as long as we get to try out what we read.” A burst of laughter rips from Brittany’s chest. The exact reaction I was hoping for. “Listening to music with my best friend, Logan. Also, I have a ton of tattoos you’re more than welcome to explore any time you please.”
I open my eyes to find Brittany watching me. “Your favorite childhood memory is of listening to music with your best friend?”
Shit.
“It is.” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I suspect will be her next question.
“What’s your favorite memory of your parents or your family? Speaking of family, do you have any brothers or sisters?”
And there it is.
“The majority of my childhood memories involving my parents aren’t good.”
Brittany’s eyes soften, but she isn’t looking at me with pity. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She looks across the room, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“What is it?” I already know what she wants to ask; it’s the same thing everybody else wants to ask. People always want to know why my childhood was shitty. They want the nitty-gritty details. I’m not ashamed of my past—I’ve worked too damn hard to move away from it—but I also don’t necessarily like talking about it. To other people, that is. For some reason, I want Brittany to ask me. I want her to know.
“Is it too soon for me to ask what happened?”
“You can ask me anything you want.” The words don’t surprise me. With her, I seem to be an open book. “My parents were druggies. Mom ran out on us when I was six. I don’t really remember a whole lot about her, and the few memories I do recall aren’t pleasant.”
“Like what?” Brittany asks.
“Well, I remember seeing her falling over and stumbling around the house. At the time, I didn’t understand. I know now that she was most likely either drunk or high. And I remember my dad smacking her around a few times, but that’s about it.”
Brittany pulls her hand from mine. Resting it against my chest, she starts drawing slow circles with the tip of her finger. “What happened after she left?”
“My dad got worse. He was drunk or high nearly all the time. Eventually, he lost his job, which resulted in us losing our house. That’s actually how I got taken away from him. One of my teachers found out we were living in his car. And you know what?” Brittany raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say a word, and I’m grateful because it feels good to tell her this. Other than my foster siblings, I’ve never told anyone about my childhood. “He didn’t seem to care. I think he was just glad to get rid of me.”
“Wow,” she says, sighing heavily. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I whisper, running a hand through her hair.
“What happened after that?”
“I was put into foster care. Moved from house to house until I ended up at the Smiths’ when I was sixteen. That’s where I met Logan. In fact, that’s also where I met Isabelle, Ryan, Jake, and Carter.”
“Your foster brothers and sisters?”
I nod. “Logan and I were closest in age, so our friendship was almost instantaneous. In fact, we’re still best friends, and we see each other nearly every day. Isabelle was younger so we weren’t as close, and I haven’t seen her in years. Ryan and Jake are biological brothers, and we’ve stayed in contact over the years. Carter…” A sharp pain rips through my chest and I take a moment to collect my thoughts before continuing. “He, um…he battled with depression most of his life. He committed suicide three years ago.”
Brittany’s eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh,” she says, her grip on my body tightening. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, not gonna lie, that was hard for Logan and me. Carter was like our big brother. Shit, he was our big brother. When we turned eighteen and got released from the system, it was Carter that was there to help us out.” My eyes drift across the room, landing on the picture of the two of us that sits on my dresser. “He helped us enroll in college, gave us a place to live, and when we started down a bad path, he was the one to bring us back. I owe him my life.”
“He sounds like a great guy. I’m glad you had someone like him.”
“Me, too,” I say, bringing my eyes back to Brittany. “If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be doing what I love.”
“Was he a tattoo artist?” she asks.
“He was. That’s how I ended up at InkSlingers.”
Brittany’s lips part, understanding flashing across her face. “I was wondering about that,” she says.
“About what?”
“Well, I remember seeing you on Inked. You won a decent chunk of money to start up your own parlor, but instead you work out of InkSlingers. But it was his, wasn’t it? It was Carter’s shop.”