Page 20 of A Pretty Fixation

“It’s always been Jordyn.” I look out the windowat all the places and people we’re passing.

The city is so lively, even more so at night.

“Have you lived in Hartford this whole time?” heasks.

“Yes.” Silent treatment only adds to theintensity, and it requires more energy to remain cold. So I lower the shieldtemporarily. “You?”

“We moved to New Hampshire after my adoption andlived there for three years. My parents adopted Noah. Then we moved back toHartford.”

“Did you…” I peer down at my lap, wondering why Isuddenly have the desire to talk to him about that.

“What?” Caleb urges. “Ask me anything.”

I glance at him. “Did you ever feel sad aboutbeing adopted? I mean, I’m grateful for my parents. But there were moments whenI envied other kids who looked like their mom and dad. I was the only one amongmy friends, so it felt like….” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“You couldn’t relate,” he accurately discerns. “Itdidn’t matter that they were kind. There was always that one thing, right?Yeah, Jordyn. I know exactly what you mean.” He draws a deep breath. “I went toprivate school with primarily snobbish rich kids. I had good friends, but therewere some fucking assholes who said stupid shit.” He peers over briefly. “I gotthrough it with my great looks, awesome personality, and unmatched soccerskills.”

I can’t help but snort. “So damn cocky.”

“Hey, you used to look at me with twinkly eyesback then. You were under my spell.”

His reminder settles me, and I study him in theshadows, noting moles on his neck whenever headlights blare into the car.

A strange feeling arises. Something akin todistance. Longing but unable to touch.

What is this emotion?

“My twelve-year-old eyes were twinkly for you,too.” My heart and tummy flutter when he steals a glance.

“Hey,” I clip, feigning indifference. “Watch thedamn road. Don’t get distracted.”

He chuckles. “Shouldn’t have grown up to be sogorgeous then. It’s hard not to stare.”

Hearing him say I’m gorgeous warms my bodycompared to when Aaron said it.

“Talk to me,” he rasps. “I know you havequestions.”

Smartass.

I find it difficult not to concede. “Fine. How didyou end up in the foster home?”

Light catches his face from a passing car, and Iperceive pain. His Adam’s apple bobs at a hard swallow.

“Nevermind,” I murmur.

“My real dad died when I was five,” he says. “Mymom had drug issues, and she’d often get involved with assholes. She fell forthe biggest one when I was seven. He moved into our trailer.” He pauses asecond. “He drank a lot, and he’d beat her. Sometimes he’d come after me.”

I’d be a cold bitch if that didn’t hit my heart.Instead of saying anything, I remain quiet for him to continue speaking.

“A teacher at my school noticed bruises on my armand called CPS. They took me from my mom. I was ten when I went to Mrs. Anders’foster home. Not long after, she told me that my mom died from a drugoverdose.”

Jesus.

Without hesitation, I reach over the middleconsole to touch his arm.

“I’m so sorry you went through that,” I saysoftly.

“We both went through shit.” He blows arazor-sharp breath. “Some kids have trashy lives and are waiting to be saved.”

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