Perfect Lie(3)

“Tell me about the shelter.”

I sighed as I glanced at the large window along the back wall. Raindrops splattered against the glass, which was normal for this area. It seemed to rain every five minutes, but usually it just made the heat worse. My eyes focused on a small pink potted flower as I thought about Brock.

“I met Brock at the shelter.”

“Why were you there?” she asked, as her gaze followed mine to the window before settling back on me.

“I ran away. I just needed a break. Mom and I had been fighting as usual. She grounded me, which didn’t mean much. Our arguments were getting worse, and I needed to get away from her.”

“Where did you go? Did you have a plan?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t really care where I ended up, as long as I was away from her—away from everyone.”

“You said before they found you more than an hour from home. How did you get so far away in one night?”

“I had the weird pervy guy down the street take me.” I laughed nervously, knowing how stupid that sounded. “Then the cops found me and told me my mother didn’t want me to come back home. She was afraid I’d run away again. So instead they took me to the shelter.”

Marie didn’t scold me; she only cocked her head to the side and shook it slightly. “Tell me about meeting Brock.”

I swallowed hard as I got lost in the memory of the boy who changed everything.

“Whatchya writin’?”

I glanced up to see a pair of gray eyes.

“A novel.” I covered my notebook with my free arm so the stranger couldn’t read anything I wrote.

He laughed as he shook his head. “You been inside one day, and you’re already writin’ your memoirs?” he joked with a thick Boston accent.

“No. I’m a writer—at least I wanted to be before I ended up in this place.” My eyes scanned his dark buzzed hair and haunting gray eyes.

“You don’t just end up in a place like this, sweetheart. You had to be a bad girl to get in here.”

“Would you believe I was innocent?” I tried to suppress my grin as I narrowed my eyes at him. He didn’t, and I caught a flash of his perfectly white teeth and the deep dimples that settled into his tanned cheeks. His jaw was strong and square, like a statue of a Roman gladiator. The only imperfection was a thin scar that cut across his right eyebrow, which only made me focus on his intense stare.

“Not a chance.”

My breathing caught as I was trapped under his gaze. He grabbed the chair in front of him and sat directly across from me. His shirt was pulled tautly across his chest, and I had the urge to reach out and run my hands over his muscles.

“This isn’t prison. It isn’t even juvie. It’s some dumb‐shit place for our parents to get rid of us for a while and not feel like they’re the bad guys. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Yeah, well, it worked, and it’s hard not to blame myself.” I rolled my eyes as I doodled stars on my paper.

He sat back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the table. His foot bumped against mine, and I quickly pulled my feet back under my chair. “What did you do to get in here?” he asked. “You get a B instead of an A?”

I glanced up at him, any trace of humor gone from my expression. “I was born.”

He snorted, but his smile fell as he leaned forward and propped himself on his elbows. “I really want to know.”

“I just told you.” I flipped my notebook closed and stood from my chair.

“I was a mistake that my mother has been trying to correct since I was born.” I stalked off before the tears that threatened to fall made it past my lashes. As soon as I reached my room, I curled up on my bed and let the sobs rip from my chest. I’d never told anyone that my mother wished I hadn’t been born. It was a secret that ate me alive from the inside like a disease. A family friend had raped her when she was fifteen years old. Her parents—my grandparents—were deeply religious and told her it would be a sin to have an abortion. Of course, once I was born, I was the ugly spot on the family tree. They wanted nothing to do with me. They left me with a child, a victim of rape who knew nothing about being a parent or an adult. My mother spent years struggling to survive, all the while secretly wishing I would disappear.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said.

I pulled myself from my memories and glanced up at the boy through blurry eyes.

“Too late.” I sniffled as I sat up, wrapping my arms around my legs.

“I’m Brock, the asshole,” he said, as he crossed the room slowly and sat down on my roommate’s bed.