It Starts with Us by Colleen Hoover

There’s still a youthfulness to the fear in his eyes. When I start walking
toward him, he backs up a step, looking around for a quick escape. But he
doesn’t attempt to run.
I’m sure he’s curious about what’s going to happen. Isn’t this why he’s
been showing up here night after night?
I hold out my hand for the can of spray paint. He hesitates, but then hands
it to me. I demonstrate how to hold it the proper way. “If you do it like this, it
won’t drip. You hold it too close.”
Every emotion is running across his face as he studies me, from anger to
fascination to betrayal. The two of us are quiet as we take in just how much
we look alike. We both took after our mother. Same jawline, same light eyes,
same mouths, down to the unintentional frown. It’s a lot for me to take in.
I’ve been resigned to the idea that I had no family, yet here he is in the flesh.
It makes me wonder what he’s feeling while he looks back at me. Anger,
obviously. Disappointment.
I lean a shoulder against the building, looking down at him with complete
transparency. “I didn’t know you existed, Josh. Not until a few hours ago.”
The kid shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and looks at his
feet. “Bullshit,” he mutters.
The hardness in him at such a young age makes me sad. I ignore the anger
in his response and pull my keys out to unlock the back door to the
restaurant. “You hungry?” I hold the door open for him.
He looks like he wants to run, but after a moment of indecision, he ducks
his head and walks inside.
I flip on the lights and make my way into the kitchen. I grab the
ingredients to make him a grilled cheese and I start cooking while he walks
around slowly, taking everything in. He touches things, opens drawers,
cabinets. Maybe he’s taking inventory for the next time he decides to break
in. Or maybe his curiosity is a cover for his fear.
I’m plating his food when he finally speaks up. “How do you know who I
am if you didn’t know I existed?”
This feels like it could lead to a lengthy conversation, and I’d rather have
it while he’s more comfortable. There isn’t a table back here with seating, so
I motion toward the doors that lead into the dining room. There’s enough
light from the exit signs that I don’t have to power up the dining room lights.
“Sit here.” I point to table eight and he takes a seat in the exact spot our
mother sat in earlier tonight. He starts eating as soon as I set his food down.