is. My last foster parents lived in a nothing special kind of house, three bedrooms that they’d subdivided into more space for kids. They weren’t bad people, don’t get me wrong, but I was fourteen, and they were religious to the point that they thanked God for everything. They thanked him for their house, and their lives, and for giving them the right to send me to my room hungry if I did anything that God wouldn’t like. That ranged from stealing a cookie to getting home late from school. The only thing they gave me was a love for baking, and I wish I didn’t have to say it, but I owe them in a way.” He stopped then and picked at a thread on his PJ bottoms.
“They taught you to bake?” That sounded okay, right? Any family who taught their kids the practicalities of life had to be good.
“No, I taught myself to bake. Every freaking week it was church bake sales for this, that, or the other. And when I made cakes and cookies, the congregation would say I was sent from God and truly blessed, but maybe for the rest of that day I wouldn’t get in trouble or sent to my room. Soon as I turned sixteen, I was out of there. Tracked down my mom who was living in this shit room in the middle of a heap of shit rooms. I slept on the sofa, and she spent most of the time in bed, on her own, drowning her sorrows with Jack and Jose, ruining her liver.”
“You don’t need to tell me all this—”
“I need to because I want more with you, and I want you to know what made me who I am, so you can understand—”
“You’re a good man—”
“You don’t know that.”
I tilted my chin in that stubborn way I had going for me. “Yes, I do.” I could feel something in him, a kindness that called to me. I’m losing my shit and getting poetic now.
“Whatever.” He waved his hand at me. “I just knew I wasn’t going to be stuck in that room. I had a phone, just this heap of shit that I found in the garbage one day. I saved up money washing dishes. I got it fixed. I sold it for profit. I kept looking for stuff to buy, fix, and sell, and I saved up more. I never took one cent of aid, and I scraped and fought my way out of that stupid crappy kitchen that had one burner and an oven that was only properly hot on one particular shelf.”
“See, a good man,” I began, but he shook his head.
“Listen to it all first.”
“I’m listening.”
His eyes took on a faraway expression, and he was still picking at the thread. “I began posting about my cakes, and I learned about tagging and following. I made cookies for a local bakery, said if they let me use their kitchen to make them, then I’d do it for free until they were happy enough to give me a cut. Then, when my mom died, I found out she owned that crappy room. Turned out she used to have a job in sales and everything. I don’t know what went wrong to make her give up, maybe she was cursed with her head like I am.”
His head. I’m guessing he meant his mental health, but now wasn’t the time to ask questions. I hoped that tonight wasn’t just a one-off, and that I could find out more about him, maybe take him home to the family so they could adopt him, and he could stay in my bed forever. Pipe dreams I know, but this attraction inside me wasn’t just for sex. It was a push to look after Justin, and for him to look out for me.
“Anyway, she died, and I stayed there, and I saved and saved until I could see money in the bank. I took some college courses, and at nineteen I was lucky enough to get noticed for my blogging and Instagram and got invited to be on the show. When I left that last foster home, I vowed I would have a bigger house than them without their God’s help, and I have that. I said I wanted more money than they ever had, and I do. I said I wanted a name, a reputation, and to be safe. I have all of that. But it’s nothing like your family.”
“Well, I