A/N: this chapter picks up right where the last one left off, so go back and re-read if you don't remember and it'll confuse you =D

"What?" My voice cracks with surprise. What was supposed to come out as a shout exits my mouth as more of a throaty whisper.

"I'm adopted." Mark looks sullenly down at the photo and stares intently.

I don't know what to say to him. How could I not have known? "Why didn't you tell me?" I silently tread over to the bed and move some papers in order to sit across from him.

He gives me a half shrug with his left shoulder and responds nonchalantly. "I've never told anyone."

"No one?"

He shakes his head slowly, still keeping his eyes downcast at the portrait. "Never."

"Oh my God...Mark...I'm so sorry." I'm still in shock, and I'm sure my face shows it. I don't know how to react. I want to be angry that he never told me, but on the other hand, he's never told anyone. This has to be hard for him.

He finally lifts his head, allowing our eyes to meet. "There's nothing to be sorry about, it's not your fault." His voice is so...flat, emotionless. He sounds as if he's become completely numb to the topic.

"I know. I don't know what to say. Can we talk about this?"

He shrugs again. "I guess. What do you want to know?"

I try to restrain my curiosity, but can't help wanting to know everything. "When? Why haven't you told anyone? Why haven't you told me?"

He pauses and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and locking his fingers. He sits like that whenever he's sad, or nervous, or scared. "I guess I should start from the beginning..."

I nod supportively, moving closer to him and warming his grasped hands with my own. "Before you start...Mark?"

He looks to me naively. "Yea?"

"I'm here." I squeeze his hands lightly. "I'm right here."

He nods and gives me a scaled down version of his adorable, lopsided smile. "They adopted me when I was six...they thought-"

"Wait, six years old? Where were you before that?"

He looks down at our hands, as mine rub his soothingly. "Lots of places. I was born somewhere in New Jersey. I went from foster home to foster home till I was six." He shrugs. "Probably like three in total."

I watch his face as he tells me everything. He speaks with almost no emotion, as if it's a story about someone else. Instead of breaking down and crying and venting, as I had expected, he talks flatly, recounting everything as completely factual as he can.

"After six years, I ended up in Scarsdale. My-" He pauses and looks behind me before continuing. "My mom didn't think she could have kids so...that's where I came in. That same year, she found out she could, and had Cindy. It happens a lot I guess, some psychological thing."

I'm speechless. This is Mark. My best friend of five years. The man I've fallen in love with. I feel like I don't know anything about him.

He slips his hands out from under mine and pulls on his sleeves, hiding them. I can see his fingers playing with the cloth from underneath. I don't know what to do with my empty hands, and resort to running my fingers through my hair, and resting them under my chin. He concentrates on his covered hands and bites his lower lip.

"Mark I'm so sorry...I feel like I don't know you."

"I'm the same person, nothing's changed."

"I know but...how could I not have known?"

"I've never told anyone. I'm only telling you because...you're the first person I want-" He takes a deep breath. "I want you to know me."

I watch his eyes dart around the room, desperately avoiding my gaze. I scan his face thoroughly, searching for any hint of sorrow. Instead of the teary eyes I'm expecting, a shielded face with the lightest tinge of hurt stares back at me.

"Why did you think you had to hide it from everyone?"

"I didn't think I had to. I wanted to."

I shake my head, confused. "Why?"

"How would that reflect on me? My birth parents didn't want me, no one else wanted me for the next six years, my—the Cohens only took me because they felt bad. Add that to the rejections of Cindy, Maureen, and production studios? That's all I need, a better track record."

He speaks quickly, but his voice still remains emotionless, numb.

"First of all, there are plenty of reasons people give up their babies. It had nothing to do with you. Second, who ever said your paren—the Cohens—only took you in because they felt bad? That's ridiculous! What would make you-"

"My father."

I stop sharply. "What?"

"He told me that...the truth...every time we fought. Every time I told him he wasn't my real father, he'd kindly explain he never even wanted to be my adopted father. He'd tell me he never wanted anything to do with me, that it was my mother's idea and he just went along with it."

"Mark, he was mad...people say things-"

"Not like this. Nothing gets you mad enough to denounce loving your own child, adopted or biological. Nothing makes you say that, unless it's true."

