Page 11 of Eastern Lights

His passion sat right there behind his eyes. Every word he was delivering my way was coming straight from the depths of his soul. When he spoke about his dream, I could feel it increasing my heartbeats.

It made me think I wasn’t thinking big enough for my own goals in life.

“I think that’s a beautiful dream,” I commented, standing next to him. I didn’t think he noticed, but I’d inched closer to him because I liked the warmth he gave off.

“It’s going to happen,” he said, nodding in pure bliss. “And it’s going to be beautiful.”

“What made you have this dream?”

He looked my way and then took a seat on the pebbled ground. I sat right beside him. He bent his knees and wrapped his arms around them. “I grew up poor. My mom was a single parent, and we had pretty much nothing to our name. It got even worse when she learned of her cancer.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, nudging my knee slightly with his. “She’s okay. She’s been in remission for years, thank God. But, growing up struggling without much comfort in our home, in our lives, made me passionate about this. At a young age, I learned how to hustle, how to move in a way that enabled me to get what I needed for myself and my mom. But I understand I was luckier than most. I lived in a small town where people helped each other, and I think a lot of people felt bad for me, so they gave to my random entrepreneurial endeavors. Where I grew up, people took care of each other.”

“So the complete opposite of New York City.”

He laughed. “The complete opposite.”

“I think that’s noble. I grew up on these streets without a lot, so I know how hard it can be to struggle to keep stable physically and mentally. I couldn’t imagine doing it with a kid.”

“A lot of times, I don’t know how my mom did it, honestly. Superhero, I guess.”

“Must run in the family. I can’t help but wonder what Captain America’s mother would be like,” I said, wrapping my arms around my legs.

“I would say she’s like Wonder Woman, but since I just got my ass handed to me by said woman, I’m not much of a fan anymore.”

I smiled. “You’re close to your mom.”

“Not to sound like a punk, but she’s my best friend.”

That made my heart grin. A mama’s boy. “And your dad?”

His energy shifted to a more somber tone. He shook his head. “Deadbeat. Ran off after cheating on my mom when I was a kid.”

“Have you ever tried to find him?”

“No. I figured if he was a real man, he would try to find me. I spent eighteen years of my life sitting in the same place. He knew where I was and still didn’t come.” He began fidgeting with his fingers, seemingly a nervous habit or something he did when uncomfortable.

I kind of liked that about him—how I’d seen so many of his different layers within such a short period. I’d seen him happy, I’d seen him passionate, and I’d seen him somber. Somehow that made him more human than the superhero persona he was putting on that evening.

“What about you? How’s your relationship with your parents?”

I’d known the question was coming, but I still wasn’t fully prepared for it. I’d been around for twenty-two years, and I still was never ready for when people asked me about my family. It wasn’t due to my discomfort with the subject. Long ago, I’d come to terms with what had happened to me and how I grew up. What bothered me the most, though, when I told others was the pitying looks they’d give me. It always seemed as if they were filled with guilt, as if they were the reason I didn’t have a family.

“I grew up in the foster care system. I never knew my parents.”

“Oh.” He paused for a moment and looked down at his hands. When he looked back up at me, he didn’t radiate that pity I was so used to seeing in others’ eyes after said discovery. Instead, he asked, “How did that affect you?”

I was so taken aback by his comment. No one had ever asked me that before after finding out I grew up in the foster system. Most people gave me the cliché apologies then told me I deserved the biggest kind of love. They’d mention that we create our own families in life, and the beginning doesn’t equate with the ending. All good and fair responses. They never bothered me any.

Captain’s words hit me a bit differently. It felt like a heavy question, but at the same time a very honest one. I wasn’t certain if I liked it or not.

“The truth or the nice lie?” I asked.

He looked out toward the city lights before turning back to me. “The truth. Always the truth.”

“It gave me trust issues, sprinkled with a dash of codependency. I hate to admit it, but I think I dream of love more than most people. Not even a romantic kind of love, but any kind of love. Love from my friends, love and admiration from my professors, from my boss. I want people to like me…to love me. Because somewhere in my head, I connected the idea that the number of people who love you is what makes you a worthy person.”

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