"I totally get difficult dads. What about your mom?"
"My mom is dead to me. I only have a stepmom, and she wasn't around then."
Rogan opens his mouth, but I cut him off before I have to talk about my life any further.
"Have you lived here your whole life?"
He glances at the house. "You're looking at the home Dad bought when he and my mom were engaged."
"Guess that answers that. Where's he now?"
"About half an hour away." His expression tightens. "But he may as well be a world away for as often as I see him."
"Like my mom." Maybe Rogan and I have more in common than I first thought.
"Who needs absent parents, right?" He squeezes my hand again.
"Exactly."
We sit in silence as two squirrels chase each other nearby.
Rogan starts tracing my hand again, this time up to my fingertips. "Do you remember anything about where you used to live?"
"No, I was only three."
"So? I can remember things from when I was eighteen months."
I stare at him. "No, you can't."
He adjusts his shirt. "I do. When I told Mom about certain memories, she showed me pictures. I was toddling around in a diaper."
"Didn't like wearing shirts, even then?"
Rogan laughs. "I hope you don't think I'm trying to show off. It's so hot out."
"It sure is." And I'm not referring to the weather.
He gives me a funny look, like he knows the meaning behind my words. "So, no early life memories?"
I can hardly remember yesterday with him so close, so I close my eyes and try to pull anything hidden in the recesses of my mind.
At first, all I see is my mom's car driving away down the street. I'm crying and banging on the window. She said she'll never be back.
Dad tells me to shut up because the game's on.
I race to the front door and fling it open.
Dad tells me not to get myself run over. He needs the money, and he can't get it if I'm dead.
I run outside and scream for my mommy. A neighbor lady comes over and holds me, keeping me from running after the car, now out of sight.
"What do you remember?" Rogan's voice breaks through my memory. "Are you okay?"
I nod, though tears threaten. What I really need is to find older memories. Something I've actually forgotten.
Rogan pulls me close. I relax and draw comfort from the safety of his embrace.
Something emerges.
I'm on a stage. Millions of people are watching me, or at least it feels like that many. I'm wearing a beautiful dress. It flows out and sparkles in the bright lights.
Someone offstage calls out to me. I glance down at my tap shoes and start dancing.
The crowd goes wild.
"Kenna?" Rogan's breath tickles my ear.
My eyes fly open.
"Are you okay?" Rogan's grip around me tightens. "I'm right here."
"I never took dance."
"Huh?"
I pull away from his hold. "Can you drive me somewhere? There's something I need to do."
"Uh, sure. Do I have time to clean up first?"
"Yeah." I need time to figure out what I'm going to say to Dad, anyway.
Kenna
You can drop me off here."
"At a grocery store?" He pulls into the parking lot, despite his obvious doubts.
I don't want Rogan to know where I live. Of all the things I could tell him, that would be one of the most embarrassing. I'm going to have to walk close to half a mile, but I still need more time to think before confronting Dad—I mean, Merle.
A headache throbs. It's too much effort to start thinking of him as Merle. At least for now. I'll just confront him, then forget all about him.
"Kenna?" Rogan asks. "You want me to drop you off here?"
"Yeah."
"There aren't any houses around here."
"I know."
He parks and turns to me. "What's going on?"
"My dad works here. I told you, I need to talk to him now." I hate lying to him, but I am not letting him see the dump I call home. And besides, it's not a total lie. The grocery store is the last place Dad held a job.
"What, then? Are you going back home?" Rogan's mouth forms a straight line and his lips turn white. He doesn't want me going home.
Neither do I, but I have to find out what that dance recital memory is all about. It feels as real as the one of me chasing Mom's car when I was five.
"Kenna?"
"I'm not staying there. I might pick up a few things, though." If they haven't burned or sold all my stuff already.
"Give me your number. I can't believe I don't have that already."
I play with a nail. "That's because I don't have one."
"You don't have a phone?"
"It's complicated." Actually, it isn't. How easily one lie turns into another.
"Like you got grounded and lost it?"
"Something like that." I'd never been allowed even a flip phone so I could call if stranded somewhere.
"Well, I'll just wait here for you. I need to make some calls. Here's as good a place as any."
"You don't have to wait. This might turn into a long conversation."
He throws me a sideways glance. "I don't like this neighborhood. Half the guys look like they're up to no good. I'm not leaving this parking lot while you're here."
I sigh dramatically, but I kind of love how protective he is. He actually gives a crap if something bad happens to me. And that makes me feel all the worse for the secrecy.
"Well?" His brows come together.
"Give me your number, so I at least have it. How's that?"
"I guess it's better than nothing. Sure you don't want me to go inside with you?" He scrawls his number on the back of a receipt with a pen embossed with the logo of a golf club.
Our lives seriously couldn't be any more different from each other.
I stuff the receipt into my shorts' pocket. "Seriously, this is going to take a while. I'll call you when I'm close to being done. Go somewhere more comfortable, okay? I'll feel bad if you just sit in the car this whole time."
