Page 54 of Promise Me Nothing
When Ben first bought this place, I was jealous. He was my older brother, even if by barely a year, and he seemed larger than life. So sure of himself. Knowing exactly who he wanted to be. He worked hard, got his degree, and then did exactly what he said he wanted to do.
He told me once that his goal was to own the best restaurant in the South Bay. He wanted everyone to want in, and for him to be able to decide who was welcome.
Looking back, I can see now where that desire stemmed from. He might have been the good one who always obeyed our parents. But he was also always on the outside. Never really included in the circles of friends at school that held power and popularity.
I’ve never understood why he didn’t seamlessly slip into those groups like I did. He grew up with the same kids. Went to school together. Played sports together. Went on trips with families together.
But he just never fit.
And I guess, in his mind, the ultimate revenge for never being welcomed into those cliques is somewhere between creating an exclusive place where those very people will have to cater to him to get in, and sleeping with those individuals’ moms.
But back then, when he was first talking about creating Bennie’s at the Pier, he represented something I wished I could be.
Certain.
Because money can buy you most things. But being certain of what you want isn’t one of them.
So now, he hides behind this place. He’s here because he doesn’t really have anywhere else to go.
And that makes me sad for my brother.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hannah
The next week is a lot of work, which I should be happy about. The operative word beingshouldbe.
But with most of the servers being bristly at best, and the fact that Lucas is out with friends when I get home most evenings, I can’t help but feel a little lonely.
It’s not a new feeling. A lot of people assume that being in foster care means you live in basically a kennel full of kids. Loud noise, too many to a bedroom, no personal space and no true belongings. And that’s true, to some degree.
The thing that isn’t thought about is that not all kids play well with others. Not all foster parents know how to encourage appropriate behavior, or even have the time to start.
So when you’re bounced around from home to home – because, let’s be honest, who wants to adopt a twelve-year-old kid when they can take home a baby – you learn to handle things in one of two ways.
The first is to be the loud, aggressive one that gets all the attention. The whole ‘the squeaky wheel gets the oil’ thing.
The second is to be quiet and avoid everyone. Stay unnoticed so you don’t become the target for any of the louder ones. Or any of the parents that fall at the abusive end of the scale.
When I was fifteen, I made the mistake of getting on the bad side of one of my foster fathers, though I loathe the idea of ever calling him that. The foster mom, Renee… she was okay. Though she drank a little too much. So did her husband, Rob.
Sienna and I had plans to spend the night at her older sister’s place after the Winter Formal dance at Sienna’s high school. We’d had a few drinks with some of her friends in the parking lot, and were a little giggly. But her dad was the one who showed up to pick us up, because her sister had gotten into a fight with her boyfriend.
One look at us and he knew we’d been drinking. He did the good dad thing. Gave us a talking to. Expressed his disappointment. Sienna looked like she might cry. But then he told her she was grounded and that he would be taking me home.
I wish it had been a situation like you read about. Where something is so scary, the person instantly sobers up. But that wasn’t the case for me.
Sienna’s dad dropped me off, making sure I made it inside okay, and then left.
And I’d been left to deal with Rob, finding me stumbling into the downstairs bathroom, drunk, at eleven o’clock at night.
“What do we have here?” Rob asks, leaning against the doorway as I try to pull off my heels.
I startle at the sound of his voice, afraid of getting into trouble if he realizes I’ve been drinking. But my slow reaction time prohibits me from catching myself when I start to tumble over.
Rob just watches me as I hit the ground with a thud, his eyes dropping to my legs, which are now spread awkwardly as I flounder and try to right myself.
“Is that dress a little short?”
