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CHAPTER 14

SLOANE

T here was a small smile on my face the next morning, as I hovered in front of the group home that I volunteered at. There had been a text waiting for me from Logan when I’d woken up. I’d been confused at first because he’d put his number in under Boyfriend , but I’d quickly changed that.

And the texts had continued from there.

He asked me question after question, and unlike when I was looking him in the eye…it was much easier for me to answer him over the phone.

I smiled as one more came in.

Logan: Favorite dessert?

Me: That’s easy. Apple crumble.

Logan: So boxing that up last night wasn’t a complete miss.

Me: Not at all. I ate it for breakfast this morning.

Logan: Ten gold stars for me!

Me: If I had gold stars, you would definitely get them.

Logan: We should decide our reward system right now so it doesn’t get confusing.

Me: Do we have to have a reward system?

Logan: I like tangible awards for my achievements.

Me: And imaginary gold stars are tangible?

Logan: …

Logan: Good point. I’ll go back to the drawing board.

Me: I can think of things I could reward you with.

Logan: Miss Calloway…it almost seems like you’re flirting with me.

I grinned, my cheeks flushing like he was there in front of me. I was definitely flirting with him. And I never did that.

Me: …

Logan: Ten gold stars for you.

I closed my eyes, trying to steel myself against his charm. This wasn’t something I could lose on. I’d thought that my disastrous choice on my eighteenth birthday had destroyed any part of me that had the capacity to feel.

But all of Logan’s attention was teaching me that somehow…there was something inside me still fragile enough to be broken. Some part of me that was still dreaming of a happily-ever-after…

And that was something I could not deal with. Because when Logan was done with me…

I pocketed my phone, ignoring the next time it buzzed as I walked inside the building.

I had a love/hate relationship with this place. I loved hanging out with the children, but I hated all the memories it dug up. How different would my life have been if Everett had never shown up that day? In that imaginary life, maybe I could have deserved someone like Logan York.

These kids also deserved better than me, but unfortunately, there just weren’t a lot of people out there who cared.

So I guess I was better than nothing.

The group home was always bustling with noise—kids shouting, laughing, crying—chaos everywhere. But Rome? He was different. Every time I walked through the door, I’d find him in the same spot, in the corner of the room, his tiny body folded up into itself, head down, as if he was trying to disappear.

I knew that feeling.

The sponsors of the place kept it clean, but there was still a worn-down look to it. The walls were painted bright yellow, chipped in places where tiny hands had pulled at the cracks. Toys were scattered around, some new, others with pieces missing. The air always smelled faintly of crayons and disinfectant. There was a warmth to it, a sense of care, but there was also an underlying heaviness, the weight of too many kids with too many stories not many people wanted to hear.

The first time I’d seen Rome, something had pulled me toward him. He was just sitting there, head tucked down, not speaking, not even looking at anyone. His pale blond hair fell over his face, hiding those big, sad eyes I knew were there. He was a visible representation of how I’d felt growing up—the raw loneliness, that silence that came from losing too much too soon.

Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a box of crayons and a coloring book that I had brought with me. He didn't move as I made my way over, sitting down next to him on the floor. He just stayed curled up like I wasn't even there.

“Hey, Rome,” I said softly, grabbing a crayon, careful not to push him. “Want to color with me?”

At first, he didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at me. But I was used to that. I picked a page and started coloring, letting the quiet stretch between us. I wasn’t here to force him out of his shell. I knew that wouldn’t work. You couldn’t rush these things. I had to wait for him to come to me.

Minutes passed in silence; the only sound was the soft scratch of crayon across paper. I kept coloring, filling in the lines with bright blues and yellows. Slowly, his head lifted, just a fraction, his eyes peeking through his hair.

Rome didn’t say anything, but he reached out and grabbed an orange crayon.

I smiled, keeping my gaze on the coloring book. “That’s a good color. There’s far too much blue and yellow on this page.”

He gave a small nod, and I felt like crying, just like I did every time when he began to open up.

We colored for a while, his small hand moving carefully over the paper. Still silent, but he was there with me, and that was something.

After a few pages, he dropped his crayon, taking a deep breath before he asked, “How long did it take for you not to miss your mom anymore?”

I fumbled with the crayon in my hand, caught off guard at his question, and that he’d remembered me telling him when I’d first met him that my mom had died too.

One of the employees had told me the first day I’d come that Rome had been in a car crash two years ago. His parents had both died, but he had survived. He’d been badly abused at the foster home he was put into, though, and he’d been at this place ever since while they tried to help him.

Rome was still staring at the coloring book, but his hand had stilled while he waited for an answer.

The answer was complicated, and I tried to think about how I could explain it to a six-year-old.

“I don’t think you ever stop missing your mom,” I said softly, wishing I had a different answer for him.

But it was the truth.

Even though I’d watched my mother fade away with her addiction…and then cancer…I still didn’t stop missing her. Or at least the idea of her. I think no matter how awful your parents are, every child carries that dream of who they wish their parents could be. Sometimes missing them…actually means missing that dream.

If I could have figured out a way to not miss my mother, I would have done it by now, though.

