Raging Heart On_ Friends to Lovers Romance(93)

“I told you I’m fine. I thought all in all, today went well and they’re out of our hair now. They can’t bother you again.”

“Is that all you’re worried about? Them bothering me?”

“I don’t want my family causing you problems, White.”

“Those people are not your family, Kayla,” he growls and I sigh. I slide off of him because clearly sex is the furthest thing from his mind. I know we have things to talk about, but I was hoping we could approach it when he was at least a little calmer and over the mess of the last few days.

“White—”

“I mean it. Sweetheart, those people are not your family. They’re slime that your mother failed to protect you from. You should have never in a million years been around them.”

“My mother stayed drunk too much to help. It doesn’t matter. It’s over now, White.”

“Yeah, it is, and it would have been over way before now, if you had told me. Why didn’t you tell me all the horrible things he did to you, Kayla? Why didn’t you come to me?”

“White, what you heard Kurt talk about was before you and I grew close. I was just a little girl.”

“Then why didn’t you talk to someone? Anyone?”

His question cuts deep. He doesn’t mean it the way it feels, but it makes me mad just the same. This is how everyone reacts when they hear about it. They don’t understand. They weren’t there. They didn’t live through the nights of feeling alone and unwelcome in the only home I’ve ever known. They don’t understand how it is to go to school with kids my age and hear them talking about their parents and all the fun things they did over the weekend. They didn’t live through the nightmares, the punishments from Kurt when I failed to clean or cook, things nine- and ten-year-olds should never be in charge of. They weren’t there when the belt cut into my skin because I had to be punished when Rachel’s food wasn’t prepared right. They know none of it, and as much as I love White, I don’t want to relive that and tell him. Not now, maybe never.

“What makes you think I didn’t try?”

“Because you were stuck with them until they left!”

“I tried, White. The system is broken. So much more broken than you could ever imagine. I tried telling teachers, doctors… even preachers. It didn’t work. No one listened, and if they did, Social Services would come out, deem Kurt was the perfect parent and he was dealing with a spoiled stepdaughter who wasn’t adjusting well to her mom not being around.”

“Motherfucker.”

“Yeah. So eventually I learned not to complain. It hurt less that way and I just did my best to get through each day. That’s it. Maybe that’s weak, maybe you see it as weak, but that’s all there is to it. I survived and then Ida Sue rescued me.”

“Kayla, sweetheart…”

“She showed me who a mother was. She made me feel cared for and loved and I vowed that someday, somehow, I would have a little girl and I would show her all the love in the world, all the love that I never knew existed until I got adopted by a crazy mixed-up woman who named all her kids after flowers and colors. I vowed that someday, if God just gave me the chance, that I would have a house full of kids and I’d name them after my favorite things in the world and there wouldn’t be a day that went by that they didn’t know how truly loved they were.”

“Kayla.”

“What?”

“Stop crying,” White whispers and he pulls me against him. It’s then that I realize I have tears running down my face and my body is shaking with the energy it takes to just breathe.

“I’m not crying,” I lie, burying my face into his chest and crying harder.

“Okay, Buttercup, if you say so,” he whispers, stroking my hair. I’m not sure how long we stay like that. Maybe it’s ten minutes, maybe an hour. I couldn’t say, but eventually my tears slow and then stop altogether. Slowly, my breathing returns to normal and I can feel nothing but White holding me, touching me… loving me. “We’re not naming any of our children after coffee.”

“What?” I ask, confused and pulling away from his chest to look at him. He once again moves me so I’m sitting over him, my legs on each side. He pulls himself up on the bed so he’s leaning against the headboard. He moves his fingers along my jawline, under my eyes, up the bridge of my nose and then to my forehead. My eyes almost close from his gentle touch.

“You love coffee. I’m pretty sure you love coffee more than you will ever love me, but there’s no way in hell that you’re going to ever name our children after coffee. You try to name our child Maxwell or Folgers and I will revolt, woman.”