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“You didn’t take the full course?”

He shakes his head again. “Too expensive.”

“Your foster parents couldn’t afford it?”

His shrug is full of nonchalance. “I never asked.”

“And they never wondered or questioned why you didn’t learn to drive?” I know I sound incredulous, but learning to drive feels like a rite of passage. Especially in Montana. I could maybe understand it if he’d grown up in a big city like New York. But out here, a car is essential.

“No.” His answer is so vague that I know he’s using half-truths to avoid being fully honest with me.

“Are you close with your foster parents?”

“No,” he scoffs.

“You lived with them for years, though,” I say.

“No.” His focus is entirely on his plate, and his lack of attention on me is starting to piss me off.

“Did they have a problem with you being gay?” I ask, hoping that’s not the reason he’s not close with the people who raised him.

Sighing, he lowers his silverware to his plate, then lifts his expressive eyes to look at me. “I was in foster care from a week old until I was eighteen. I lived with so many families I’ve lost count. I doubt any of them would even remember me.”

Stunned, I blink at him. “What?”

Shrugging, he picks up his fork and stabs a piece of lettuce, bringing it to his mouth. “It’s not uncommon for kids to move around in the system. I don’t need your sympathy.”

“I know that. I just…how did that happen? Why were you never adopted?”

“Lots of foster kids never get adopted,” he says flippantly.

“But you were a baby?”

He shrugs again. “My bio mom’s parental rights were never severed, so I couldn’t get adopted, not that any of the families I stayed with tried to keep me.”

“Were you born in Montana?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around what I’ve learned about him so far.

“No, I was born in Nevada.”

“Then how did you end up here?”

“Montana State offered me a scholarship.”

“So, who brought you to school?”

“Greyhound.”

“You came to college alone?” I know I must sound like an idiot, but my stomach actually hurts at the idea that this boy.Myboy moved across the country on his own. That no one settled him into his dorm room and hugged him goodbye.

“I’d been living alone for a while then, so it was no big deal.”

“Living alone where?” I growl.

“At a youth shelter.”

“You were homeless?” I yell, hating the way he flinches.

“No.” His tone is curt. “I lived in a shelter for teens.”