Finding London (Flawed Heart #1) (15 page)

What? Does she have a photographic memory or some shit? What the hell?

Apparently, I can’t have a moment of undoubtedly stupid weakness where I confess my deep-seated attraction to her without her rubbing it in my face.

I don’t have the fire in me to fight her. I’ll never win in a battle of words because hers will always make more sense. She will continually be right. I know I’m fucked up. I understand more than anyone that I hold on to irrational fears and block people out. Deep down, I realize that isn’t the way to live. But knowing something and having the courage to do differently, to choose the hard and scary route, are two separate things.

Bottom line, when it comes down to the core of the issue, I’m weak. I’ve tried not to be, but my dad was wrong about me.

“I can’t fight with you, London.” My words sound pathetic, and I wish I could take them back and replace them with ones that would show that I’m strong and in control. But I’m not those things, so what does it matter? “Please, just get in the truck.”

Her lip trembles, and I think she’s going to cry, but she holds it in. Her face carries a frown as she all but stomps to the passenger side and gets in. I have to stop myself from smiling. I get that this situation isn’t remotely funny, but, God, I love when she’s all feisty, and her pouty attitude comes out.

I hop up into the truck. Starting the engine
,
I b
egin our trip back.

After a few minutes, London asks, “What does this mean? Do you just need to call it an early night? Do you need a few days to think about stuff? Or are we over?”

Are we over?
Those words resonate in my brain.

We were over before we even started. One intriguing, drop-dead gorgeous woman isn’t going to heal a lifetime of hurt overnight. I tried to avoid her. I told her no multiple times, but she wouldn’t hear it. This frustrating, beautiful woman wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Doesn’t she know that I was trying to be a good person? That I was trying to stop her from feeling like this? And this is how we feel after a handful of meetings and two dates. Two. Fucking. Dates.

But I can’t make myself voice my thoughts out loud even though I know them to be true. So, instead, I say, “I don’t know.”

London sighs beside me but doesn’t say anything else the rest of the ride. She’s the type of girl to battle for what she wants, but she’s also prideful. I think she’s found herself at the spot where she’s put up enough of a fight to make sure I know how she is feeling. But she’s not going to beg for me to like her either. Her stubborn pride is one of the many things I love about her…or loved, past tense—I mean, liked, used to like. Ugh, I don’t know.

I pull into London’s drive and opt for not being a total dick, so I walk her to the front door. She turns to say good-bye, and the tension between us is more than a little uncomfortable.

“Listen, Loïc,” she starts to say, her voice sweet and kind.

“Just save it, London,” I snap before I can stop myself. My walls and ability to be an eternal asshole are back in full effect.

Her eyes widen, but she quickly composes herself. She stands on her tiptoes and gives me a small kiss on the cheek. My body stiffens at the contact. She turns to leave, and her hand grabs the knob of the door.

But then, almost on instinct, she looks back at me. “I was just going to say that I really want to be fucked up together. And whatever reason you have for thinking you don’t deserve someone to love you is wrong. I see you, Loïc, more than you think I do. You’re a good person, and you deserve way more in this life than you’re allowing yourself to have. I don’t know why you’re punishing yourself, but you should stop. Maybe I’m not the person you need, but you need to find the one who is. Everyone needs love, even a big, bad warrior. Not everything in life should be a battle.”

I’m stunned, standing frozen on London’s front porch, staring at the door she just closed behind her.

What the hell?
Those three words are on repeat inside my head. I grasp the back of my neck and turn to leave.
Seriously, what the hell?

This entire day consisted of 351 reasons why I don’t date. I can barely think clearly enough to put one foot in front of the other to get off this porch.

I just need to get home and go to bed. Then, in the morning, I’ll work on forgetting that I ever knew a girl named London.

Loïc

Age Fifteen

San Antonio, Texas

“Hope is a powerful thing. It always kept me fighting for every tomorrow.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I spy black mold running along the caulk on the back of the sink, a sponge that is more gray than the teal color it’s supposed to be, and a sink full of dishes that should have been washed last week.

I think back to Glenda’s house. I haven’t lived there in two years, but I’ll never forget the maddening whiteness of it.

But which is worse—disgusting grossness or insanity-inducing starkness?

I think I’m going to pick black mold for $500, Alex.

Yep, I’d take the white over this any day.

I smile as I think of Mrs. Peters, the sweet old lady I stayed with for a few weeks before coming here. To say that she had an obsession with Alex Trebek would be an understatement. She recorded every episode of
Jeopardy!
onto stacks of VHS tapes and then would watch it all day long, every day. She would pause it to make meals and cookies. She made the best oatmeal–chocolate chip cookies in the entire world.

Oh, I miss Mrs. Peters.

I wished that I could have stayed with her for a long time. She was the nicest person I’ve stayed with. I didn’t have the nerve to ask her, of course, but I think she knew that I was happy there. Before my caseworker came to bring me here, Mrs. Peters explained to me that she was just too old to have kids full-time. She said us kids deserved better and that she could only be a temporary placement situation.

If she only knew.

After leaving Glenda’s, I stayed in five homes before coming here. I’m hoping this one will be temporary as well, but if we’re basing my stay off my luck, I’ll probably be here forever. I haven’t been here long, but I already know I don’t want to be either.

Bev and Carl seem nice enough—not really.
Nice
is a relative term, and in my experience, it signifies not cruel more than it stands for kindness.

Carl is overweight and just kinda gross. When he’s not at work—I’m not sure where that is yet—he’s sitting in the brown-and-yellow plaid armchair in the living room. When he’s gone, you can still see the outline of where his body sits. The fabric and cushions are completely worn down in a perfect Carl-shaped form.

