Running Free by K Webster Page A

pressing that piece into the spot I know it belongs, I hold it for another time. A time when I have more clues. More facts. More explanation.
    But the piece most definitely fits.
    Scooping her into my arms, I tote the young girl out to the truck. Otis has followed in step behind me whereas Frankie stayed behind to finish up in the kitchen. Once I have her loaded in the car and the door shuts, I turn to look at the old man.
    “I’m not sure if you realize how lucky you are,” he says softly.
    I scrunch my brows together and smile. “She’s special, I know that much.”
    He lifts his chin and stares up at the sky, inhaling the crisp air. “You have no idea how special. And it will take a real man to love every unusual part of her. I need to know you’re not going to run at the first sign of something you don’t like.”
    His words confound me. “I’m not running,” I assure him.
    “Yet. But once she opens herself fully to you, I want you to remember this conversation. Remember this night. Understand that she’s deserving of love and a good life, no matter how different you are from one another.”
    “Otis, I promise you I’m not going anywhere. I know Frankie’s different and that’s what draws me to her. I don’t have any plans of letting her slip through my fingers.”
    He nods and without another word climbs into the truck. Once I can’t see the taillights to the truck anymore, I head back inside.
    I find her staring at a picture on the wall. Once I close and lock the door behind me, I stalk over to her and stand with my chest up against her back.
    “Who is she?”
    My eyes skim over the picture and I smile. Wide, brown eyes and a glowing smile. Wavy locks of auburn hair hanging down in front of her shoulders. The picture was taken for the yearbook at the school she taught at, the year before we found out she had cancer.
    “My mom. She passed away when I was seventeen.”
    She turns in my arms and locks her arms around my waist, her eyes devouring my face. “I’m so sorry.”
    I shrug it off and clear my throat. “I loved her so much. It was hard on me but no matter how difficult life got, my mom’s words and advice would always get me through it.”
    Tears well in her eyes and she furrows her brows. “What happened? Did you live with your dad?”
    Just thinking about the asshole who left us when I was only four without so much as a trace to his whereabouts has my blood boiling. He wasn’t there when I needed him most. He was never there. “Nope, and since we didn’t have any other willing or able family, I went into a foster home.”
    She blanches and her face grows hard. “Were they nice to you?”
    I think about the old lady who chain smoked and watched reruns of Jeopardy. Juanita Johnson. Her walls were yellow and dingy. She was practically a hoarder. And she most certainly wasn’t friendly. But she wasn’t abusive either.
    She used to send me on her cigarette runs since I looked older than my seventeen years of age. Not the best foster parent but I know there are worse out there.
    “Juanita was fine.”
    And she was…in comparison.
    “I remember a boy a few years younger than I was. He’d come to stay with us after his previous foster father was accused of sexual molestation. The boy kept to himself but I could see the pain bubbling just below the surface. That man had hurt him.”
    Tears roll down her cheeks as I continue.
    “Many times I’d tried to talk to him — to invite him to play baseball with some kids I’d met down the street. But he wasn’t interested. For eight months I attempted to get inside his head. I wanted to help him.”
    “Did you?”
    I shake my head. “Sadly, no. Before I knew it, I turned eighteen. I was released to my own devices. Lucky for me, I had some sense about me and enrolled in college. Pell grants made it possible for my education and I delivered pizzas to pay for a shitty apartment to survive while I went to school.”
    She looks down at her