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“Like you stood up to your dad?”
He let go of her and rolled onto his back again. “My dad’s a dick. He treats everyone like a doormat, whether they’re nice or not.”
“I’m sorry you had to grow up that way.”
His expression turned stony as he stared at the ceiling. “Let’s talk about something else.”
It hurt to see him all twisted up in knots because of his father. She wanted to make it better. To know him, so she could help him. “Where does your mom stand on all this?”
“She doesn’t. She does whatever my dad expects her to do.” He was starting to sound annoyed, so she tried another tack.
“Was there something different you would have wanted to do? If your dad hadn’t pressured you to become a doctor.”
“I never thought about it.”
“You must have. Come on.” She reached out to pinch his nonexistent love handles. “What did little Caleb want to be when he grew up?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” he snapped, loud enough to make her jerk her hand back.
“Sorry.” George had warned her it was a sore subject; she should have believed him.
Caleb rolled toward her and gathered her up in his arms. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He kissed her forehead, cradling her against his chest. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
She blinked away tears. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I just don’t like talking about my dad.”
“I’m sorry.” She’d just thought if she could get him to talk about it, he might feel better. Clearly, that was a mistake.
“Stop apologizing when I’m the one who acted like a jerk.”
“You’re allowed to not want to talk about things. It’s not like we’re in a relationship. We don’t have to share everything with each other.”
She felt him go rigid. “Right,” he said, letting go of her.
“Did I say something wrong again?” He’d gone back to staring at the ceiling.
“No. You’re right. We’re not in a relationship.”
“We can talk if you want to. I’m happy to listen if—”
“I said I don’t want to talk. Can we just drop it?”
“Okay.”
He sat up and reached for his clothes. “I should probably go. It’s getting late.”
It was only seven o’clock.
“Are you mad?” she asked, watching him get dressed.
“No.”
“You seem mad. Although it’s a little hard to tell, because you’re about as expressive as a wooden post. I can never figure out what’s going on inside your head.”
“You don’t want inside my head.”
“I’m just trying to get to know you.”
