Fishing pole?
“Reece?” I knew he stood behind me. I could feel him.
“Yes?”
“Where do you keep all your things hidden?” I asked playfully.
He chuckled. “These are it.”
“This is everything? A couch and a bed? And a fishing pole?” I turned around to face him.
He nodded.
“You fish?”
He nodded again.
“Well, you’ll get along with my dad then.”
He smiled.
“I need you to explain all this to me. Are you a minimalist?”
“I’m a foster kid,” he replied. “Why do you think I’m so personable?”
I didn’t know if he was joking, so I didn’t laugh.
“I’m joking,” he said softly. “Well, about the personable thing. Not the foster kid thing. I am a foster kid.”
“Oh.”
He walked toward me and took my hand, leading me back to the living room where we sat together on his couch.
“I never had a permanent home. I was moved around a lot as a kid, and I learned quickly not to get attached to things because they were often taken away. Once I hit middle school, my odds of getting adopted plummeted. No one likes older kids. They want the young ones. You know, cuter. Don’t have attitudes. All that. So I shuffled between children’s homes throughout Baltimore until I turned eighteen.”
My brain couldn’t absorb all this. I felt like a jackass. Don’t ask me why. I just did.
“Put myself through school. Graduated with a degree in marketing. Made a few friends. Stayed in Baltimore and worked at a shit firm until Camden convinced me to move down here. And there’s my story in a nutshell.”
I opened my mouth to speak.
“No, I don’t know my parents. Yes, I looked for them once. Yes, I learned that my mother was a drug addict who died when I was twelve. No, I never found my father.” He paused and looked at me.
“Did you leave behind a girl?”
He shook his head. “They never wanted to stick around. I guess because I don’t have a history. Does that make sense? I mean, if I marry, I’m giving her what? No family on my side. No fun childhood stories. No, ‘Oh, so that’s where you get that. From your dad!’ moments. What am I gonna do? Give her my name? I don’t even know where ‘Powell’ comes from. A part of me thinks I made it up. And then there’s the issue of . . .” He grabbed my hands. “Bailey! Oh God, don’t cry! I didn’t mean to say all that stuff to make you feel sorry for me! Oh, baby.”
He pulled me onto his lap. I was a gurgling, blubbering mess. Way more water than Hurricane Holly planned to dump on this town. I soaked Reece’s neck, trying my hardest to muffle my cries against his skin.
“I realize I made a really bad case for myself just now,” he said. “Is that why you’re crying? You don’t wanna be with me because I don’t know where my last name comes from?”
I wailed and clung to him harder, shaking my head vehemently.
“I love you!” I cried.
“I love you, too,” he said quietly.
“I don’t care if you don’t know where your name comes from,” I went on.
He hugged me tighter.
“I . . . I feel awful,” I said.
“Why?” He pushed me away gently so that I was forced to look at him.
“Because I wish that wasn’t your life.”
He considered this. “I wish it weren’t either. But I can’t change it. And it wasn’t all bad. I met Camden in school and spent the night with him all the time. His family practically adopted me.”
I nodded.
“I learned how to survive on my own.”
“But where are your things, Reece? You should have interests and stuff in this home that reflect you. Where are you? Who are you?”
I felt the panic surge through my heart like a hot arrow, piercing the muscle and sending it into emotional arrest. He saw because he grabbed hold of my shoulders and shook me lightly.
“I’m here,” he said. “Okay? Yes, I’m a foster kid. Yes, I’m a person with no pictures. Yes, I’m a person with no family. But that doesn’t make me less of a person, Bailey.”
“I know.”
“I have interests. I just keep them all in my closet,” he whispered.
“Like whips and chains?”
He smirked. “Exactly.”
I leaned over and kissed his lips. “Show me.”
He led me back to his bedroom and opened his closet doors. It was a large walk-in with clothes on one side and “stuff” on the other. I saw the tackle box first.
“Doesn’t it smell?” I asked.
“I clean everything really well. Plus, I haven’t fished in forever. Job keeps me pretty busy. And you,” he added.
“Oh, am I keeping you from it? I don’t mean to. I know hobbies are important,” I said.
“Relax. It’s no big deal. When I get the overwhelming urge again, I’ll bring you along. How’s that?”
I nodded. The second item I noticed was a large box of books. I peered inside.
“I’m into Stephen King and Tom Clancy,” he said, watching me.
“You’re such a guy,” I mumbled, and he laughed.
“Read them all.”
“What’s back here?”
“All my tools,” he replied.
“Tools?”
“I didn’t mention I owned a house in Baltimore? It was a fixer-upper, so I learned how to do everything myself.”
I fingered his hand tools—wrench, hammer, crowbar.
“All my big stuff is in a storage unit. Miter saw. Ladder. Tile saw. I just keep these guys around for easy access. Just in case.”
“So you’re a fixer,” I said.
“That’s what they tell me,” he replied.