“Sure.”
The way he says it grates. “I know you’re trying to imply something, so just spit it out.”
“Not convinced you want to leave her.”
“Please.” I chew a mouthful, then point my fork at him. “You take care of her more than I do. She’d probably end up starving in New York.”
“Naw. You’re more nurturing and caring than you give yourself credit for.”
“You’ve got it twisted. You’re the one who’s caring. And full of thoughtful surprises.” I lift my arm, the bracelet catching the candlelight.
He glances at it, the corners of his mouth curving. “It’s different with you.”
My pulse ticks up. “In what way?”
“In every way,” he says, holding my gaze, his look suddenly as soft as a whisper. “There’s always been this strong connection between us. It’s even stronger now, despite the years apart.”
Though he says it without any malice, the words still hit deep. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever done. Cutting you off like that. I know how much that would’ve crushed me if the roles were reversed. I’m sorry I was so selfish and immature.”
“We’re good, Lot.”
I shake my head. His father left before he was even born, and his mother got herself locked up. They abandoned him—and so did I. “I’d understand if you still resented me.”
“I don’t. Not anymore. I was mad as hell, hurt, until I heard your side of the story. I shut down when you said you were moving to New York because it was easier to pretend it didn’t matter. I didn’t want it to matter. It never occurred to me how that would affect you, because I was only thinking of myself. That was selfish too. I can’t pretend this time. Couldn’t, even if I tried. I know we’ll stay in touch, but…”
“It won’t be the same.”
“Yeah.” He nods.
We eat in silence, just the scrape of forks against plates filling the space. It’s not awkward, just pensive. The food’s incredible, and I don’t leave a drop. I’d lick up the sauce if it were socially acceptable.
Once the server clears the table, leaving our wineglasses, Dice picks up where we left off, as if the conversation’s been simmering in his head the whole meal.
“I don’t know if I ever really told you how much you gave me growing up.” His gaze lingers, like he’s flipping back through the old reel of us. “You let me share your tent. Never made it a thing. You just… let me have the quiet place I needed.”
My mind drifts back, too. Fights with my father. Needing somewhere to breathe. Always feeling that sense of peace when I crawled inside and saw him there cross-legged on that ratty sleeping bag, reading comics byflashlight.
“It was the same for me. Just your presence was enough to… ground me.”
Sometimes I ranted about Maurice. Other times I was too mad to speak. But Dice never talked about what he was running from. Still doesn’t. He keeps it all locked inside.
I didn’t ever push. Maybe I should’ve. Now, with our defenses low from the wine and the reflective mood between us, this might be the time. “I know things were rough at home,” I say. “I’m not tryna pry or unearth shit… but I just wondered if you wanted to talk about it.”
His jaw tenses as his eyes darken. It’s like watching shutters slam down behind his face. A self-made shield. A reflex I know too well.
“Why are you asking now?”
“I guess because I still don’t know this part of you. And I want to.”
“You might not like the answers.”
The warning knots something in my chest, but I don’t retreat. “You agreed to trust me the other night,” I remind him. “I hope that goes beyond just the bedroom.”
He pauses, and I begin to think he isn’t going to tell me. After a hard swallow, like the truth is stuck there, he hesitantly starts talking.
“She pulled me into her scams.”
Maurice always suspected as much, but hearing Dice admit it turns my stomach. I feel sick watching the shame roll off him in thick, bitter waves. He won’t even look at me. Just stares down at the white linen tablecloth.