Rogan shakes his head. "I'm stubborn when my mind is made up. I don't trust this place, or anyone in it. I'm staying put."
My mind races. Between walking to and from my house it would take a while, even if I jogged. Then there was the matter of pulling answers from Dad. He wouldn't make it easy.
Maybe I should just fess up to Rogan. Let him see where I'm from. He already knows I'm a complete mess.
"Kenna?"
What am I supposed to do? Since he won't leave, I don't have much of a choice, or he's going to be sitting in the parking lot for hours.
Rogan cups my chin. "Kenna Mitchell, will you tell me what's on your mind?"
Tingles run down my spine. He could say my full name and get me to do anything he wanted. "Do you promise not to think less of me?"
"I couldn't possibly think less of you."
"Wait, what?"
His eyes widen. "No, that didn't come out right!"
"You couldn't possibly think less of me?" It felt like a punch in the gut.
Rogan puts a hand on each of my arms.
I flinch.
"What I mean is that I think so highly of you that nothing you say could make me feel differently. I really like you, Kenna. A lot. You're unlike anyone I've ever met, and that's a very good thing."
Everything spins around. "You like me a lot?"
"It sounds crazy, I know. We just met, and we hardly know each other, but we have a connection. Don't you think?"
I nod. That much is undeniable, but it could all change once he sees my house. I bite my lower lip and draw in a deep breath. "Well, this might just make you think less of me. I don't want you to see where I live—I mean, lived."
"I'm not going to judge you based on that. You can't help that any more than I can help where I live."
"Yeah, but my famil
y makes Joe Dirt look like British royalty."
Rogan bursts out laughing. "I'm sorry." He rubs his eyes.
"I'm not kidding."
"Okay." He sounds like he's choking back a laugh.
"I'm glad you think this is funny, but in all seriousness, just know that I'm nothing like them. I've always been determined to make sure of that."
Rogan's laughter fades. "What about at the train?"
I look away. "It seemed like my only option."
He holds my hand in his and traces my palm like back in the yard.
My heart flutters.
"Why?"
I focus on the flecks in his eyes and use them to anchor my emotions. "I was done with school and had nowhere to move. They want rent which I can't afford, and there's nowhere else for me to go."
"What about college?"
"There's no money."
"Can't you stay with friends?" He squeezes my hand.
I shake my head. "Nobody to stay with."
"What about getting a job?"
"I'm a part-time barista, but that won't pay any bills other than staying at home—which I won't do. Living on the streets isn't a better option."
Rogan flinches. "You considered that? Living on the streets?"
"Yep."
Silence rests between us.
"I'd better go talk to my dad before I lose my nerve."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
Is he crazy? It's bad enough I'm about to let him drive me to the house, there's no way I'm letting him see the inside and meeting my family. He'll run screaming for sure.
"I mean for moral support."
My stomach lurches. "No, I need to do this on my own."
"Okay. I'll wait in the car as long as you need me to." He lets go of my hand and grasps the steering wheel. "How do we get there?"
It's going to be a miracle if I can keep those huckleberries down.
Rogan
I hate letting her go into that house alone, but that's what she wants. I can't believe she actually lives in this dump—the whole neighborhood is like a third-world country. I've helped out in slums not much worse than here.
Her front lawn is at least six inches long, and it isn't the longest grass on the street. Their chain link fence is sagging in parts, and a pile of the house's siding is pushed up against it. The mailbox is caved in.
The house itself is in worse condition. Cracked windows. Peeled, dirty paint. The door has been tagged with what can only be a gang symbol.
From my slightly-open window I hear people screaming at each other in the distance. Glass shatters. More yelling.
I never had any idea that people in my own town lived like this. Sure, I knew there was a less-than-savory area, but I never would have guessed anything like the sight before my eyes.
The door on the house to the left of Kenna's opens. A toddler walks out wearing only a diaper, and he has a bottle hanging from his mouth. I wait for a parent to follow, but after a couple minutes, none does. The kid meanders around the unfenced yard.
I stare in disbelief. One step out into traffic, and that's it for the kid. My pulse drums through my body. I have to do something. There's no way a child that young understands the dangers of cars.
So far, he isn't near the street. He hasn't even approached the edge of his yard. Now he's holding a hammer.
Are you kidding me?
I reach for the door handle, but just before I pull it, a girl no older than twelve steps out of the house. She adjusts a scarf covering her hair and yells at the small child in a Slavic language before picking him up and dragging him inside. He kicks and screams.
I'm speechless. Again, I can't believe people are living like this in my own hometown. I feel like I've been transported back to the mission trip I took several years ago, except I'm only a short drive from the safety and comfort of my own home.
What must Kenna think of me if this is her norm? Do I come off as a spoiled rich kid? Everything is handed to me. The world is basically mine. If I want something, my parents will help me get it—even my dad. He despises me for not being in college, but he still throws money at me anytime I ask.
