Page 60 of Honey Bee Hearts

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I murmur. “I’d love to know your story.”

He shrugs and leans back over the truck, going back to work. “There’s not much to tell. I came from a really poor family. Dad was a big German guy, and mom was Shoshone. She lived on the Wind River Reservation until she fell for Dad and he moves her out here. She died when I was young and Dad got hurt at the plant a few years after, wasn’t able to work anymore, and I wastoo young to help. We lost everything. There were a lot of days we didn’t have food.”

My eyes dance over to the apple and then to the other fruits and food sitting around the shop, always available, always ready whenever he wants. Oh.Oh.Is it Trent leaving food for me? Has he been making sure I always have something around me?

“It didn’t take long for the state to get involved when I started showing up to school with my ribs showing,” he continues, his tone calm despite the subject matter. “They took me away and I’d never seen such relief on my dad’s face. He died a year later. Passed out drunk in a pond I hear.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“Don’t be,” he shrugs. “We all have our origins, and mine led me to Circle Bee. I was in the state system for six years. No one wants to adopt an older kid. I was sixteen and waitin’ to age out, figured I’d get a job somewhere. Foster families didn’t like me. I was too quiet, too big, too menacing. They passed me from home to home, but at some point, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas came to see me. I thought they wanted someone to work on their ranch for free when they came in, but I quickly learned that wasn’t the case. They were saints.” He glances up at me. “They officially adopted me after a year.”

“But you didn’t take their name?”

Trent’s surname is Coldiron, arguably a cool one, but Rhett’s is Thomas. If he was adopted, his name could have been changed.

He shakes his head. “Mrs. Thomas told me that she wasn’t lookin’ to wipe my history away. They were trying to show me that there are good people out there.” He sets down his wrench. “When they died, it hurt. They were religious, but their god didn’t help them. I decided that life just sucks sometimes after that. Good people get shit deals and bad people live forever.” Heshakes his head. “Life ain’t fair, but you can’t dwell on it. You’ll stew in your anger if you do.”

I blink. This is the most Trent has spoken to me since we’ve met, and rather than being short and to the point, he’s giving full explanations. He’s either more comfortable with me now or he’s making a point.

I shift in my seat. “My therapist says I have survivor’s guilt and PTSD,” I say, smiling nervously when he looks over at me. “I’m sure Rhett has mentioned my story.”

“He has,” he answers, reaching into the engine compartment to adjust something.

“For a long time, I questioned why I’m here and Jinx isn’t.” I look down at Sly where he rolls around on my lap. “I still don’t have answers.”

“You won’t get any,” he replies. “Life sucks sometimes.” His eyes dip to my leg. “I’m sorry you had to hurt though. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve your bad lot either,” I point out.

He chuckles under his breath. “I did. I do.”

“How so?”

He shakes his head. “Just leave it at that.” He turns from the truck and wipes his hand with a red rag. There’re grease smudges on his arms and his shirt. When he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, it leaves another little smear there. “How was your date?”

I still. “Why?”

“Just curious,” he shrugs.

I hesitate, studying him closely. “It was good. We had a good time.”

He nods. “He took good care of you?”

“He did.” I wince. “Honestly, I’m still not sure if this is a game.” When he raises his brows, I decide I’ll just lay it all outthere. “I’ve kissed him. Uh. . . And also Rhett and Colt. They all seem. . . fine with it.”

Trent doesn’t show any reaction. He just watches me. “What is LARPing?” he suddenly asks when I start to fidget nervously, changing the subject.

I blink. “What?”

“Tell me about LARPing,” he answers.

So, I start telling him about the characters I play. He listens intently, asking short questions every now and then. At the end, he stands and reaches down to scoop Sly into his arms from my lap. As large as he is, he makes the raccoon look small despite how chunky Sly is. “It sounds like a lot of work,” he finally comments.

“I can be,” I admit. “But it’s a ton of fun.” When he tilts his head, I add, “We could LARP sometime.”

He sets Sly on the nearest table and turns toward me. “I don’t have a sword.”

I laugh. “If anyone could make one, it’s you.”

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