Bev reminds me of a witch, like the one who tried to eat Hansel and Gretel. She comes off as decent, but there’s a part of her that’s off, that scares me. It’s like she’s being accommodating enough so as not to frighten me away, and then she’ll attack. She knows that I have nowhere else to go anyway. So, if it is indeed an act, she should know it’s an unnecessary one.

I have a feeling that Bev and Carl are going to be a permanent placement.

They have another foster kid named Sarah who’s been here for three years. She’s shy and quiet. I tried to talk to her last night, which goes against my usual behavior. I’d stopped trying to be friends with the other foster kids a long time ago. But something about Sarah makes me think she could use a friend. I didn’t get much out of her last night, other than the amount of time she’d lived here.

But I don’t like the way she acts around Carl. She never looks at him. The second she enters the living room, she keeps her eyes focused in the opposite direction of where he sits. I have the impression that she’s petrified to look at him, and that’s weird. I mean, he’s pretty ugly, but I think it’s more than that.

“Boy, the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.” Bev’s presence in the kitchen startles me.

“I know. I’m working on it.”

“To me, it looks like you’re just standing there,” she snaps.

And just like that, the witch is here.

I don’t say anything else as I continue to scrub the mildew-infested gray sponge against the caked-on lasagna pan. I’ve learned, most times, it’s best to be quiet.

“You know, it’s hard to find placements for teenage boys. I would think you’d be a little more grateful when people take you in.” She continues yammering, but it’s almost as if she’s talking for her own benefit.

I try to block her out as I continue to scrub.

“We’re always offered teenagers, and nine times out of ten, they’re boys. You see, girls are adopted much earlier—at least, the good ones. Unless he’s a cute little baby, no one’s standing in line to adopt a boy. Did you hear me? I said, boys are useless. No one wants them.”

I know she’s expecting a response, but I don’t have the desire to play this game. I’ve played it too many times before. So, I simply nod.

Apparently, that’s not the response she wants because, in a clipped tone, she adds, “What do you expect? Even your own parents didn’t want you.”

“Shut up,” I say under my breath, barely containing my rage.

“Excuse me?” she spits out.

I turn and throw the disease-infested sponge on the ground. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Shut up.” My hands clench at my sides, and I have to talk myself out of hitting her in her big, crooked nose.

I’ve had it with these excuses for human beings who sign up to take in kids.
Why do they do it? Money? It surely can’t be that much. I mean, look at this dump. Power? They obviously get their thrills from kicking someone else when they’re down. But it still doesn’t add up.

I can’t take it anymore. Years of bottled up despair and anger threaten to explode.
And what if it does? What can these people possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done? Kick me out? Being homeless doesn’t seem too bad. Send me to jail? Sounds good to me. Is Carl going to hit me? Hardly. I can outrun him any day. Fat ass.

I’m done.

“My parents died, you stupid twat, and I haven’t been adopted because my grandparents are looking for me to take me back to London.”

She laughs. It’s a deranged sound, and it sends unpleasant chills down my spine.

“No one is coming for you. Are you that stupid? Your grandparents have long forgotten about you. They left you. Even your own flesh and blood didn’t want a piece of shit like you. There’s only one reason a boy your age is still in foster care, and that’s because you’re worthless. The state has to pay people money to put up with you. You’re lucky that there are people like us, willing to take you in.”

“I don’t need you.”

She takes a step toward me until her thin finger is in my face. I can smell the stale rot of her breath.

“Yes. You. Do.”

I hate this woman before me. I hate her more than I’ve ever hated anyone. I despise her more than Jessica, and up until this moment, she had hurt me deeper than anyone else. But, now, the stupid witch Bev has taken the most evil crown. She earned it fair and square. In one breath, she managed to take the little bit of hope that I’d had left, and she obliterated it.

A frail combination of hope and love was all I’d had left. I’d held on to it like a shield, and for years, it had kept me going. It’d turned me into a survivor. I’d learned quickly how to navigate this horrible nightmare I’d been living in. Like a badge on my chest, I’d worn the knowledge that they would come, and it had given me strength to keep going day after day. I’d only had to make it one more day because, the next day, they would be here to save me.

Hope is a powerful thing. It always kept me fighting for every tomorrow.

I’d believed, and because of that, I had known that tomorrow would eventually come. And when it did, it would be worth it.

All of it.

My grandparents would be my saviors, and they would take me to London—a little boy’s vision of heaven, happiness, love.

I always believed that they were out there, fighting to rescue me, but the witch is right. No one is coming. No one is going to save me. Love is a joke, and London’s a lie.

The only person I have looking out for me in this world is me. I’m furious that it took this evil person before me to tell me with such bluntness before I got it, but I hear it loud and clear now.

She’s totally right. They’re not coming for me. They never were. The only two people left on this earth who were supposed to love me have left me completely alone.

I have no one.

I haven’t had anyone for a long time.

My heart shatters beneath my aching chest. I can’t believe I never saw my reality for what it was. I suppose I had to believe—at least when I was younger—so I would have the strength to get through each horrible day. Maybe my mind is finally ready to accept the truth because I’m old enough now.

I don’t need to suffer in these homes until I’m rescued. I need to save myself.

Complete clarity envelops me. For the first time since I stepped foot in Dwight and Stacey’s home when I was seven years old, I have control—or at least, I will.

I don’t bother to say anything else to Bev as I step around her and march to my makeshift bedroom, which also houses the thirty-year-old washer and dryer. I shoot a quick glance behind me to see if anyone followed me. I’m relieved when I see that no one is there. It wouldn’t have mattered, but it just makes things easier.