Rome peeked up at me through the strands of hair that had fallen into his face. “So I’m always going to be sad?” he asked miserably, tears starting to gather in his eyes.

I wanted to cry just looking at him. If I knew he wouldn’t freak out, I would have pulled him into my arms. Rome needed a big hug.

“Not always. It will just be little moments when you’re doing something and you wish she was there,” I whispered to him, unable to stop myself from at least reaching over and touching his hand. “But most of the time, you’ll be really happy. Because you have such a good life. And because she would want you to be.”

It felt like I was lying to him, but I wanted it to be true. It hadn’t been true for me, but maybe it could be for him.

“You really think so?” he whispered, his voice small, fragile.

I nodded, my heart aching at the hope in his voice. “Yeah, Rome. I do.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, his fingers gripping the crayon a little tighter. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “I hope you’re right.”

My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard, unable to say anything else because my voice was too choked up.

For a long time, neither of us spoke again. He went back to coloring, and I watched him, my heart heavy. But then, slowly, he scooted a little closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine as he worked on filling in a truck with orange.

My hand shook as I tried to resume coloring. This was why I came here every week when I wasn’t working. For moments like this, where it felt like maybe…I’d made a difference.

I smiled down at him, watching as he concentrated on the picture, and for the first time, I saw a little light in his eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And I’d keep coming back, again and again, until that light grew.

“Want to color another one after this?” I asked, my voice soft.

He nodded, and this time, his eyes met mine with the smallest hint of a smile.

Later, I was packing up the crayons, putting them back in their box, when one of the staff members—Vicky, I think her name was—walked up beside me, smiling. “You’re really good with him, you know,” she said, nodding toward Rome, who was still quietly coloring at the table.

I glanced at him, a small, warm flicker lighting up in my chest as I watched him still focused on his drawing. But it faded as quickly as it came when Vicky added, “You’ll make a great mom someday.”

The words hit me harder than they should’ve. I froze for a split second, my heart stuttering in my chest, but I forced a smile, something practiced and easy, as I turned back to her. “Thanks,” I said, my voice calm and steady.

But inside, I flinched.

The smile felt like a mask, stretched too tight, too forced. A good mom? No. That wasn’t in the cards for me. It would never be in the cards for me. Not after everything that had been done to me, after everything I’d survived. My body was a battlefield, scarred and ruined in ways no one could see, in ways I couldn’t fix.

A rush of memories hit me at once.

My hands were shaking as I stared at the test in front of me, two pink lines on it that stared back at me like a cruel joke. I’d been careful—as careful as I could be in this job, but it hadn’t mattered. None of it mattered.

I was pregnant.

I didn’t have time to figure out what to do next. Everett found the test in the trash the next morning. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, holding it up with two fingers, his face cold and unreadable.

“Who?” he asked, his voice like ice. Somehow he seemed to think that this wasn’t a client’s child. That I’d broken the rules.

I couldn’t answer to defend myself, though. My throat felt like it had closed up, my entire body shaking with fear.

“Who?” he asked again, louder this time.

I still couldn’t speak, the words lodged in my throat, suffocating me.

His face twisted in disgust as he threw the test across the room.

Before I could even react, he grabbed my arm, dragging me out of the house and into his car. The ride was silent, but the tension in the air was suffocating. I wanted to ask where we were going, but I was too scared. And…I already knew.

We pulled up to a rundown building on the edge of town, the windows dirty and the paint peeling. It didn’t look like a clinic. It looked like a place people went to disappear.

Everett led me inside as if he was taking me to the mall. “This is for your own good,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “I won’t have you ruined because of your carelessness.”

And then I was in a back room, where a man in a lab coat waited, the stench of antiseptic thick in the air.

“Take care of it,” Everett had told him, his voice cold and indifferent.

The doctor didn’t ask any questions. He just nodded, motioning for me to get on the table. The room spun as I laid down, my body shaking, my heart pounding in my ears. I wanted to scream, to run, but I couldn’t. I was trapped. I was put under a light sedation, and then the room seemed to float around me.

The procedure was quick and impersonal. Afterward, I clenched my fists so hard that my nails dug into my palms, trying to focus on anything but the pain. But there was no escaping it. There was no escaping any of it.

“Ready to go?” Everett asked in a bland, pleasant voice as he came in an hour later. “You’ll feel better once you get back home.”

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down my face, wishing I could disappear.

I blinked as I came back to the present, bile filling my mouth as I fought the urge to throw up.

Vicky didn’t notice the shift. She kept smiling, like she’d paid me the nicest compliment in the world and didn’t even realize the wreckage she’d stirred up inside me. “It’s not easy to get Rome to open up, but you’ve got a way with him. Kids need that. They need someone who gets them, someone patient.”

I nodded, the fake smile still plastered on my face, but every word felt like it was driving a knife deeper.

As soon as she walked away, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my chest tightening as the mask slipped away. I pressed my palms to the table, grounding myself, trying to push down the familiar ache. It never got easier.

I straightened up, glancing over at Rome again. He looked up at me, his eyes brightening for a second, and the ache dulled just a little. This—this was enough. I didn’t need more.

I couldn’t have more.

I didn't deserve it.