He didn’t answer right away, his hand tightening slightly on mine. Finally, he said, “I didn’t have what you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“My parents…they were never demonstrative or affectionate. I know they loved me but in a distant way. They were the same with each other. They were a team, but also living their own lives. They never held hands when riding together in the car or cuddled on the couch to watch television. It just wasn’t a part of who they were.”
Jordan’s reserve, his shield, suddenly made more sense. It wasn’t a defense mechanism, but what he knew.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
Jordan shrugged one shoulder. “Aunt Joyce gave me plenty of affection when she saw me. She’s nothing like my father in personality, even though they looked a great deal alike. She’s affectionate, exuberant, and fun. I used to love it when she would visit us in the summer or when we would come here for Christmas or winter break.”
I squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you had that.”
“Me too,” he replied. “Me too.”
Even after his explanation, my heart still hurt for him. Not only had he lost his parents, he’d never had much of them to begin with. I wondered if his childhood was when he learned to mask his emotions so completely, if his aloof demeanor was his way of trying to win his parents’ approval.
We were both silent the rest of the way back to my townhouse, our clasped hands resting on my thigh the entire time.
