Zingo, her Maine coon cat, jumped on her stomach. “Oof. Watch it, big guy.” He circled on top of her legs three times before curling into a purring ball. She reached down to pet him. “Love you, too.”
Staring at the ceiling, she tried to empty her mind, but it churned with all the things Drew had told her. About Wyatt. About himself.
Hearing about Wyatt’s parents hadn’t shocked her, and she sniffed at how Drew thought it was the saddest story. Yes, it was sad, but so was the destruction she’d witnessed over and over in her life.
Physical abuse, parents giving drugs to their small children, molestation, death—it horrified her. She’d dealt with it all, seen it all, and she wished Wyatt could have been spared. At least he had been able to rely on Drew all this time.
A laugh escaped her lips, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Where had that thought come from? In one day she’d flipped from thinking Drew a complete waste of time to an upstanding guy?
He’d been honest. Open. Bared his soul, not knowing if she’d retaliate or not.
She was surprised she hadn’t. Well, she kind of had. Her angry outburst earlier had come out of nowhere. The venom still puzzled her.
What had Drew said about being mad at the world? She closed her eyes, trying to remember. They’d been discussing her getting too close to the kids, and he’d said something—something important.
Being so mad at the world you couldn’t handle living in it. That was what it was.
She sat up. Zingo glared at her in protest, then resettled on her lap. Mindlessly, she stroked his fur.
Was that why she couldn’t move forward?
Was she so mad at the world she couldn’t handle living in it?
No. She shook her head. Of course not. She wasn’t angry. She was protecting herself from a job that wasn’t good for her anymore.
She could move forward. She would move forward. The idea of helping the local cheerleaders had sparked something inside that had been dormant since high school. “Sorry, baby, but I have to get up.” She cradled the huge gray tiger-striped cat and kissed his head before setting him back on the couch.
She’d call Angela Duke, the foster mom who owned the cheerleading academy in Chicago, and find out what was involved with starting her own. She hoped she still had Angela’s number. Where had she put the files with her Chicago contacts?
Rummaging through her bedroom closet, she found a box of old purses, a bag stuffed with receipts from the past five years, stacks of books, a jar full of change and two suitcases. Three boxes sat on the top shelf, so she located her step stool and dragged them down.
One looked like the box where she’d thrown the file with her personal contacts. She pawed through it. Appliance manuals. Why did she keep them? She tossed one over her shoulder, unearthed an old trophy and kept digging.
The purple duffel bag.
She dropped it like it was covered in battery acid. Taking two steps back, she fell to her knees.
A home movie of her earliest memories played through her mind, stealing her breath, stinging the backs of her eyes.
She’d kept the dirty, ripped purple duffel bag packed with every one of her belongings from the time she was three years old until she was eight. She’d been living with the Pierces for more than a year before she finally believed they were her forever family.
Creeping forward, she took it in her hands and held it to her chest. Emotions rushed through her. Remembering the fear of being placed in a new foster home. Five different homes in four years. Some had been good, others not so good, but none had lasted.
She’d been unwanted.
The purple duffel bag had been the only thing she’d owned. Every night before she went to bed, she’d fold her clothes and zip them into it.
Always ready. Always prepared to move.
One of the boys at the third home tried to steal it from her, and she’d grown blind with rage. Six years old. Already too street-smart for the world. That night she’d snuck into the kitchen, grabbed a paring knife, went into his room and waved the knife, demanding he give it back.
He had.
And she had been placed in a different home two weeks later.
The look in Wyatt’s eyes yesterday, the one questioning if he was worth anything, roared back. Wyatt hadn’t lost all his hope yet. Not the way she had so early on. And he wasn’t living in a hovel with his meth-addicted mom on a notorious gang’s street like Treyvon and Jay had been.
Drew thought she’d be good for Wyatt.
She clutched the bag tightly and almost laughed. He had no idea that six-year-old Lauren had threatened a kid with a knife to get this bag back. Her nicknames had been “Prude” and “Do-Gooder” and “Prim Pierce,” and they were so far from the truth, it was laughable.
She wasn’t a wild, angry little girl anymore. Her adoptive parents had given her more than a home. They’d given her faith in a loving God. They’d given her a baptism, a new person to replace the old, rotten, unwanted one.
And she’d promised herself she would be worthy of their love, and she’d help kids like her, the way they had.
She uncurled her legs, set the duffel bag on top of the box and sat on the edge of her bed.
Lord, I’ve been avoiding the hard prayers lately, the ones where I ask You to show me Your will. I was afraid—I am afraid—You’ll ask me to do something I can’t handle.
Could she babysit Wyatt and not have her heart broken?
Who would help Wyatt if she didn’t?
At least he had Drew.
The longing she’d sensed in Drew before he left earlier had drawn her heart, unbidden, to him. He’d given her a peek of who he’d become, and she had to admit, time and experience had turned his drive into something less selfish than it had been in high school.
Could she say the same about herself?
She’d consider meeting him and Wyatt at Uncle Joe’s Restaurant Friday night. In the meantime, she’d find the Chicago file.
“Hope you’re ready for the tastiest fish fry you’ve ever eaten.” Drew glanced over at Wyatt next to him in the truck Friday night. Daylight was sticking around longer—a nice change from the short winter days behind them. He wondered if Lauren would join them tonight.
“I hate fish.”
“Well, you’re going to love this fish. It’s covered in batter and deep-fried. Ask for double the tartar sauce. Just a tip from me to you.”
Was that an eye roll? Drew grinned. An eye roll was better than dead silence. At least the kid was showing signs of life. He’d been subdued, shrugging and grunting yesterday when Drew asked him about school. Drew had met with his teacher earlier, and she’d assured him Wyatt, though quiet, was settling in fine.
He wasn’t so sure.
If Lauren didn’t show up tonight, he would take it as a sign he needed to find another babysitter. In fact, he should find someone else, no matter what. After she’d told him about leaving Chicago and not being able to handle the emotional pain of her cases anymore, he understood. It would be unfair to ask her to help, knowing she was still upset about whatever had made her quit her job.
What had made her quit her job?
The parking lot was ahead. The building must have been remodeled.