Page 52 of Unbreakable Thread

“When you got hit defending Max and me, did you ever resent us? Do you have marks like Max?”

He leans the broom against the wall. Drake lifts his shirt, peeling the fabric away to reveal his back to me, but underneath all that deliberate ink lies a chaotic constellation of raised white lines, a road map of old wounds like the one Max has. The sight makes me gasp. He turns slowly, almost ceremonially, and shows me a deep scar on his side—a puckered, angry gash about three inches long that curves slightly inward. The kind that could only come from a serrated blade. That’s my guess.

“I have never resented you, Max, or anyone I have defended. You two were young, defenseless. I did what I had to do.” He crouches down to my level. “Before you arrived at the home, Max was getting whipped with a belt by Jason. There were times when it was his fists or kicking. I would run out of my room to stop it. I was afraid to leave him. Max was a boy who had to deal with a lot of shit. His walls were so high. The day you arrived at that home…” He laughs. “That boy forgot how to breathe. If for one second you think he has resented you…you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think that he resents me. It’s that I don’t want to be the reminder. As much as it hurts, I want him to have a woman who he won’t look at and say, ‘Hey, remember when we were in foster homes together?’ I want him to have a spouse who has wonderful parents, brothers, and sisters. A normal family.” Each word catches somewhere between my chest and my teeth.

I want the best for him.

“Sunny, I can sit here all day and tell you you’re wrong and that Max has been an unhinged, grumpy son of a bitch because he doesn’t have you. I can sit here and say you deserve happiness and each other, and you still won’t believe it. Talk to Max.”

I let his words sink in.

“He’ll tell you, and if that doesn’t convince you, then you have to find it within you to let go of the guilt, the anger, whatever it is you have to let go of and make peace because that is the only way you’ll find happiness.” His gaze shifts to the open window facing the street.

A couple stands on the street, talking. I’m not sure if he’s watching them or thinking.

“I’m not good at talking about romance or soft, touchy subjects, but for you, Sunny, I will. I had to find a way to let go of a lot of my past after my mom left me at the age of nine. When I joined the military, I let go of the bitterness I held for her. Then it all came back the day I found the girl I loved had left me for someone else. That guy looked like a picture-perfect guy with no years of trauma. It’s not a good feeling, sweetheart. You don’t want to end up like me.”

A claw grips at my heart. Pain clouds his eyes, even after all these years. He loved her. Maybe he still does. Drake stands and continues sweeping. Any resentment he might carry is for her.

We stay quiet with our thoughts. Drake’s words circle in my mind like vultures. It’s not that I feel I deserve less or that I don’t deserve Max. It’s what I know he deserves. Someone whole, not someone piecing herself together from fragments. How can I ask him to love someone who’s still discovering who she is?

It’s not expected that anyone would understand they hadn’t regained their memory fourteen years later from amnesia. Fourteen years of living someone else’s carefully constructed story, only to wake up one day and find myself drowning in fragments of a life I didn’t know was mine. The sensation was like sinking, gasping for air as memories flooded back: birthdays I’d celebrated differently, a mother’s and father’s voice I’d forgotten, and friends I had no recollection of. It’s not all about Max. I mean, a big chunk of it is an emotional past we share. Max is tangled in all of it—our history together now both precious and painful—but there’s also the raw, bleeding wound of my adoptive parents’ betrayal. How can I mourn a life I loved that never truly existed? And mourning parents I never knew I had, while hating the ones who hid my past? I shake my head. It’s too confusing to even think about it. It only gives me a headache.

To get my head out of the rut I’m in, I ask Drake, “Are you dating anyone?” I thought I’d ask, since he’s still talking about his ex, not anyone currently.

He turns toward me as he bends to sweep up dust and crumbs into the dustpan. A mirthless chuckle vibrates from his chest. “Now, Sunny, if Max finds out you’re trying to scoop me up, he will chop me up and bury me in his basement.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “He doesn’t have a basement.”

“That bastard will make one.”

“I just want to get to know you. Do you have a girl?”

Drake tilts the dustpan at a precise angle, watching as the crumbs cascade into the metal trash can. When he straightens and turns to me, his eyes seem to recede into his face, becoming two dark wells beneath the shadow of his brow. “No,” he says, his voice as hollow as those eyes, “I don’t have a girl in my life.” That woman broke him. He might not admit it, but I see it.

“Do you want one?”

“No, Sunny, they are trouble.”

Does he see me as trouble? I guess I can be. “Not all of them,” I urge, standing to my feet.

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “The girls I attract are trouble.”

I scrutinize his appearance. His black crew neck shirt clings to his torso like a second skin, the cotton stretched taut across broad shoulders and around his biceps. His dark-wash denim jeans hug the contour of his thighs. His scuffed black combat boots, laced halfway with the tongues folded over, give him a deceptively normal guy appearance. Then you peer at his handsome face—the sharp jawline, beard, the full lips pressed into a thin line, the piercing eyes beneath furrowed brows—and the intensity of his scowl makes me want to hide under the covers and never come out. “You just need to fix the face.”

He juts his head back. “What’s wrong with my face?”

I shrug. “Nothing. Your vibe gives off a bad-boy persona. That’s probably why I love Max. He has that bad boy in him.” I lock the front doors and turn to him. “Find yourself a nice, sweet schoolgirl, but that would involve you changing into a schoolboy.” I scoff. I could not imagine that. “Never mind, you’re fine the way you are. A nice girl will come along.”

He grumbles something under his breath. Without even asking, he helps me with the dishes while I empty the register, then I move on to take out the leftovers and put them in boxes and containers. I appreciate Drake’s help more than he even knows.

“Do you want to take this home?” I offer a box full of pastries.

He takes one cupcake from the box, an Oreo cream cheese-topping cupcake, and takes a bite. He nods in approval. “These are so good. I can try to fit them in the bag on my bike.”

Together we exit into the parking lot. At last, the sun’s fierce heat has relented, and it’s not melting my face.