I like Tyler. He’s always smiling and it reaches his eyes. Behind the smiles, though, he harbors a sadness that seeps down to the marrow of my bones. I don’t know him well enough to ask him about it, but I can’t stop wondering.
When he mentions Torin, his whole demeanor changes. Proud yet defensive. It makes me wonder what it is that’s wrong with Torin. I’ve been around some mentally challenged kids over the years as I bounced through the system, so it’s nothing new for me. Maybe soon, he’ll elaborate. Until then, I’m going to enjoy my time at this fancy steakhouse where I don’t fit in, sitting across from a man who would be perfect for me if I were on the other side of my life. The happy side. The side that happens the day I turn eighteen.
“I’ll have some ketchup, please,” I tell the waiter.
The man’s eyes widen in horror.
Tyler chuckles. “Bring some ketchup,” he tells the man. As soon as he’s gone, he reaches over and points at my steak. “You won’t need ketchup. Trust me.”
I raise a brow as I cut into the bloody meat. It smells good. In my almost eighteen years, I’ve never had anything like this. The fanciest was when Guy made a crockpot roast recipe one of the moms at the clinic gave him.
As I bring the bite of steak to my mouth, Tyler watches in anticipation. He wants me to like it. God, I hope I like it. I pop it into my mouth and a savory explosion assaults me in the best possible way. A groan escapes me as I greedily chomp and then swallow.
“Good stuff?”
“The best,” I agree.
“Still want to slather it in ketchup?”
“Fuck no.”
He laughs and I decide right then, I like his laughs. Every adult in my life has been irritated and annoyed with me. They never took the time to know me or understand me. Nobody ever asked what I wanted or cared about my thoughts.
Except Tyler.
He seems to yearn for my happiness.
I don’t get it.
As we eat, I ponder if there are any other reasons he’d want a girl like me. He could be lying about the sex trafficking or black market organs. Or, he could be telling the truth. What if it’s simpler than that? Does he want to have sex with me? As much as I want to balk at that notion, I don’t deny it’s a pleasant one. Not that I’ve ever had sex or someone as good-looking and successful would even care about someone like me.
“Tell me about yourself, Casey.”
I chew on my steak. There’s lots about me. I love to read. Brain teaser books are my secret indulgence. Music soothes my soul. I love warmth. I hate snow. Holidays are the worst because I’m teased with all I’ve never had. English is my worst subject because the stories are boring—I prefer sex, blood, and violence in my books. Math is my best subject. Numbers make sense in my head. I always wanted a pet, but it was never allowed at any of my homes.
But I don’t tell him any of this.
“I love cosmic brownies,” I tell him.
His brows scrunch together. “What’s a cosmic brownie?”
“It’s what wars are fought over. It’s what universes collide over. It’s how you spell happiness in all languages.” I grin at him.
He shakes his head. “And where do I get these cosmic brownies? Wait,” he grunts. “Are these pot brownies?”
I burst out laughing, earning a nasty glare from the red-faced man. “No! You buy them at the grocery store. Guy buys them sometimes, but they never last. The kids all fight over them.”
“I’ll make sure to have Ethel pick some up,” he assures me.
“Ethel? Is that your wife?” My heart sinks. I never considered he might have a family. I didn’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean a thing these days.
“I’m not married, no. Ethel is our cook and keeps the house.”
Wow. So, he is rich. Another reminder.
“I see.”
“You told me one thing, but I saw your mind working. Do those thoughts choose not to come out or do you like giving people morsels of yourself?” he asks, his eyes narrowed as if he’s trying to understand me.
Good luck with that.
I barely understand myself.
“I tell people what they want to hear usually,” I admit.
His lips purse together and he shoots me a fierce look. “Casey, I’m going to need you to tell me everything.”
Well then.
“This is weird,” I complain as I touch a silky garment with my fingertips.
“Me buying you clothes?”
I nod but don’t look at him. Having dinner was fun and relaxing. Now, expectation cackles in the air. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or how I’m supposed to behave. The saleswoman keeps sending me disdainful looks. When Tyler asks her questions, she brightens up. He’s so nice, he doesn’t even notice her.
“Do they have anything comfortable here?” I ask after a few minutes.
He walks over to me and understanding dawns on him as he glances around us. “Ah, this isn’t really your style, is it?”
“Nope.”
“Forgive me,” he huffs. “I don’t know much about women.”
My cheeks heat at his insinuation that I’m a woman. I’ve been called everything but a woman. Kid. Girl. Jerk. Never woman.
“I saw a place on the way in,” I mutter as I rush from the expensive store.
He easily keeps up with me with his long legs. I find a place in the mall the kids at school always talked about that caters to people like me. Rock music blares from inside and the walls are painted black. Concert tees and hoodies line the walls. A guy with two lip piercings and a tattoo on his cheekbone that says harmony walks over to us.
“Can I help you find something?”
“She wants something warm,” Tyler offers from behind me.
I nod. “I can manage. Thank you.”
“If you or your dad need anything, just let me know.”
Heat burns up my throat because I don’t have a dad. I don’t have anyone. Tyler doesn’t argue that I’m not his and for one moment, I’m thankful. As we shop, I pretend for just a second that I’m his.
“Winter is coming?” he asks as he holds up a Jon Snow hoodie.
“Don’t remind me,” I retort with a laugh. I feel the insides of each hoodie until I find one that has a soft fleece lining. “I want this one.”
He picks through the pile until he finds a small and holds it up. “This looks like it’ll fit.”
“Okay,” I say. “All done.”
Tyler stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “That’s one thing. No.”
At that, I laugh. “Okay, Dad.”
He waves over the salesman. “I want one in every style in a size small with this lining.”
