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Chapter Six

The Stories

Later after I had told Ian and Jeb what Wanderer told me Ian and I were talking. "What was life like?" He asked, "Before all this happened?"

I took a deep breath and began to tell the story, my story. "I grew up just outside of San Francisco," I told him, "My house was only a few blocks from the ocean. I could ride my bike to the local grocery store. When I was old enough I got a job there bagging groceries. It was nothing special but I loved it. It got me out of the house."

"Away from your dad," he said and I nodded.

"Life was okay until my mom died," I said, "My dad would get mad, slap me sometimes but nothing scary. Before she died he took it all out on her. Losing her was really, really hard."

Tears started to well up in my eyes. "What happened to her?" he asked, putting an arm around my shoulder.

"She had to leave him," I said, "She did the best thing she knew how to do."

"I'm so sorry Anya," he said, hugging me gently, "I'm so sorry."

"I was nine," I said, "I guess I fell through the cracks."

"I'm so glad you made it here," he told me.

"I am too," I said and I kissed him, "I wouldn't have met you if I didn't."

"I was a pretty typical teenager," I said, "I had a nice group of friends."

"What were they like?" he asked.

I laughed, "Oh we were the rebels. Every parent's worst nightmare."

He laughed too, "What made you a nightmare?"

"I drank, I smoked, I stayed out 'til all hours of the night, sometimes I wouldn't come home at all, but who could blame me for that. I got okay grades but never really spent time on schoolwork. Some friends were into drugs, more than just weed. Not me," I said, "I never touched a joint. But cigarettes were another story. I haven't smoked since the invasion. Man I'd give anything for just one."

"What did you do for fun?" he asked, "On weekends?"

"I worked a lot," I told him, "My friends could never understand why I did but I liked having something to do, someway to hold myself accountable. But when I wasn't working I would ride bikes around with my friends. We liked to try to sneak into tattoo parlors even though we were underage."

"You rebel," he teased me, "Did you ever get in?"

"Well," I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him, "You'll have to wait and see."

He kissed me back, "I'll look forward to that. What else did you do?"

"I loved to go shopping," I informed him, "I was a runner. Nothing professional, just long runs, me and the sidewalk."

"How fast were you?" he asked.

"I never cared," I said, "I just liked to move. What about you? What's your story?"

"My story?" he asked with a grin.

"Yeah," I said, "Your story. I know you have one."

"I was somewhat popular in high school," he told me, "Not really sporty but I had lots of friends. I was a "B" student, nothing amazing."

"What did you do for fun?" I asked him.

"I played guitar," he told me, "Speaking of which."

"I'm no good," I reminded him.

"Oh come on," he said, "Not this again."

"Every time you bring it up I'll remind you," I told him, "I'm really not any good."

"You're probably better than you think," he told me.

"There's no doubt about it," I said, "I'm just not musically talented."

"I bet you are," he said.

"I know I'm not," I said.

We both looked at each other and laughed and laughed. We both leaned in for a kiss at the same time. I really, really love Ian, I thought, he is so special and perfect. Suddenly he pulled away from the kiss and grinned, "If you think you're so bad than prove it."

"No!" I said, gently pushing him away.

"That's because you're better than you think," he said.

"I am so not good," I told me.

"You probably are good!" He exclaimed.

"Oh Ian," I said, "I love you."