Kenna has none of that, and from the looks of it, neither do any of her friends. It's no wonder moving in with anyone she knew was out of the question—it was probably no better at any of their homes.
I can't wait for her to come outside so I can rush her home. She can stake her claim on the guest room as far as I'm concerned. It's hers for life if I have any say in the matter. There's nothing I can do for anyone else in the neighborhood, but I can help her.
A door slams somewhere. I look first at her house, then around at the other houses. I can't see anything. With a car that sticks out, I have to be especially aware of my surroundings.
My skin crawls. It takes all my self-control not to run inside her house, carry her to my car, and burn rubber on the way out. I'm an idiot for letting her go in there alone, especially given what I know about her past. Even with only the scant details I have, I'm one-hundred percent certain someone has been hurting her. And chances are, that person lives in the house she's in right now.
Why didn't I insist on going in with her?
Kenna
My heart pounds against my chest, threatening to burst through. I stick my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. It doesn't help.
Dad's in his overstuffed recliner, beer in one hand and remote in the other. He's completely focused on Married… with Children and hasn't noticed me yet. He probably thinks my stepmom or stepbrother came in—if he even heard the door at all. Theo's as lazy as him, and neither of the men of the house work.
If I'm going to do this, I need to do it now. His wife is at work, and I don't want to risk being here when she gets back from waitressing at the bar. She's always in the worst of her bad moods when she gets home from work.
I clear my throat.
Dad laughs along with the canned laughter on the TV.
This is going to call for more drastic measures. I step over piles of dirty laundry then stand between him and the screen.
"Hey!" His expression registers shock. "What are you doing here? I thought you moved out."
I should be hurt that he doesn't care, but I'm too nervous about confronting him. "Was I ever in dance lessons?"
He swears at me. "Get out of the way. I'm watching that."
"Was I ever in dance lessons?" I repeat.
Dad's brows knit together. "How would I know? Move."
I shove my hands further in my pockets. "Tell me the truth."
"Then you'll move?" His nostrils flare.
"Yes."
"Maybe before you were adopted. Now, outta my way."
The room spins around me. "What?"
"I said, move."
I find my bearings. "Adopted?"
"Yes. Let me watch my show."
"I was adopted?"
He leans forward. "We had this conversation. Now get out of my way before I move you myself."
"We never talked about this!"
"Sure we did. Right after you were adopted."
My mind spins out of control. "What, when I was a baby?"
"When you were three."
Puzzle pieces start to fall into place. "When I moved here."
"Right. After your parents died. Now move." He leans forward, nearly standing. If he gets up, he'll shove me out of his way.
I don't budge. "My… my parents are dead?"
"We've been over this." He rises to his feet and raises a fist.
I flinch and step aside before he strikes.
He sits back down, then laughs at the sitcom.
"You're not my real dad?" I sit on the couch. A spring digs into my thigh.
"Nope. He's dead as a doornail."
It feels like a slap across my face. "My mom?"
Dad glares at me. "They died in a plane crash overseas. This doesn't ring any bells?"
I shake my head, unable to find my voice.
"Now it makes sense why your mom left, huh?" He laughs. "She's not really your mom. It was easy for her to walk away and never look back."
My stomach lurches. I should just vomit on his carpet, but I run to the bathroom to hurl in the toilet.
Dad laughs in the other room. It's anyone's guess if he's laughing at me or the TV. Probably his show. Chances are he already forgot about me being home.
After emptying my stomach, I brush my teeth and give myself a pep talk in the mirror so I can get as much information from him as possible.
I storm into the room and stand just outside his line of vision from the show. "How did you adopt me?"
"What do you mean? I filled out the paperwork." He keeps his attention on the screen.
"Doesn't adoption cost money?"
He finally turns to me. "You're not going to give up, are you?"
I shake my head.
"What does it matter? They're dead."
"It's my history. I deserve to know. Just tell me, and I'll be out of your hair for good."
He shakes his head and sets the remote down. "Fine. I'm a distant cousin to your mom. Our grandpas were cousins or some such nonsense. Both your parents were only kids and all of their parents were dead too. Something in their will said something about wanting you to be with family, not to be in the system. So, lucky me. Happy?"
I shake my head.
He throws me a death glare. "What now?"
"How did you afford to adopt me?"
"It didn't cost me a dime! Your parents' life insurance money covered your living expenses for a while."
Realization hits me. "You only took me for the money."
"Bingo."
I sit on the couch again. Now I can't stop the shaking. Every inch of me quivers uncontrollably. The room feels twenty degrees colder.
Dad laughs at the show again.
The only good news in all of this is that I'm not actually his child. We may be distantly related, but he isn't actually my dad. He really is just Merle, and my mom is just Caroline.
Maybe my real parents loved me.
I flash back to the memory of being on stage. Other than nerves and excitement, I do feel love. It was so deeply ingrained in me that it was part of me. Something I felt all the time.
When Tomorrow Starts Without me Page 7