Page 39 of When We Are Falling

“Are you worried about someone seeing us?” He’s smirking.

“I just... I don’t know what this is. And you know how this town is. Everyone will be talking.”

Ethan gives me a lopsided grin that makes my heart skip a beat. “Let them talk. I don’t care about that.”

Bandit barks as if in agreement, and we both laugh.

“I better get going.” I take a step back. “I’ll see you later?”

Ethan’s eyes linger on mine. “Definitely.”

Chapter 18

Blake

I reach my car,which is parked outside Ruby O’Connor’s gallery, and take a seat behind the wheel. Ruby is visible inside, wearing a long blue dress, her dark, gray-streaked hair falling in waves around her face as she frowns over some paperwork.

Pulling out my phone, my fingers hesitate over the screen before calling David, fresh worry lancing through me over the fact I haven’t been able to get in contact with him. His phone goes straight to voicemail and I end the call, setting the phone on my lap.

For a split second, I almost wish I had suffered in that locked room like he did, just so I could help him now. There’s always been a bit of guilt I carry about being adopted, leaving him behind.

Leaning my head back against the seat, thinking about everything we went through in Sylvia’s house. I can still picture parts of the house like I saw them yesterday. It’s funny how somethings have stayed with me, while other memories are so fuzzy I can barely recall them.

It was an old one-story brick building with browning ivy creeping up its sides and a sagging front porch, while the air inside was thick with the scent of dust and mildew, each step stirring up tiny particles that swirled in the dim light. Sylvia moved through the house like a ghost, her footsteps eerily silent on the creaky wooden floors.

I remember her being so tall when I was a kid, but I wonder now how much of that was her tyrannical personality. She certainly ruled the house with an iron fist, her voice letting out a stream of constant threats over all the bad things us kids had supposedly done.

A shudder passes over me as more images of the house flash like a montage through my mind: it was always dark, frigid in winter, with heavy drapes that blocked out the light, and old, mismatched furniture that groaned under any weight.

The walls were lined with faded, peeling wallpaper and I remember always feeling cold, even when the sun was shining outside. Then there was that room at the end of the hall on the first floor, the one that was always locked—it’s taken on an ominous new meaning, now.

One memory sharpens, crystalizing, all the details rushing back. It was the day before my tenth birthday. There were always other kids around, Sylvia opening her house to the maximum number of placements, which never made sense to me because she hated kids.

Maybe she liked the praise or recognition that came with being a foster parent, or it could have been the money, although that wouldn’t have been much. Or maybe she just liked being in charge of all these kids who lived in daily fear of her. It’s hard to know.

Two quiet sisters had just moved in, both young girls not more than five or six with dark olive skin, wide eyes. They were always holding hands. David was just a skinny boy a year older than me, with messy brown hair and band-aids on his knees, but we both tried to comfort the sisters and make them feel welcome.

Sylvia was inspecting our bedrooms—a daily routine—her icy gaze scrutinizing every detail, and she found a toy left out of place. To this day, I would swear it wasn’t me. Maybe the youngest sister had wandered in there and was disturbed before she could put it back? Not that I was going to tell Sylvia that.

Her punishment was swift, forcing me to stand in the corner for hours, staring at the wall, missing lunch, not allowed to even go to the toilet. A shudder passes through me: somehow I can remember exactly how her clawed fingers felt digging into my shoulders, telling me to stand straight, the way I wet myself at the end of the day, filled with shame, legs aching and stinking of urine.

David, with his kind heart and quiet bravery, snuck me a small piece of bread, his fingers cold and trembling.

“Here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as he checked over his shoulder for Sylvia. “Eat quickly.”

There’s no doubt in my mind: David’s presence let me survive that place.

Opening my eyes, I take a deep breath and type out a message to him, asking him to call me urgently. No matter what else is going on in my life, I can’t ignore the fact that David is struggling and needs help.

Ethan flashes into my mind. Part of me wishes he had never found out about my past. It’s not that I think he’ll judge me—he’s been nothing but supportive—but those steady walls I keep around myself, the ones that make sure I stand on my own two feet, feel like they’ve eroded a little.

A part of me wonders if maybe that’s not such a bad thing, even though it’s scary as hell. I really like Ethan. A lot more than I’d ever admit to him. I’ve always thought he was good looking, but now I’m seeing a completely different side to him. He’s sweet and supportive, and someone I could really see myself falling for. But just the thought of letting someone else in after Danny makes my heart race.

When I let people in, when I rely on them too much, that’s when they go.

A glance at my watch: I’m running late,again. Seems to be the day for it. Good thing Reverend Billy is both kind and understanding.

It doesn’t take long to drive to the local women’s shelter, the familiar route etched into my mind. As I pull into the small gravel parking lot, the building comes into view. It’s an unassuming structure, painted a soft, welcoming blue.

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