"You don't have to tell me," I say.
"I know," he says, "but it's a huge part of where I am today. So I want to." He takes another sip of wine. "My mother … she had me young. She wasn't on good terms with her parents to begin with, and they kicked her out when she got pregnant. She worked odd jobs here and there, but there aren't many opportunities for underage pregnant women."
I nod, my brows knitting together in sympathy. "Yeah … "
"In the end, the story is unfortunately pretty typical. She lived in shelters when she could, on the streets when she couldn't. She did what she had to, and unfortunately that mostly meant prostitution." He breaks off as the waiter brings us our food. I can't help but feel that it would be inappropriate to eat right now.
"I don't remember a lot of that," he continues. "Honestly. I do remember living in a house with a big backyard. There was a guy my mom was with, and he let us stay with him for a while. I remember being happier than I'd ever been while I was there. But then that guy was out of the picture and we had to leave. It became the same old thing of a different guy every night. Not long after, the cops were called and I was in the system."
"Foster care?" I ask.
"Yeah, I bounced around a bunch of different homes until I was sixteen. I probably wasn't a great kid. I had a lot of anger issues and I could never seem to settle in one place for long. My last foster home was bad. I butted heads with the guy, and we were at each other's throats. I think at some point he was probably a good foster parent, but it got lost along the way. Really, if he had a bunch of kids like me living with him I wouldn't be surprised. He'd go off all the time … all he wanted was his check and for the kids to be quiet, and that wasn't me."
He stops and takes a bite of his pasta, but I still can't eat.
"We fought all the time and it got bad. We both hit each other multiple times. He threatened to get me thrown in juvie if I did it again, so I left. It wasn't the smartest move, but by that time I knew that the social workers almost always believe the foster parents over the kid."
I take a sip of my wine, and nod my head. "Where did you go?"
"I didn't have anywhere to go."
My heart plummets. "You were homeless."
"For a while, yeah." He looks at me and frowns. "Vera, eat. It's all right. Ancient history."
"How did you get here, then?"
He smiles. "Construction. After fending for myself for awhile I overheard someone talking about a construction job that was hiring people off the street since they needed workers so badly. At that point I was scrawny as anything, but I showed up. I lied about my age, I lied about where I lived, and they gave me the job. One of the foremen, Antony, he knew I was full of shit but he gave me the job anyway. He told me I had one day to prove myself and if I didn't, I was out."
"Let me guess. He let you stay."
James nods and we share a smile. I finally take a bite of my pasta, holding back groan because it's so delicious, and I appreciate it even more as I listen to James' voice while he continues with his story.
"Antony kept letting me work whenever I showed up, and I tried to do the best work I could so that I would always be welcome back. He finally got me to admit that I was homeless, and he let me move in with him, sleep on his couch. He trained me in construction, and I finally started to get my own jobs when I showed people the solutions I'd found for using less expensive material."
"He sounds like an amazing person," I said.
"He was. And when Antony died, he left me his house."
"Wow," I say. We take a moment to eat, and James feeds me a bite of his fettucine, which is without a doubt the best I've ever had.
"I owe everything to him," he goes on, "and I knew that if I screwed up he would come back and kick my ass. So I changed my name-I never knew my mom's and I always used the name of my foster family. London, California was the place where that house with the big yard was, and it was the last place I felt truly happy. That became my last name. Then I started my own one-man company with the jobs I already had, and slowly started to get more. I would work every possible odd job on the side until I could support myself. I swore that I would never be homeless again." He takes another bite of his dinner. I watch as each chew softens the expression on his face. "But to answer your original question, I don't know if I have siblings. Maybe. I'll probably never know for sure."
I can't think of anything to say. What is the response to that? My own life has been so different that the contrast is shocking, and I'm immediately embarrassed by the ridiculous wealth that he sees every day at our house. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," I say, hoping that it's the right thing, or at least not the wrong thing. "And so young. You're so strong. I wish … it had been different."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "I don't. Tough as it was, it made me who I am. And I can't go back and change any of it, so staying angry or sad about it, or holding onto what hurt, doesn't help anyone."
"That's a really great view."
"Antony also sent me to therapy," James says, chuckling. "But it's true. I'm not sad about it. It led me to where I am. And I'm very happy where I am." He squeezes my hand and I feel it in my gut. A deep and expansive feeling I'm not familiar with.
I drop my gaze into my pasta to avoid his eyes, both hoping and fearing I'll see that same emotion clearly displayed on his face.
He squeezes my hand again. "Do I get questions too?"
"You already know a lot about me."
"I don't know why you want to build houses for poor people."
After his story, I feel like the way I stumbled upon the concept pales in comparison. He has real life experience, and he knows what it's like to have nothing. I've never wanted for anything in my life. "It's going to seem silly."
James sighs. "Vera, it's not your fault you were born wealthy, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. I'd never resent you for it. We both have things to learn from the other, and both experiences are valid."
"I was in Peru," I say, finally. "Family trip, and we were sight-seeing. It was the first time that I had seen something like that, these people who lived in these patched-together structures, and barely had a roof over their heads. I didn't understand why their houses looked like that. I was young, I'd only ever seen L.A., or Paris, or cities. My father's buildings. I realized that that was all they had, and I never forgot it."
"That doesn't sound silly at all." His gaze pierces into me, warm and supportive, and I feel the tightness in my chest start to loosen.
"My father pushed me to go into architecture. I knew it was because he wanted me to work for him. I told him from the start that I didn't want to do that, that I wanted to do something better. He didn't listen, and now … here we are."
He smiles, and I take the time to drink him in. I like every curve and angle of his face. I like where the light is captured, and the shadows form. I could lose myself in his eyes, dark as they are. I could spend a very long time looking at him. I've never been good at artistic drawing, but his face-oh god, his body-makes me want to try. He's spent his entire adult life building houses, and now I know exactly where that body came from.
"You're going to get the job," he says. "You're more than qualified, and you're perfect for it. There's no reason for you not to."
"Thanks. I kind of have to get it, though. My week is up tomorrow."
There's something hanging in the air, and I can't put a name to what it is. It's unformed and hovering, waiting for either of us to make it real.
He's braver than I am. "I like you, Vera. A lot."
My stomach drops into a free fall, the kind of exhilarating sensation you get from going over the top of a roller coaster. He likes me. A lot. And I like him, so much more than a lot. I clear my throat and take a sip of wine. "You're okay," I say, winking.
He laughs, a huge belly laugh that draws looks from others in the restaurant. "Maybe we should keep our date for tomorrow night."
"I think I'd like that."
He settles the check and reaches for my hand. "Drive you home?" he asks.
"Not to your place?"
"And take you to bed on a first date?" He returns my wink. "What kind of gentleman would I be?"
12
James
Vera is quiet on the way back to her house, and I'd do anything to know what she's thinking. But at the same time I think she might need some space. I'm sure that my story is a lot of information to absorb in a short amount of time. I know that I'd need some space if someone dropped that kind of personal history on me. But I'm glad it's out in the open now, glad she knows the real me. I reach over and take her hand, and she weaves her fingers through mine.