Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
We’d been lucky.
Until, suddenly, they wanted to separate us.
“And after that year?” Theo prompted, making me realize I was reliving the memories in my head instead of sharing them.
“We got separated,” I told her. “Demi was younger,” I said. “She was cute as fuck. Round face, big eyes. People wanted her. They didn’t want me.”
“Dezi…” Theo said, reaching out to place her hand on my thigh.
“It’s fine,” I said, shrugging. “It’s just a fact. Something like seventy percent of people who are looking to foster or adopt want girls, not boys. The other guys and I learned that fast when we got shoved into group homes together since no one wanted to take us in.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “See, the thing is, I don’t think I understood that, in some instances, the preference for girls… it was not as innocent as it seemed at the surface.”
“I’ve heard horror stories,” Theo confirmed.
“I was so young. I don’t think I understood. Not until, one day, out of fucking nowhere, Demi showed up at one of the group homes.”
“Oh, Dezi,” Theo said, sighing hard. “How old were you guys?”
“At that point, I was fourteen, I think. So Demi was… ten. And I saw it the second I laid eyes on her. Something horrible had happened. She didn’t even fucking recognize me anymore.”
I mean, sure, I’d grown. But even when I’d approached her to speak to her, reminding her of who I was, she just… looked through me.
“She didn’t even stay long. Seemed like she was just there for evaluation. I begged them to let her stay there with me, that I could bring her back out of her shell if I had a little time.
“They, of course, didn’t want to hear shit from some kid. They assured me that she would go to a home where she’d receive ‘trauma-informed care’… whatever the fuck that means. Like it wasn’t their fucking fault in the first place.”
“Did you see her again after that?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No fucking idea what happened to her. And to say I became an angry fucking kid is a bit of an understatement. They couldn’t fucking wait for me to age up so they could wash their hands of me.”
“Have you tried to look for Demi?” Theo asked, and even hearing her name after so long felt strange and gave me a little, I don’t know, hope.
“I looked for her for years. But the fucking system locks that shit down tight. I couldn’t get a lead on her. And if she ever got adopted, she would have changed her name anyway. I don’t use social media and shit, but I keep a profile up just so I can be found. If she ever comes looking. But I don’t see that happening after all this time.”
“I’m sorry,” Theo said, giving my leg another squeeze. “That’s terrible. I kind of understand why you became a biker, though. For that family you never really had.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s nice. Everyone is up in everyone else’s business, but in a good way. Plus, someone is always cooking.”
“Clearly, a big priority for you,” she said, sitting up straight again to reach for her plate.
“Never got home-cooked meals growing up,” I admitted. “Kind of always envied that. Oh, yeah, look at this kinky, species-hopping little slut,” I said as the peahen started to walk down to the pond.
“I told you. Meanwhile, I bet Scotty is out there somewhere, shaking his beautiful tail to try to get her attention. But she’s all googly-eyed over the cob.”
“The what now?”
“A male swan is called a cob,” she told me. “I had to do research on peafowl care when I moved in here.”
“You know what this place needs?”
“Oh, God. What?”
“Ducks. Chickens are cool and all, but ducks, ducks I can get behind. Little quacks. The webbed feet. The big bills. You need some ducks.”
“Hey, Dezi?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t buy me ducks.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am just getting used to taking care of Rosita. And now I have Marie to figure out too. And a job. And taking care of my father.”
“And me,” I reminded her. “You need to at least find time to let me visit with my children, eat food with me, and get hot and sweaty. I’m thinking… no more than twenty hours a week.”
“Twenty hours a week is a part-time job!” she said, letting out a little laugh.
“I am a big commitment,” I agreed.
“You’re certainly… something,” she agreed, starting to pick at her food.
“So, what are your plans when you’re richer than God himself?”
“My plans?”
“Yeah. Travel? Sit around and eat snack cakes while you stare at the pool boy?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’ve been so focused on just the next step, and maybe the step after that, that I haven’t really had a chance to sit and think about what a future that doesn’t involve hardship might mean.”