I'm completely speechless. The unavoidable truth of his statement drills into my brain. He's opens his mouth and closes it just as quickly a couple times before speaking again.

"You know, he never hit me. Not like everyone thinks. I'm not that weak. I don't take that type of shit. He did hit me, once. I remember, I told him I was glad he wasn't my real father, 'cause I didn't have his genes, then I told him I pitied Cindy because she was his. He hit me as soon as I mentioned her name."

I just sit and stare. I'm entranced by him, his ability to tell a story, and the obvious effect this has had on him. "I was seventeen. That night, I was on a train for the city."

This all started with Mark telling me softly what happened to him. It's escalated into twenty years of frustration and betrayal and hurt, finally pushing it's way out of him, turning into words that begin to spew faster and more emotionally as he continues...seemingly talking to himself.

"I couldn't mention her without getting yelled at. God forbid I did better than her at anything. They wouldn't admit it. Even my mom would twist things around until Cindy was right, or better, or perfect. God, she was perfect. She still is perfect. Married, at twenty, to the football stud. I mean hell, she's got kids. Twins. How cute."

Bitter thoughts are soon replaced by an explanation. I never have understood just how his mind works. "Oh and that name thing? On the papers? I was so firm in the belief that I would always be a Jameson. That's how I was born, and that's how I was gonna stay. All of first grade, I refused to write Cohen. That wasn't me. That was them. After plenty of visits to the school psychologist, I think I gave up on that. I was a Cohen. I should have been proud. That's what my dad told me. 'Cohen's are strong. Cohen's don't give up. Cohen's try their hardest. Cohen's succeed.' So I took the name, but by those statutes, I'm still a Jameson a hundred percent. Giving up on anything and everything."

During his rant, Mark has gotten up and begun pacing the room in front of me. I wonder if he notices I'm still here. But I think this is good for him. For twenty years he's hidden who he is, how he feels about this life- altering situation. Maybe this will help him clear up some issues.

Mark continues stalking back and forth as it hits me. All this time I've wondered why he seems so detached, lonely, unwanted. This makes sense. He was rejected, ignored, and pitied, all within the first six years of his life. Everything comes together with one big click in my head. Shit, they fucked him up good.

Almost five minutes later, he emits an exhausted sigh and plops back on the bed, leaning his head on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry for going off like this...I've just never verbalized any of it..."

"Believe me, it's ok. I'm glad I know how you feel...I'm glad you could let it out."

I feel him nod. "Me too."

We sit in silence for a while, leaving me to think of all the ways this changes him...us. Suddenly, an argument we had only two weeks ago echoes in my head.

'You wouldn't know what being unwanted IS Mark, so stop telling me how I feel. You grew up in some big house with your perfect parents and your perfect sister and your perfect life. Stop acting like some neglected little ORPHAN! You don't know how fucking good you had it.'

"Mark, all those times I said things-"

His emotionless state returns to him as the anger slips away and the sorrow resumes control. "You couldn't have known. You assumed. It's all you had, all anyone had. It's not your fault."

I'm not going to fight him on this. It's taken so much strength just to tell me, I'm not going to make him delve back into his past.

"You ok?"

"Yea...I'm alright. Can I just, be alone for a little while?"

"Of course." I kiss him gently before walking out and softly shutting the door. I sigh deeply and run my fingers through my hair. I slowly stroll over to sit on the floor next to the window, so I can smoke and without polluting the rest of the loft. I know how much it agitates Mark. I light a cigarette and eventually make my way out to the fire escape. I'm left alone with the brisk air, a thin stream of smoke, and the knowledge that my best friend kept a secret from me for five years. He also just told me. The first person he's ever told. I finish my cigarette, staying in the cool air for another minute before climbing back into the loft. Mark's going to need some time to deal with this, so I knock softly on his door and crack it open.

"Hey Mark?" I call softly through the small opening in the doorway.

He turns quickly from the bed, and I see him try to discreetly wipe his eye. He's not wearing his glasses. "Yea?"

"I'm gonna go do some errands, I'll be back in a little while, k?"

"Ok. I'll see ya."

"You need anything?"

"No I'm fine."

"K, later." I shut the door lightly and check to make sure my wallet's in my pocket, grabbing my jacket on the way out of the loft.