“Well.” Pixie made some weird gesture with her hands, like she was opening a magazine. “This is an invisible worry box. All those things on your mind, put them in there.”
“Pix, I’m not—”
“Now. Please.” Pixie sat a little straighter, head tilted, and pierced him with her glare.
Dred rolled his eyes, and pretended to place his worries in the box. Jordan. Not being enough for her. The house. Not being worthy of her. His mom. Not being worth loving. It was dumb, foolish even. But remarkably, he felt calmer. And he hadn’t needed his anchor.
“All done?” asked Pixie.
“Yes.” He watched as she made a show of closing the lid and tying a bow around the box.
“Now,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I’m Sarah, but you can call me Pixie.” She held her hand out.
He shook it, then kissed the back of it. She’d told him her real name, and he remembered from his time at her apartment in Miami that it was something she really hadn’t wanted to share. The idea she would pick now to tell him ignited a flicker of hope in his chest. A deep burning that told him he hadn’t totally blown it. “I’m Theodred, but you can call me Dred.”
Pixie smiled at him, and the flicker turned into an inferno. But for the first time he could remember, the slow grind of anger that hummed under his skin wasn’t there. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm.
They ate the rest of their dinner, and enjoyed künafa ashta with its sweet custard and pastry layers for dessert.
“Oh my goodness, I feel so full,” Pixie exclaimed as they left the restaurant.
Dred put his credit card away and flagged a taxi. He took her across town to the Roof Lounge at the Park Hyatt so she could see the city, not that they’d be able to stay out on the tiny terrace for long because it was too cold to enjoy it.
“Lennon owns a condo a couple of minutes’ walk over there on Bloor Street.” He pointed west as they pulled up and a bellman rushed to open the door. “It used to be the Bedford Ballroom. He says he lost his virginity in the washroom over a decade ago so it has sentimental value.”
Dred paid the driver and they headed up to the eighteenth floor. Once there, he took Pixie’s hand, leading her straight through the small bar and to a door on the opposite wall.
“Wow.” Pixie walked over to the railing and looked out over the city.
Yeah. He felt the same way every time he came up here. He stood behind her, and pulled her into his arms.
“So, that’s the CN Tower. It was the world’s tallest tower for thirty-four years, right? I read that on Wikipedia.”
“Something like that. And there’s the SkyDome where the Blue Jays play. It’s named after some corporate sponsor now, but it’s still the SkyDome to me.”
He remembered the Christmas when Maisey bought them all tickets to go watch a game the following July. It had been a beautiful summer day. The roof was wide open, and there was a slight breeze blowing in off Lake Ontario. One of the rare and perfect days of his childhood.
“In the taxi, you mentioned that Lennon owns a penthouse close to here. Why does he not live in it?”
Pixie turned and leaned against the railing. Wind flipped her hair across her face. He pushed it out of the way and kissed her lips.
“Let’s take this inside, and I’ll explain.”
Once they had drinks in hand, double Balvenie for him, and for Pixie, some fruity drink with a cocktail umbrella, they found a seat.
They managed to snag one of the fireside sofas and took their coats off to get settled. Pixie curled a leg underneath her and faced him. He couldn’t resist running his fingers over her thigh. He took a large gulp of whiskey and leaned toward her so he could keep his voice down.
“We’ve all lived together for about fifteen years . . . some a little longer, some a little less. What do you know about group homes and crown wards?”
“Not much.”
Where was he going to start? He had no idea. All he knew was he felt a compelling need to be honest with her.
“When your parents die or can no longer look after you, they try to find a family member to take you in. They call it a kinship arrangement. While they figure that out, you’re put in temporary foster care. If they can’t find any family, they put you up for adoption. In Ontario, if you don’t get adopted, and have been permanently removed from your family, you remain a permanent ward called a crown ward.”
Pixie squeezed his hand. “How old were you?”
“Eleven.” He took another sip of whiskey, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat.
“And you’ve all lived together ever since?” Pixie removed the umbrella from her drink, sucked on the end, then tucked it behind her ear.