Page 46 of Rating the Book Boyfriend

“Wow, that’s a lot of pressure,” I laugh out, and we both turn back to the water. “I told you I was in the foster care system after my mom died.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I’d been with this family for a couple years, the Coopers. As I look back now, I realize they probably didn’t have very much money. That’s something you don’t really notice as a child… the lack of money. I remember the house being a little shabby, but they were nice, and I liked being there.”

“Did… did someone hurt you?”

“No, nothing like that. They were a very kind couple, and they asked me if I wanted them to adopt me. I didn’t know what adoption was, but they explained it, and I said yes. It was the only home I’d ever known. Or that I could remember anyway.”

I take a sip of my wine, and the soft richness soothes my throat. “Then they did a vision screening at my preschool, and the school nurse sent a note home saying that I needed to see an eye doctor.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Riggs nodding along, so I continue. “I had something called strabismus, which is basically when the eyes aren’t aligned.”

“Like crossed eyes?” Riggs asks, breaking his silence.

“Pretty much. Crossed eyes is when one eye turns in, but strabismus can refer to any kind of misalignment.” I take another sip of my wine. “When I got out of bed to go to the bathroom late that night after my appointment, I overheard the Coopers talking.”

Riggs inches a little closer. We’re still not touching, but I can feel the warmth of his body seeping through the tiny space between us.

“I remember a bunch of words like insurance and surgery. Again, I was four, so I had no idea what any of that meant, but one thing the wife said was very clear in my little mind.”

“What did she say?” Riggs’s voice is barely audible.

“She said, ‘We can’t keep her, Craig. She’s too… messy.’”

“Fuck,” he spits out, glugging back the rest of his Shiraz. “And you thought she meant you weren’t tidy.”

“Right,” I say as he refills our glasses. “I immediately turned into a tiny, organizing beast. When I was placed with another family, all I could think was that I had to be perfect. I had to be…not messy.”

Though I kept my gaze straight forward, I could feel Riggs looking at me. “Libby, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry for,” I assure him. “I became a very difficult child after that, crying if a single thing in my room was out of place. Like full-on tantrums if a blue shirt got hung up in the middle of the red ones.”

“That’s a lot for a child to deal with,” Riggs says, and I nod in agreement.

“So, Libby the brat was passed from home to home until…” My voice breaks, andgoddammit, tears form in my eyes. I haven’t cried about this in years, but something about this night with this sweet man seems to turn on the waterworks.

Before I know what’s happening, a warm, strong arm encircles my back, and I’m being tugged hard against Riggs until my face is pressed against his shoulder. I let the tears loose like someone has turned on a faucet. Not sobbing, heaving cries, but a slow, gentle release of emotions that feels so fucking good to get out.

The big, warm man holds me in silence, not uttering that it’s okay or any other inane thing. He simply lets me soak his shirt with my pain.

After a long while, I clear my throat and attempt to pull away, but a large hand holds my head in place. And I don’t hate it. At all. Riggs Romero is comfort personified, like the softest blanket in the world wrapping around me and making me feel safe.

“Anyway,” I continue, speaking into the damp linen of his shirt, “I got placed with the Hills when I was eight. My mom noticed my eye turn right away and took me to the optometrist.”

“Your eyes look straight now, so they must have gotten you the surgery you needed.”

“They did. My parents weren’t rich, but they had good insurance.”

“And everything’s okay now?”

“Pretty much, though we received a crash course in visual plasticity. That’s a neurological concept where a human is only able to develop normal vision up until the age of seven or eight. After that, there isn’t much plasticity.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means after that critical period, vision is unable to develop, so I’m legally blind in my left eye.”

Riggs pulls back and looks down at me, his eyes seeming even bluer in the moonlight as they dart between mine. “Blind? You don’t… never mind. I was about to say something dumb.”

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