He stared intentlyat the salad bowl he was scrubbing. “I know.”
“But you’re goingto do it anyway?”
“We all have ourdomestic talents, Molly. Washing dishes is mine.”
I laughed, thinkinghe was joking. “Why don’t I believe you?”
He turned his head,giving me the full force of all his broody intensity. “It’s true,” he insisted.“Killian always had to be the one to help make dinner. That left me on cleanupduty.”
The heaviness inhis statement surprised me. “I forget that you guys grew up together.”
He turned back tothe bowl. “Yep.”
I hadn’t meant tokill the conversation, but I was also curious to know more about his childhood.I knew he came from foster care. I knew his mom had died. I knew his dad haddied later. But those were random facts anyone could Google. I wanted to knowthe details, the specifics. I wanted to know so much more than the highlights.
But I didn’t knowhow to ask those questions, so instead, I said, “It’s cool you guys are stillfriends. Vera and I grew up together too. I can’t even imagine what my lifewould look like without her.”
“Yeah, I’m not sureI feel the same way about Killian.”
I laughed because Ihoped he was making a joke. He didn’t. We fell silent again. Realizing hewasn’t going to offer any information about his childhood, I decided to pry.“So what was it like growing up with Killian? Was he as scary back then as heis now?”
“Worse,” Ezragrunted. “He’s always been a cocky bastard, but back then he was always pickingfights and causing trouble. He hated everything and everyone. Even me. Maybeespecially me.”
“Why you?”
He shut off thewater and dried his hands on my kitchen towel. Settling back against thecounter after he set the towel down, he crossed his arms over his chest anddropped his voice reverently. “Because I had known my mom. He hated that I’dgotten to live so much of my life with a parent. But he had no idea. I stillthink he’s clueless. He lost his parents, but he didn’t lose them, you know?Not like I did.”
“What do you mean?”
My chest pinched atthe desolate look in his expression. I immediately wanted to throw my armsaround him and tell him it was going to be okay.
“My mom and I wereclose,” Ezra explained. “Losing her… losing her was like losing everything.”His gaze met mine. He tapped his chest with a flattened palm. “It still hurts.After all these years, I still feel it here as sharply as I did the day ithappened.”
I licked dry lipsand tried to swallow past the lump in my chest. “How did she die?”
“Breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry, Ezra.I’m so sorry.”
He reached out andlinked our hands. I hadn’t been expecting him to need comfort, but I wished I’dgiven it to him before he asked. His grief was so palpable, so real and heavythat I had been momentarily paralyzed by it, lost in the swirling emotions hedidn’t try to hide.
I squeezed hishands. “What was she like?”
“Kind,” he answeredwith a tender smile. “She was kind and thoughtful. We were very poor and whenshe got sick, things only got worse. But she always managed to take care of thepeople in our life that had less than we did. She always remembered birthdaysand holidays, and she reached out when people had a need. She had this beautythat everyone was attracted to. Not just outwardly, but her soul drew peoplein. And funny. She had the best sense of humor. Even at the end.”
“Your dad wasn’taround at all?”
Something harsh andunforgiving flashed in his expression, making me regret the question. “No, mydad didn’t show up until years later. Which I will always be grateful for.”There was a weighted pause and then he said so softly I almost didn’t hear him,“He didn’t deserve her.” He blinked, breaking out of a memory. “What about you?What are your parents like?”
It was all I coulddo not to pull my hands from his and curl into myself. There were only a fewtopics I liked less than my parents. But he had been so open and honest withme, it was only fair to return the favor. “They’re… difficult,” I admitted.“And really different.”
“What do you mean?”
Avoiding hisprobing gaze, I confessed, “My mom is a crazy workaholic that thinks everyone inthe world should work at least as hard as her. And my dad is… the opposite.” Ididn’t want to bring up my dad’s lack of job yet. Whenever I told people thatmy dad was out of work, they immediately started placing all of their judgmentson him. “He’s laid back,” I finally said.
“What do they do?”
Apparently, Iwasn’t going to be able to skirt around the conversation after all. “My mom runsan elementary school lunchroom. She’s in charge of the kitchen. And my dad iscurrently unemployed. He was recently let go.”
