More Than I Could (40)

“Oh, I was talking shit. You just missed that part.”

He shakes his head and carries his plate to the table. I grab mine and follow him, sitting to his right. Instead of sitting, he goes to the refrigerator and brings back two water bottles.

“Thanks,” I say, taking one from him.

“What kind of shit were you talking?” he asks, dropping into the chair.

I sit back and yawn, stretching my arms overhead. “I was just telling her what a dick you are.”

“Oh.” He scoops a forkful of rice into his mouth. “That’s reasonable.”

“And how I think that your real problem is that you want to be my friend, and you’re mad that Gavin got to me first.”

“I got to you first. You met Gavin later.”

“Yeah, but Gavin established himself in my life well before you.”

He twists the top of his bottle, narrowing his eyes.

Something about that gives me immense pleasure.

“Speaking of the devil,” I say. “Does he come around here a lot? Or was me running into him a complete fluke?”

Chase takes a long drink. “I see him all the time. I helped him build that fence yesterday. He went fishing with us. I probably see him and Luke a few times a week.”

“Don’t you have another brother?”

“Yeah. Mallet.” He takes another bite. “He lives out West. He fights for a living, so we don’t see him much. He comes home now and then.”

“Oh.”

“What about you? Do you have siblings?”

I pull a leg up and wrap my arms around it. “Nope. It’s just me. Well, me and my mom. That’s the only family I have.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds … lonely, I guess.”

“It’s okay.” I shrug. “It’s probably better like that. Mom has quite the history of sordid love affairs.”

Chase grins. “Oh, really.”

“Not in a romance novel kind of way. In a she’s been married multiple times and none of them last more than two years kind of way. And I can’t think of one of them that I wish would walk back into her life, either. They wanted her to pet their ego, wash their laundry, or, in the case of Rick—they wanted her pain pills after she had back surgery. He was a fun one.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly.”

He makes a face like he’s thinking. “So no siblings, but no aunts, grandparents, or cousins either? No one at all?”

“My mom’s mom and dad died when she was twelve. Her mom didn’t have any family, and her dad’s family were all … They were found undesirable to raise a child. Let’s put it that way. So my mom floated between people until she was eighteen.”

Chase settles back in his chair, his food forgotten. His forehead wrinkles as he studies me.

I fidget with the hem of my tank top. His heavy curiosity has me fighting the urge to get up from the table. It would be easier to walk away from this conversation. After all, it’s what I do. But I can’t deny the desire to stay right where I am. For better or worse.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice lowered.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You look like you don’t know whether to crack a joke or run away.”

Impressive, sir. I shift in my seat. “I just get antsy when I talk about my family. That’s all.”

“Can I ask why?”

My anxiety gets the best of me, and I can’t take it any longer, so I get up. “Do you like talking about your family?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind.”

Good for you. I gather my plate, take it to the sink, and rinse it. Then I place it in the dishwasher.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay,” he says.

“No, it’s fine.” I brush a strand of hair out of my face. “I just …”

He stands and crosses the kitchen, stopping in front of me.

I haven’t seen this side of Chase yet. It’s softly curious. Kind. Concerned. It reminds me more of the way he is when his daughter is around—but now he’s this way with me.

A warmth floods my body, heating me from head to toe. He’s not rushing the conversation so we can get to the next part. It doesn’t feel like a box to be checked so we never have to discuss it again. That’s what it’s felt like every time I’ve had the courage to open up to a man about these things before. Instead, his patience is surprising. It throws me a bit, but his genuine interest in me, in my story, makes my heart swell.

“This isn’t a topic I love to talk about,” I say, my voice teetering.

“Then we won’t talk about it.”

I smile at him.

“But sometimes when we don’t love talking about things,” he says carefully, “it’s because we’ve never had the opportunity to do so safely. I’m just letting you know I’m willing to listen.”

My heart fills with gratitude, nearly overflowing with the wave of emotion.

I’m afraid talking about this with Chase will make me look silly. I am, after all, an adult, and the things that happened to me happened when I was a child. I should be over it by now. Why should their churlishness still bother me? Am I that weak that the nastiness spewed at me by ignorant children affected my psyche for decades?