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weather and the feeling of his hand in mine.
    We walked through the grass to the edge of the water and Wyatt sat down, pulling me down next to him.  I could tell something was on his mind.  The tension was radiating from him, but he remained silent, just looking out over the water.  I was suddenly feeling nervous and couldn’t think of a single thing to talk about.  I was almost ready to resort to talking about the weather and was wringing my hands nervously in my lap when Wyatt gently wrapped his fingers around my left wrist.  I was sure he could feel my pulse race at his touch.
    “ You have a tattoo,” he stated looking up at me.  “What does it mean?”
    “Why do you think it means something?” I evaded his question with a question.  He raised an eyebrow at me, “Taryn, you’re not the kind of girl to get a meaningless tattoo.”  I exhaled, “You know me too well, Wyatt.”  He grinned at me, the intense mood lightened. “The tattoo…” he prompted.  So much for lightening the mood – my story is going to be a real downer.  But he asked and for the first time ever I actually wanted to tell someone.  His thumb was still lightly rubbing my wrist and I moved my hand so I could lace our fingers together.
    “Well, it’s obviously a cross.  And I got it when I turned eighteen as a reminder to thank God every day for my parents and for how my life has turned out.”  I raised my eyes to his, and he remained silent, not pushing me, but the warmth in his eyes gave me the courage to continue.
    “I mentioned I was adopted before, but what I didn’t say was that my parents adopted me when I was nine years old.  I don’t remember much from the first five years of my life – just flashes, sometimes dreams, but I don’t even know if they are real memories or not.  When I was five years old I was abandoned at a hospital in Brooklyn – by my mother.  At least that’s what I told the nurse who found me, but I don’t remember it now.  I spent the next two years moving around to several different foster homes, never staying for more than a few months at a time.  When I was seven years old I was placed in the foster home I stayed in until I was adopted.  Janine was my foster mother – I use the term mother loosly – she wasn’t necessarily mean, but I mostly had to fend for myself.  She worked nights and slept during the day.  When she would leave for work she would lock me in my bedroom in the dark.”
    I was talking so quietly now, almost whispering, that I wasn’t sure he could hear me.  He squeezed my hand and pulled me closer so I was leaning with my back against his chest.  I felt him rest his cheek on top of my head.  I took a deep breath and went on.
    “My dad was running for his first Senate term and he and my mom were on a campaign visit to a children’s home.  I happened to be there that day for a session with my social worker – I don’t like to think about what if I wasn’t there that day.”  He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and wrapped his arms around me.  “My dad says that the moment he saw me he knew I was their daughter.  My mom wasn’t able to have kids, and she wanted them so badly.  They had considered adoption before but it just never seemed like the right time.  She says I saved them as much as they saved me….So, I got the tattoo so I would never forget or take anything for granted.” I choked out a laugh, “Not that I could forget….I still can’t sleep without a nightlight.”
    Wyatt hadn’t said a word through my whole story, and I was hoping I hadn’t scared him off.  I scooted forward and turned around so I could see his face.  As long as I live I will never forget the look on his face.  He wasn’t looking at me with pity like many of my parents’ friends had when I had first come to live with them.  Or with distaste like the socialite daughters of the aforementioned friends.  He was looking at me with awe.  His eyes were