Page 111 of Coerced

“Ah.” I nodded. “He teases Mr. Serious until you’re ready to hammer him.”

“Mr. Serious?Me?”

“Uh,yeah.” I looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “He’s probably your exact opposite. Anyway, what are you studying in college?”

“Everything and nothing.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to major in. I took all the general requirements first to give myself time to decide, but I still have no idea. I’ve just been taking classes I’m interested in.”

“Don’t know what you wanna be when you grow up?” I grinned.

“Something like that, although I hope I don’t do any more growing up. It’s hard enough to find clothes as it is.”

“Try shopping for girl stuff when you’re six-three,” I shot back.

“I can imagine. Shirts are the worst, right? Kerry told me his warden ordered his from an online store and they fit perfectly. I need to get that website and do the same. I can’t stand sleeves that end above my wrists and shirts that won’t stay tucked in my pants.”

Oh, I knew all about that.

“There are a few stores that get the tall section right,” I said, “but brand-new stuff costs too much money. Thrift stores are cheaper, and you’d be amazed at what you can find there, but it’s also harder to find clothes that fit right.”

I flinched. I hadn’t meant to point out my poverty like that.

What would someone like him know about scraping to get by? About counting every penny and going hungry and doing without to make the dollars stretch?

Once more, I resolved to keep my mouth shut. He wasn’t really interested, anyway. He was obviously being polite, like when he’d grabbed my elbow.

“My oma loves thrift store shopping. She and my aunt used to drag me along.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious, but his crystal blues seemed honest enough.

“Oma?” I asked.

“Ope, I’m sorry. My grandma.”

Ope? What is ope?

“You grew up with your grandparents?” I tilted my head, curious about him.

“My mom had me when she was very young. My aunt is only eight years older than I am, so she was stuck with me most of the time. Oma took us shopping on Saturday mornings, then we’d stop for lunch at a little cafe run by one of her cronies.”

His laugh hit me like a lightning strike to my nervous system, and I fussed at myself to behave.

“At the time, I was a brat, complaining because I wanted to stay home with Opa. I mean, Grandpa. Looking back now, I have nothing but good memories of those times.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Michigan. A city near Grand Rapids. We get a ton of visitors in the spring because of the tulip festivals in the area.”

“Your name’s Dutch!” I blurted out as it hit me.

“Romein Willem Aalders. Very Dutch, but don’t call me Romein, please.”

“Do you still keep in contact with your family?”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “I call once a week and visit on breaks. They came to the Sanctuary when I graduated high school and I went to Tante Roos’— Ope, sorry. Aunt Roos’ wedding in October.”

“Do you speak Dutch?” I asked, curious if ‘ope’ was a Dutch word.

“Poorly, I’m ashamed to admit. Do you speak Russian?”

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