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person. He wouldn’t be there for me when all the stones fell.
    The room grew quiet except for the sizzle of chicken in the frying in the pan. When I finally got the courage to lift my head, our eyes met. In his eyes, I saw pain mirroring my own. Then, just like that, the invisible wall that separated us fell in place once again as he turned his attention back to the stove. For the remainder of the time, I stood there silently, afraid talking or asking questions would be overstepping some sort of unseen boundary.
    He pulled out some plates and situated them on the counter, gesturing for me to make my own plate. My feet refused to move as I questioned the possibility that this could be a trap. It had been forever since I had been allowed to get my own food. I stared at Jared, trying to figure out what it was he was thinking as his facial expression reflected mine.
    “Are you hungry?” he questioned. I nodded my head yes, causing a flurry of hair to shift forward. Why was I feeling shy like he could see right through me? At first, things felt casual, but now they felt heated—as if someone had taken a blowtorch to the two of us.
    “Then get some food because I don’t know if you know this or not, but in America, we men like to eat.” His remark wasn’t meant to be hateful or mean, but I couldn’t help the jab that I felt to heart because of his words. I wasn’t American. Technically, at least not fully. My father was an American on vacation in Russia when he met my mother who was a native of our country.
    A tinge of pain formed in my chest. I missed my parents—my family. Even if it was their fault, I was in this situation. To me, the love you had for those who created you would never go away, the void of losing them would never be filled. No one could love you as unconditionally as a parent could. I liked to think my mother still loved me and that she realized the choice she made was wrong. I knew when she sold me, it was because our family needed the money. I had brothers and sisters who still needed to be taken care of. Being the oldest put the responsibility in my hands.
    “Right.” I stepped forward, unsteadily. I was a bundle of nerves, still unsure of how to handle all the open space and other options. I reached for the plate, gripping it like a lifeline as I placed some salad, chicken with white sauce, and noodles onto it. Grabbing my silverware, I headed for the table. There was a pitcher of water and two glasses sitting on it already. I poured myself one and then Jared one, setting his glass near the chair he had sat in the last three nights.
    We both took our seats, cleaning our plates in a matter of minutes. A full belly was foreign to me as was getting my own portion of food. To me, it was a treasure that never seemed to last long enough.
    “What was it like?” he asked out of the blue as I got up to place my plate in the sink.
    “What was what like?” I countered turning around, my eyes meeting his.
    He looked at me with a dumbfounded expression before answering. “When you were being held hostage, what was it like?” I gripped the counter wondering why he would even care to know, let alone ask. My body felt as if it was stripped bare. His eyes seemed to see deep inside my soul—to my fears and sadness.
    “Why do you want to know?” I narrowed my eyes for the first time ever at him. I had a fire burning inside of me. No one asked questions like that. He got up, shoving himself away from the table and crossing the room with his glass of water in hand. His grip was tight matching the same tension in his jaw and I understood it, the feeling as if you were being pulled tight.
    “Because looking at me as you were earlier is a good way to find yourself back in a situation you don’t want to be in. I’m not a good man. I’ve told you that. Don’t look at me as if you want something when your mind isn’t even in the right place. I’m strong, but I’m not a saint. Remember that the next time