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“I’m not one of those.”
Water starts to boil and he pours in the macaroni noodles. Then he leans against the countertop and looks at me. “Back in the day, before I was Reese Dalton, internationally famed hockey player, I was Reese Dalton, poor fuck from Beaumont. This boxed macaroni woulda been, like, a Christmas specialty. Ma would’ve dressed it up. Made it with milk instead of water, add real cheese instead of just the shit you get in the box—all the good stuff. There was one year she bought hot dogs and breadcrumbs to sprinkle on top and bake, like fancy mac. That was peak living, lemme tell ya.”
I’ve never heard Reese talk about his family like this before. I’ve never heard this tone of voice from him before, either. It’s easy. Unburdened. No trace of arrogance or snark, just… calm.
I want more of it.
“Hot dogs make everything fancier,” I say with a grin. “We did the same—beans and weenies though, not mac and cheese.”
His mouth flickers with a smile. It heats my chest and makes me giddy. “Ma always tried to make the best outta shit. Normally, even some boxed macaroni and cheese woulda been a stretch for us. After she…” He backs down, like he’s regretting saying anything. “Well, let’s just say my father didn’t feel like putting in the same minimal effort.”
Bitterness about Dad—I can understand that one, that’s for sure.
“He left?” I ask quietly.
Reese grimaces and turns his back. At first, I think that I asked the wrong question. Then I realize that he’s just busy mixing together the macaroni and cheese.
“Him leaving would have been a hell of a lot better than what he did,” he says softly. “Nah. Mom died. Even before that, my father liked his gin more than he liked being a family man, and he used his fists and his words to make sure we knew where we stood on the pecking order.”
I wish I hadn’t asked the question.
“Oh. Reese, I’m?—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.” He turns, getting bowls and utensils down. Then he piles a heaping helping into each one before he brings things over to where I’m sitting. “People always say they’re sorry, but it doesn’t change anything. Mom’s still dead. My father is still an alcoholic. And mac and cheese is still my favorite.”
It’s a soft, definitive end to a conversation that doesn’t feel like it went as deeply as it should have.
In all the things I’ve read about Reese, no one’s talked about his mother or his father. I haven’t seen a word about him coming from such intense poverty that boxed mac ‘n’ cheese was a delicacy, to living in a multimillion-dollar townhouse. Everything I see of Reese is just how much he likes to date and sleep around. That he likes to party. That he’s a fuckboy jock with a temper and an attitude.
But is that all he is?
I don’t ask.
We eat quietly. This is territory I didn’t expect to enter, not with Reese. I’m brimming with more questions. What was his mother like? Is his father still in the picture? Why does he never seem to talk about any of it in the press?
Should I bring up my own daddy issues? Empathize, because while my mother isn’t dead, I know how close we’re getting to that day?
I keep these questions and my curiosity bottled tightly until I finish my bowl. It’s just basic macaroni and cheese, but there’s something special in the fact that Reese shared his comfort food with me. I get up, ready to thank him after putting my bowl in the sink, when he grabs my wrist before I can leave.
“Wait.”
It’s a soft plea. Heat radiates from where he touches me. Breathing in, I bring my eyes up to look at him. The weariness from earlier has waned a little. It’s still there, but he seems calmer. Maybe the meal that reminded him of his mother is to thank for that.
“About the other night…”
Oh no. Here we go.
“I’m sorry,” he continues. “About all of it. How far I was taking it. You were there and I just ran with the situation when I knew I shouldn’t and couldn’t cross that kind of boundary.”
I stare at him. The apology wasn’t expected, to say the least. I start to reply when he barrels on, letting my wrist go.
“I’m not even attracted to you. So it was stupid.”
I’m not even attracted to you.
Rejection stings hot on my cheeks. I can’t even think of a rebuttal. How pathetic would it be, sitting here going, Yeah, ha, I’m not even attracted to you, either?
He said it first. Anything I say after just sounds like I’m trying to save face.
