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 easierto 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?
Apparently.
But as I watch him across from me and absorb the kindness and consideration he’s projecting, I don’t want to clam up and walk away. So I talk.
“Before we lived in Dallas, we lived in a tiny town in West Texas,” I say. “We moved from there when I was sixteen—partially because the kids were awful.”
“Makes sense. Kids can be cruel.”
“Yeah. They can.” I take a deep breath and try to harness the words and courage to keep going. With every second that passes, the more time I have to let the self-doubt slip in. “I don’t know … this feels so stupid.”
“That’s funny.”
I quirk a brow. “Funny? Why?”
