"From what I know, my mom had me as a teen. Left home. Died in a car accident when I was a toddler. No one claimed me, so I went into the system."
"Logan." She breathes out my name like her heart is breaking for me, but of all the things I'd love her to feel, sympathy is at the bottom of the list.
"It was a long time ago."
"You've never tried to find any of them?"
"No."
"You're not curious?"
"I'm famous enough now that, if they wanted to know me, they'd reach out."
"You can't know that."
"I can. As soon as I signed my big fat WHL contract, the tabloids were all over my 온라인카지노게임. My fucking first foster family still had things I arrived with after my mom died. Instead of reaching out to me, they sold my shit to the press. My hi온라인카지노게임. My only connection to my mother." I hate how angry and distraught I still sound about the way that all went down. 
When I was moved from the first foster home, everything that was mine should have gone with me. In any other circumstance, I'd tell whoever I was talking to that I was over the betrayal. Deep down, I know that isn't accurate, but this conversation with Sawyer is driving that truth home.
"That's awful." Her hand is on my leg, and then she secures her fingers with mine. Her skin is soft. "Did you ever get any of it back?"
"Had my agent call the tabloid and offer to buy everything. Some of it was junk, but that quilt in my spare room—the one you slept under—my mom made that."
She gets off the couch and keeps our hands locked, tugging me toward the room again. We stand in the doorway and then she draws me over to the bed, running her hand along the multi-colored fabric. 
"She worked at a craft store," I say. "Made this from odds and ends, I guess. She was killed driving home from work."
"And where were you?"
"At the elderly neighbor's in the apartment complex. I got hold of the police report. She watched me, so my mom could keep the rent paid, food on the table. Mom had a diary, too. I read a few pages when I first got it, but..." 
I let go of Sawyer's hand and tug open the drawer to one of the nightstands, drawing out the book, flipping the pages of neat handwriting without reading anything. When I left California to come here, I kept my apartment mostly as it was, but I couldn't leave my mom's things behind again. 
"Too hard to read, I guess." My voice is gruff with the emotion I'm working hard to keep in check. 
"Have you ever tried to find the neighbor?"
"No," I admit.
"You don't think it might help? To talk to someone who knew her?"
"She might not even be alive."
"Or your extended family?"
"If they wanted to know me, they would."
"Because you're hockey-famous?"
"Yeah. I'm not invisible."
"But they'd have to follow hockey to know about you, Logan. Right? You're not the Dennis Rodman of hockey, going to Hollywood parties, walking red carpets, putting yourself out there. You play the game, and you go home. The most low-key form of famous."
She's come to stand beside me, and I catch another whiff of her perfume. It's a stupid time to think about it, but the desire to slide my hands into her hair, kiss her, and forget this conversation rises up so strongly that I clench and unclench my hand to keep myself in check. I want to drown in her. Sink so far under that every time I inhale, all I breathe in is her. 
"I just don't see the point," I say, struggling to keep focused on the conversation.
"I don't think you'll know if there's a point until you try. With all these ancestry databases now-a-days, you probably wouldn't even have to work that hard to find someone related to you."
I tug open the drawer and put the diary back inside. It's possible there are family clues in the diary, but I can't stomach reading it. It feels like an unnecessary invasion of my mom's privacy. Having it makes me feel connected to her, reading it drives home the realization that I don't remember her at all. 
"Movie time," I say, taking Sawyer's hand and drawing her back into the living room where I've already cued up the film on the television. 
"Maybe we should talk about this more," she says as I tug her down into the couch beside me.
"We really shouldn't." I pour her a glass of water, rip open the bag of peanut M&Ms, and pass her both before plopping my feet onto the top of the coffee table. I hit play and focus on the TV. "This isn't a date, remember?"
"Would Chayton just let you pretend like what you said didn't matter?" 
The opening of the movie is playing, but I'm not really seeing any of it.
"Act as if what you told me wasn't a big deal?" she prods.
"He'd know it was a huge deal. The biggest deal. Which is why he'd let me drop it."
When I finally look at her, I realize she's set the bag of chocolate and the drink back on the table. Her palm finds my cheek, and her thumb smooths the scruff of my beard. 
"It all makes so much sense to me," she says, as though I should understand what didn't make sense before.
"Doc, I'm really approaching my "fuck it" moment here. If you keep acting like this is a date, I'm going to treat it like it's a date."
"What does that mean?"
"You keep touching me. You wore makeup. You're encouraging me to share traumatic personal stories. All of it makes me want to kiss you so fucking bad that it's painful. But more than that—and I can't even believe it's possible to say I want something more than that—I want you to want it too. I don't ever want to put you in a position where what I want is more important than what you want. You told me you don't want this, but it feels like you do. If I'm reading that wrong, tell me."
The movie is playing, but neither of us is watching it. She's searching my expression like I hold all the answers, and I really wish I did. But I don't know what she needs to hear, what she needs me to say that'll tip the scales. 
"If we were to do this," she says, "we'd need really strict, firm, ground rules."
Okay, what do you think her rules will be? And do you think he'll agree?
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