The guy gapes at him. “We probably have at least twenty with that lining.”
“I want them. Can you point me to more warm things?” Tyler asks.
“Yeah, over here.”
Tyler and I rummage through all the fun socks. All different colors and styles. Most are knee-highs, which I love because they’ll be extra warm. Then, we move on to some onesie pajamas that are simply ridiculous, but I love anyway. We even find some fuzzy pajama pants. The guy shows us the jeans they have and I manage to pick out a few pairs that actually fit. By the time we finish, I’m worried about the total.
“Casey, can you go over there and buy some Fireball candies from that store? I’ll be over in a minute. Feel free to pick out some things for yourself.”
I know he’s shooing me away so I don’t hear the total. Quite frankly, I don’t want to hear it. I snag the twenties from his hand, shove them into the pocket of my hoodie, and make my way out of the store. The candy store looks delightful and I want to buy everything in it. Dutifully, I grab a sack and fill it with wrapped Fireballs. Once I’ve tied it off, I grab another bag. I start to fill it with Tropical Skittles when I sense someone staring at me.
“It adds up quickly. Perhaps you should slow down,” the old man behind the counter says.
I mentally calculate the cost per pound and know Tyler gave me plenty of cash to cover the cost. Ignoring him, I continue filling the bag with Tropical Skittles.
“Miss,” the old man snips.
I fill it as high as it will go and I can still tie it off. I set that bag beside the Fireballs and move over to some malt balls.
“Miss,” he snaps again. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I glare at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re just playing in the candy. This store is for customers who can afford what they’re getting. I can assure you that—”
“I’m guessing this will cost me about thirty-eight dollars,” I grit out as I tie off the last bag and start placing them on the scale between us. I slap the two twenties on the counter.
He ignores me and rings me up. It seems to please him when the total goes to thirty-nine instead. “Plus tax that’ll be forty-one forty-three.”
I’m about to tell him to take back the malt balls when someone slaps down two more dollars. I shoot Tyler a grateful look. The old man straightens his back and quickly rings us up without another word. I take the change as Tyler picks up the four giant bags at his feet. He motions with his head for me to leave.
Frowning, I snag the candy and start for the door.
“I trust you won’t ever treat your customers that way again or I’ll buy this damn store just so I can fire you,” Tyler hisses at him.
I’ve never grinned so hard in my life.
He bought me a car. A car so expensive, they don’t put price tags on the front of them. A car so fancy I was afraid of ruining it just from looking at it. But it’s mine. Or at least, it will be when I turn eighteen. Another one of Tyler’s promises I have to believe in.
The car will be delivered in a week, they said, but it’s not like I know how to drive it anyway.
Details.
“Casey,” Tyler utters from the driver’s seat.
I turn my attention on him. His jaw ticks and his nostrils flare. He’s tense. Nervous even. That makes me nervous too. Especially now that we’ve turned off the main road and are traveling down a very dark, very windy, very tree-lined road.
“Yeah?”
He rubs the back of his neck before glancing at me. Pain flashes in his eyes. Not malice. It makes my heart hurt for him. “Torin may not like this. He’s used to his schedules and routine and…” he trails off and sighs. “But he needs this. Promise me you’ll stay. If anything becomes too much, come talk to me first before you do anything rash.”
Now it’s my turn to walk on pins and needles. My teeth chatter from anticipation, not from the cold. He turns up the heat to warm me up. The small act of kindness has me deflating all the anxiety out of me like a balloon.
“I promise.”
He smiles gratefully at me and we drive for a few more moments in silence. We turn a bend and I gape at the home before me. A mansion. It’s bigger and more expensive than any home I’ve seen on television or in real life.
“You live in a castle,” I shriek, my heart thundering against my rib cage. Well, most castles are made of stone but this one is made of wood. Still a castle.
He chuckles as he rounds the circular drive in front of his home. “Not exactly a castle, but it’s definitely home.” Once he parks, he shuts off the car and reaches into his jacket pocket. “Here. This is yours.”
I take the offered iPhone from his grip and stare at it. “What’s this?”
“It’s so I can get ahold of you at all times. It’s so…” He frowns. “I just need you to keep this on you and call or text me if I’m not home.”
My stomach clenches, the anxiety a scattering of bugs in the pit of my belly. “Okay.” I want to tell him he’s scaring me, but the words don’t come. I stare at him. His brows pinch together as he reaches forward to cover his hand over mine.
“This is going to work out. It has to.”
With those ominous words, he climbs out of the car. Soon, he’s on my side, opening the door for me. A tall, older gentleman appears at the top of the steps. He greets me with a nod and then heads to the trunk of the car.
“A butler. Fancy,” I mutter under my breath.
Tyler chuckles. “Don’t let Ronnie hear you call him that.”
“What’s his job title?”
“Estate hand.”
“That’s actually fancier than butler.”
My nerves have lessened as he leads me inside. The house is dark, but it’s warm. I can’t help but be thankful. Castles are known for being cold and no matter what Tyler says, this is a damn castle.
“It’s dark,” I observe as he leads me through a hallway into an open space where a fire is lit in the fireplace.
A gigantic family portrait hangs on the mantel and I recognize Tyler’s smile. In the picture, he’s little. Maybe seven or eight. His little brother can’t be any older than a year in the portrait. Everyone, aside from the baby, is smiling and happy. His father has his arm lovingly wrapped around his pretty wife and his other hand rests protectively on Tyler’s shoulder.
A family.
I wouldn’t know what that’s like.
Warm and happy. That’s what I imagine it would feel like.
One day, I’ll have one of my own.
“This house is old,” he tells me, his voice slightly strained. “It was custom-built for the previous owners.”
“Nice.”
He frowns as he regards me. “Casey, there are no windows.”