Page 153 of Invisible String
“No, you’re like a furnace.”
Max’s lips curve into a boyish smile. “I am.”
We sink into the huge gray chair, and it fits us both. Max holds me in his arms, tucking hair behind my ear.
“Max, how did you know I’m adopted? I’m so confused about how you knew so much. Why did my d-dad tell you to keep quiet about the adoption? You should have told me. You kept things from me.” I swallow the lump of emotions.
Max lifts my chin with his index finger to meet his green eyes. “Rainey, there are reasons I didn’t tell you that you’re adopted. I felt it was your parents who had to tell you.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second, like he’s trying to catch wind before he lets it out. “They kept me away from you because I could trigger your memory. Your parents tried so hard for you not to regain it.”
A trigger. My memory. I shake my head, not understanding. My dad paid him because he said he wasn’t good enough. How did they keep him away? “I’m not understanding. What do you mean, a trigger?”
“Sunshine, we didn’t meet at Highland Academy for the first time. We’ve met before.”
I straighten up, trying to sit up, but Max’s arm is over my shoulder. “No, we didn’t.” My heart beats a hundred miles per hour. I would remember him. I would. “Was it at a store you saw me at?”
“Tesoro,we lived in the same home for six months. We were in the same foster home.”
Breathe. I can’t breathe—Foster home. My lungs strangle like a noose, robbing the air out of me.
“Breathe. That’s my girl. Slow, steady breaths. We can stop—take a break.”
“No, I need to know everything, every detail.”
He nods, kissing a tear I didn’t realize had leaked.
“I’m unsure where to start.”
“Why don’t I remember any of it?” My fingers curl under my pajama shirt. I still can’t grasp that I was in a foster home. Did my biological parents not want me?
“An accident happened,” Max’s voice rasps. His eyes hold weight with an unbearable heaviness, yet they hold a haunting softness, brimming with a torrent of memories, searing pain, relentless heartache, and soul-crushing grief. His eyes always caress me like a soft whisper.
“Let’s start from the beginning. From the first day we met,” I say, leaning toward him.
Max’s lips skim my nose, then my mouth. His throat works several times.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
MAX
Eleven-and-a-half years old
The old wooden floor squeaks as I lift the loose board. A pack of Big League Chew gum, M&M’s, Twizzlers, Red Hot, Reese’s, energy drinks, and soda fill the tight space. We stock up when we can. There are only two of us left. Wilbur’s mom is clean from drugs. I heard his case worker say to Mrs. Sara that the court said he can go back. Mrs. Sara is our foster mom, and Drake is my foster brother. He’s the only one here with me. He told me his parents gave him up because they couldn’t afford to take care of him.
“I’ll take some Red Hots,” Drake says, looking over my shoulder. “And an energy drink for my girl. She’ll need it.” He winks.
Drake’s sixteen, and he sneaks out to go out with his girlfriend. I take a pack of Twizzlers for myself. Mrs. Sara doesn’t like us to eat many sweets, so we hide them.
Drake peers around the room at the empty bed beside my twin-size bed where Wilbur once slept. “I heard Mrs. Sara say we have another kid coming in. She was telling her asshole husband.” We call Jason the asshole. He’s not as nice as Mrs.Sara. Last time I spilled my drink, he smacked me in the face. Drake stepped in to protect me. I’ve never had a foster brother defend me, but he always does, even though he takes the punches.
“I hope he’s nice,” I whisper, staring at my dirty shoes. Drake gives me a small, curved smile while fixing his dark brown hair when I peer up at him.
“I think it’s a ‘she.’” Drake laughs at my brows creasing. “I’m sure that’s what I heard while serving myself a drink.”
A girl. I can’t share a room with a girl; that would be strange. I’ve been at this home for three months, but it’s only been us guys here. “I’m not sharing a room with a teen girl or a toddler.” I fold my arms to my chest.
Drake rips open the package of Red Hots, then drops one in his mouth. “She’s your age, fool.”
My anxiety is through the roof. I open the Twizzlers package with my teeth and take a mean bite—a girl. That means I can’t change in my room or sleep in my underwear—not that I do, but let’s say it gets hot, and I want to.
