I turned now to look at him, and those stormy blue eyes were clear and warm. “That would be nice,” I admitted, realizing as I said it how much I wished it were true.
I tried for a smile. “Will you tell me about your past, then? How you met Evan and Cole? The misadventures of your youth? You told me once your childhood should have been idyllic. What went wrong?”
He raked his fingers through his hair, then stood up and glanced around the moonlit park. Then he reached a hand down for me. I took it and let him help me to my feet, then fell in step beside him. I assumed we were done, that he was keeping his childhood secrets locked away, and I told myself that was good.
I didn’t have a future with Tyler. Despite his protests—or maybe because of them—I knew damn well he was dirty. But for these last few days of my medical leave, I could ignore that. Pretend it wasn’t true. Tell myself I was taking a vacation from myself and sliding into adventure.
I didn’t need to know his secrets, didn’t need to see his heart.
After all, I’d already given him too much of mine.
We’d been walking in silence for at least fifteen minutes when he said, softly and simply, “My parents live in Florida now. We don’t really talk. We’ve never really talked.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Well.” We’d reached a hill atop which there was a statue of a man on a horse. The moon shone down around us, illuminating the area. It was late, probably after three and right then it felt like we were the only two people on earth.
I sat on the side of the hill, then laid back in the cool, damp grass. Above me, Tyler smiled down, and I held out a hand. “Join me.”
He did, stretching out beside me and taking my hand, and when he spoke, it was as much to the stars as to me. “I grew up in Rogers Park,” he said. “Up north where Lake Shore Drive turns into Sheridan Road. Near the lake. On the Red Line. Solid middle class. Decent house. Decent neighbors. My dad managed a gas station. My mom stayed at home.”
“Sounds nice.”
He made a sound that might have been a snort.
“She drank. He gambled. Not just at cards or in weekend jaunts to Vegas, but in everything. Any get rich quick scheme you could think of. And he was damn stupid at it. Never once got on top of it, not that I could see. And I saw a lot.”
“He talked to you about it?”
“Hell no. Neither one of them talked to me at all. The three of us lived in that house, and it was like we were three strangers. When I was very young, I’d make up stories as to why. I thought maybe I had an older brother who’d been kidnapped, and they were so lost in their grief they couldn’t see me. Or that they weren’t my parents at all. My parents were actually spies, and they’d send for me as soon as they were safe. Then I quit making up the stories and just figured it was me.”
“Tyler, no,” I said, my heart breaking for the little boy he used to be.
“No,” he agreed. “I realized soon enough it wasn’t me. It was them. My parents were—are—two broken people. And they didn’t give a shit if they broke me, too.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“They paid the bills, kept the roof over our heads. But there was never dinner—I lived on cold cereal and scrambled eggs. And there was never conversation.”
“Jesus,” I said, though I’m not sure I spoke aloud.
“I started doing stupid shit to get their attention, but they never noticed. So I ramped it up. Stole a car when I was thirteen. Started breaking into people’s houses when I was fourteen—used to steal leftovers, so that was a plus, and about the only way I got a decent meal. Stole a car when I was fifteen. Smashed it. Got arrested. My dad bailed me out, and I didn’t even get grounded. Just told me to get my shit together and not be a stupid fuck.” He glanced at me, his expression dry. “That’s an exact quote, by the way.”
“What did you do?”
“Needless to say, I didn’t follow dear old Dad’s advice. I did not get my shit together. On the contrary, I think it’s safe to say I spiraled down. I started dealing drugs—stupid, but the money was good, and money bought me freedom and food.”
“You didn’t stay in drugs,” I said, my voice tight. God, don’t let him be dealing drugs; I’d seen the effects, and that was something I knew I couldn’t deal with on any level.
“No.” The word was fast and harsh. “I knew from the moment I got involved that it was all wrong. But this group of kids at my school—I clung to them because I wanted a family. Needed, even. And I went along.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I had a girlfriend. Amanda. High school sweetheart, you know. Smart, pretty, sweet as she could be, and totally clean. When she learned what I was doing, she said I had to get out. That if I didn’t, she was going to call the cops.”
“Did she?”
He cocked his head. “I told her not to. That she needed to trust me. I had a way out, but I needed to go through with a deal we had set up. We’d scored a over a pound of coke at a bargain price, and we’d arranged a sale to some kids from the South Side—stupid—and if we didn’t go through, my buddies and I knew damn well they’d hurt us. Or worse.”
“Go on.”
“So we went to the meet.” He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “And Amanda showed up—goddamn her.” His voice hardened with emotion and memory. “She showed up, told me to just walk away, but I couldn’t, of course. She was living in some fantasy that these gangbangers would just let us go. So I stayed—and she stayed—and then—”
He clenched his fist, then punched it hard into the air. “And then the cops came and it turned into a clusterfuck. Someone pulled a gun, and then there were shots fired and I looked over, and she was on the ground, her white blouse stained with blood. She was dead before I got to her.”
He closed his eyes, the pain of the memory almost palpable.
When he opened his eyes, they were full of anger and grief. “She was shot and she died and goddammit, if she’d just trusted me and not betrayed me to the cops, she would still be alive. Probably have a boring husband and three kids, but she’d be alive.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said gently, because that is what you say when someone is grieving.