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Chapter Four

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"My mom got pregnant when I was six," Justin begins, because that's where the story really starts. "They found out that she would be having a girl, and they were thrilled, because that's who they really wanted to begin with." He scans the table for signs of pity, and seeing none, sighs and returns to his story. "So my dad went all out, decorating a room for her, taking all my old toys and games and getting them ready for her, all that stuff. And my mom didn't leave her bed for the entire pregnancy except for… you know, the necessities."

"And then," he continues, "when she – Molly – was born, she had horrible birth defects. I mean discoloring, fur, and two fingers molded together. Nobody could figure out what went wrong, but the doctors said it was likely that she would die. And… she did. Within a month."

Emmett's eyes are wide as saucers. Brian looks mildly regretful that he asked for this story.

"So my dad," Justin continues, "started drinking. And after a few weeks of that, he was a completely different person. He would yell and curse and throw things. Got really violent. He talked about killing me and my mom, but mostly me. Said it was my fault, that everything else that happened during Mom's pregnancy was the same as when I was born except for the older sibling. Me. That Molly died because of me. And one day, Mom got home from work and saw Dad strangling me."

Justin's voice is still a deadpan. He stops for a moment, hoping that he will be asked to stop talking. He looks especially carefully at Brian, whose face betrays no emotion, but whose hands squeeze the side of the table. Brian's knuckles are whitening.

"So Mom tried to ignore it for a few days. Just let him hit me and stuff, figuring it would only get worse if she tried to talk to him about it. But then… one day, he broke my leg. Almost killed me. And that's when they put me in foster care."

The end. It is unspoken, but everybody knows that the story has come to a close. Or has it? Justin is clearly not going to say anything more, but of course there's more to the tale.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

Though the food has barely been touched, Debbie pushes her chair back and stands up. "Who wants dessert?" she asks.

And dessert is served.

Only Brian knows that there is more to the story than Justin has said. He eyes the boy skeptically.

"What?" Justin asks, nervous of the almost predatorial look in the man's eyes.

Brian looks away. "Nothing," he says.

---

After the meal ends, goodbyes are exchanged as though these people would never see one another again.

Gus totters over to Justin. "Miss you," he says, and Justin just stands there stroking the little boy's hair until Melanie and Lindsay come over to collect him.

"'Bye, Justin," Melanie says. "We'll take you up on your offer to babysit – at least, Hunter will make sure we do," she teases.

Lindsay kisses the boy's cheek. "Enjoy yourself," she tells him. "Here's our number, in case you need anything." She presses a piece of paper into the boy's hand. Justin just looks at her, his eyes wide, and accepts the paper.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

Next to come over to him are Debbie and Horvath. "'Bye, kid," Debbie says, ruffling Justin's hair. "You need anything, just come see me at the Liberty Diner on Liberty. Okay?"

Justin nods, but he knows he will never take her up on her offer, and maybe she does too.

When Debbie and Horvath leave, Ted and Blake walk by, but their lips are attached to one another's, so it's not like they say anything. And then Emmett approaches Justin.

"Hey, sweetie," he says, laying a hand on Justin's shoulder. "I'm gonna go now, and I just want you to know, if you ever need to talk, you can call me. I know you think you're never going to call me, and maybe you won't, but I want you to know it's an option. 'Kay?"

Just like with Debbie, Justin convinces himself that he never will do so. But he nods. "Okay."

And finally, Callie bids farewell to Hunter and brushes past Justin on her way out. Then, the only people left are Ben, Michael, Hunter, Justin… and Brian.

"Well, I'm off," Brian says loudly, gathering his things from the counter. "See you tomorrow, Mikey. Breakfast as usual?" At Michael's nod, Brian opens the front door. "'Bye, professor. Kiddies."

And he's gone.

Justin looks around the house. It's quiet now. He feels alone.

"Well, I guess we should show you your new room," Ben tells Justin, and hoists the boy's plastic bag of belongings into his arms. "This is really light," he remarks. "What do you have in here?"

The boy shrugs. "Clothes," he says. "And – and a sketchpad." He's nervous, shaking a little, like he's scared they're going to take it away from him.

Ben, to his credit, notices Justin's nervousness, and assuages the boy's fears. "Don't worry," he says. "You can keep that – we're not going to take it away from you."

Justin looks visibly relieved, but a hint of distrust still lurks in the corners of his eyes.

Nobody sees it, or if they do, nobody acknowledges it.

When Ben, Justin, Michael and Hunter arrive at the door to Hunter's room, Michael turns to his adoptive son and demands, "Did you clean up?"

Hunter smirks. "Yes, Dad," he sneers.

Ben opens the door.

The first thing Justin can think is that it's big. He knows it's not huge, as bedrooms go, but he's never had a room this big. Mostly he had closets or laundry rooms or doghouses to sleep in, but when he did have an actual bedroom – always one he would share with other kids – it was never this big.

And it's so personalized. Other rooms have been all white walls, bleak gray carpet or hardwood floors, the very personification of blankness. But this room has photographs – of Hunter and Ben and Michael, of Brian, of Lindsay and Melanie and Gus and his little sister, of Debbie and Horvath and Emmett and Blake and Ted.

And magazine posters of celebrities, male and female.

And Justin can't not notice the stack of porn underneath one of the beds, the unmade one.

On the other side of the room… it's blank. Blanker. The walls aren't painted the same vibrant scarlet as the other half of the room is. The bed has blue sheets and a blue comforter, but it says nothing about the person who sleeps in that bed. One could never tell if that person's actual favorite color was blue or not.

It suddenly occurs to Justin that this is his room.

His bed. His blue sheets and comforter and white walls.

His pillow.

He can't remember ever having a pillow like that before, all fluffed and comfortable and soft. He can't remember having anything like this before.

"This is my room?" he asks nervously.

Ben and Michael and Hunter all kind of nod, like they want him to figure it out himself and aren't quite sure whether Justin's question was meant to be answered or not.

"Okay."

And without another word, Justin strips down to his underwear and slips into bed. Michael, Ben, and Hunter look on in silence, and then Hunter follows suit.

Ben flicks off the lights.

"'Night, boys," Michael says.

"'Night," Ben repeats.

Hunter and Justin echo the sentiment as well, and before anything else can be said or done, Justin is fast asleep.