honey. I miss you, though. So does Dad.”

Her voice is overly bright, and I picture her clutching the landline to her face, a fire engine red phone she refuses to send to Goodwill, a near match to the blush on her cheeks. She always smells like Dior and has hair perfectly curled, coming across to strangers as more well-to-do than a middle class, stay-at-home mom.

She’s the best, and I won’t let anyone forget it. She knew how to get rid of athlete’s foot by using apple cider vinegar, has the best brownie recipe, and stayed with me through a lot of tough, long nights, when I first moved in with them. To deny her now would be a complete disservice to how much she gave up to care for me, since before I arrived in her life, she had a career as a publicist.

Turns out, a traumatized kid is a lot of work, but she refused to send me back into foster care. Fell in love with my pale blue eyes, she said, that gazed upon her like I was a cherub who accidentally fell into the devil’s lair before she pulled me out.

“I’ll be there, Mom.”

“Really?” she can’t disguise her enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s great. I’ll tell Dad once he gets in from the garage.”

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