Coy. There’s a word I haven’t ever heard in real life. “Sorry. Okay. Do you still cut yourself?”
“No. Not at the moment. I’d imagine it’s like your drinking—a security blanket when I forget any other ways of coping with life. Most of those marks are years old, but I can’t promise I’ll never make any new ones.”
It makes more sense than I want it to. I take Ludo’s arm again and examine a particularly grisly scar on the underside of his bicep. I rub my thumb over it, as though I can push it back inside him and spare him the pain, but of course I can’t. I can’t do anything but wish life had been easier for him. For both of us so we weren’t huddled in his kitchen on this balmy evening, trying desperately to understand each other.
I let his arm drop. I want to know where else he has scars, but in this moment, I vow that I’ll never ask. That anything he shares with me is because hewantsto, not because I’ve backed him into a corner and taken whatIneed. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because life is shit and you deserve better.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Convince me you don’t.”
“Works both ways.”
“Does it?”
Ludo shrugs. “I think so.”
It’s enough... for now. And I know it’s time to go. I nudge our shoulders together. “I should get home.”
“Got someone waiting for you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re not enjoying your own company as much as you thought you would.”
“Psychic bastard.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
I laugh. Ludo does too, and it wakes his dog who’s been sleeping by the back door. She gets up and pads over to us, shouldering her way between us. I take it as my final cue and back off.
It takes me a minute to get my bearings and find the front door. Ludo follows me to the hallway. “Have you got far to go?”
I don’t want to think about how long it will take me to get home. I grunt, non-committal and vague, my very best qualities. “I’ll be okay. Thanks for the food. It was great.”
“Uh-huh.”
Ludo doesn’t sound convinced, so I turn to face him. He’s leaning on the doorframe, a worried frown marring his face.
“Itwas. Whatever your fretting about, forget it.”
“How do you know I’m fretting?”
“Intuition.” I turn back to the door and open it. I have one foot outside when Ludo calls my name. “What?”
“Just so you know,” he says. “I’ve never cooked for anyone, and I hate having people in my house.”
“What’s different about me?”
He smiles, just a little. “Everything.”
Thirteen
Ludo
