Page 27 of Fragile hearts

“I think so too. I know what it’s like to grieve someone, so I hope it will bring them more peace, as it did with me.”

“It looks amazing, Alexis.” His words hit me right in the chest. Sometimes when I tell people what I do for work, they’ll tell me that I should do a more reliable job instead of a hobby. But I like what I do. I like giving people more closure. Carson walks to the couch, patting the seat next to him, the package on his lap.

“I got you something,” he says, handing me the present when I sit down. It’s packaged in green wrapping paper, with many pieces of adhesive tape holding it together. A red bow is placed perfectly on top. I grab it, his fingers sliding against mine, sending a sudden jolt through my body. He bites his lip, waiting in anticipation.

I open the present carefully, not to rip the paper. I know exactly what it is the moment I see it.

A Mickey Mouse car. The Mickey Mouse car. The car that I wanted to have for so long but could never find. The car that reminds me of my brother.

Tears prickle in my eyes. Carson clasps his hands in front of him, the corners of his lips tilted in a nervous smile. “How did you?” My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.

“Killian had it growing up. He still had it in his attic.”

“This is—Thank you. You have no idea what it means to me.” The car has some minor damage. Some paint has worn off, but other than that it’s in perfect condition. I hold it tightly between my palms as if it might disappear. I didn’t think he heard a word I said. I talked to him about it because he was panicking and wanted me to keep talking, but I never imagined he would give me one.

“You gave me a present, and I wanted you to have something too.”

“But I gave you the headbobber as a thank you. You didn’t have to give me something in return.”

“I wanted to.” Is all he says as he stares at the black screen on the TV.

I bite down on my tongue, twirling the car in my hands, setting it on the floor, then give it a push. It rolls across the living room until it collides with the wall. I wish Micah could have seen this. He would have loved every second of it.

“Thank you,” I say again, my voice trembling. Carson smiles gently, patting my thigh. I clear my throat, then stand up, grab the toy, and set it down on a shelf in my bookcase. I wipe away the lone tear that escaped my eye, turn around, and head over to the kitchen.

“You can put on a movie if you want. I’m gonna grab a spoon for the ice cream.”

I return from the kitchen a minute later, the tub of ice cream in one hand, two spoons in the other.

“Is it okay if we watch baseball?” he asks as he makes himself comfortable on the couch.

I sit down in my usual spot, the ice cream between us. I hand him the silver spoon with a raised eyebrow. He grins, taking it. I look at the clock, cursing under my breath. Asher is playing today. I had been so busy the past few days that I forgot.

“Yeah, I love baseball.”

“Me too. I wanted to become a professional baseball player growing up.”

“Really? Then why didn’t you?”

“I realized I had a better chance at becoming a firefighter.”

“Well, the rest of the people in town and I are forever grateful.”

He chuckles lightly, turning his upper body to stare at me. “How have you been? After what happened this morning?”

“Okay. I have never been good with blood after what happened with Micah. Seeing the accident triggered some bad memories.”

“I can imagine. Does that happen a lot? You said you didn’t have so many nightmares anymore, but do the panic attacks happen often?”

“No, not anymore. I didn’t have an easy childhood, but since I aged out of the system, it became better.”

“Can I ask what it was like? I know you told me you lived with criminals, but was every home like that?”

“Are you sure you want to know more? Because it’s not pretty.” Most people shy away when I tell them I’m a foster child, either because they don’t know what to say or because they know they’re not going to like what I say about it. It’s a first that someone is interested in my childhood. I don’t mind talking about it. It’s how I grew up. People with normal childhoods always talk about their lives, so why should I hide mine. My childhood was normal for me. It’s not my fault I was raised like that.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that. I don’t want you to freak out with how bad it was.