Which she did. Definitely. But they were friends now, right? And a friend could ask certain questions.
Especially when those coals in her chest were aflame, and rage had darkened her vision. The thought of a parent—or anyone—abusing the man seated across from her…
If they ever showed up at Marysburg High, she’d eviscerate them. And laugh.
She imagined black could hide a lot of bloodstains.
Despite her anger, she kept her voice calm. Low. Steady. “If you’re willing to talk about it, I’d like to hear more about that personal experience.”
His gaze focused on a point in the distance. She swiveled to see what had drawn his attention, but there was nothing there.
She turned back and waited, unsure which answer she really wanted from him.
After a long moment, he met her eyes again. “Sure. I’ll tell you.”
* * *
Men don’twhimper about their fucking feelings, pansy boy.
But Martin’s father had been wrong about that, as he was about so much else.
Swallow enough hurt in silence, and the pain either chokes you or curdles into gut-deep rage.
His dad’s version of manhood would destroy you one way or the other. Which Martin, after so many years of mute suffering, had eventually realized. In the end, he’d drawn out most of the poison through talk therapy. Through acknowledgment of his emotions. Through vulnerability, rather than a pretense of strength.
His father’s voice became his college counselor’s.Vulnerabilityisstrength, Martin.
He believed it. He could only hope Rose did too. At least when it came to others.
Her eyes were sharp on him, but not cold. Not judgmental.
So he pulled in a breath and told her…not everything. But enough for now. “My father had very specific ideas about how boys should act and think and be. About how his sons in particular should act and think and be.”
She’d laced her fingers together on the table in front of her, but not in a relaxed way. As if she were holding them back from doing something infinitely more destructive.
But her voice was soft and sweet as whipped cream. “Such as?”
“They should be good at sports. They should shout over other people. Make a mess. They should have lots of equally loud and messy friends. They should get laid early and often. Tell bitches to shut up and fuck off if they got too bossy or clingy.” He sighed. “His words. Not mine.”
“I know.” Her fingers had turned bone-white in her own grip. “Go on.”
“Boys shouldn’t care much about school or grades, or anyone else’s feelings. Shouldn’t like keeping their mom company as she cooked. Shouldn’t join Model UN. Shouldn’t cry if they got hurt or try to disappear during an argument.” He tried on a smile. It didn’t quite fit. “Basically, they shouldn’t be me.”
“That sounds…” Something popped in the vicinity of her jaw. “That sounds really painful.”
“My older brother took after our father. Things could get”—he chose and discarded various adjectives—“interesting.”
She enunciated the quiet words one by one, each seemingly an effort. “Byinteresting, do you meanviolent?”
“Sometimes.”
But his father and Kurt hadn’t required spatulas or fists to inflict pain. Their scorn for him, for everything he said and did and was, hurt worse than a few bruises.
Her nostrils had flared wide open, but the warmth in her gaze could have dissolved sugar into syrup. “Where was your mother in all this?”
At the stove, carefully not watching what happened around her. Retreating to her bedroom immediately after she’d cleaned up the remnants of their dinner, while the men watched sports and got mean. “Doing her best to stay out of the way. The same as me.”
“The difference is—” She cleared her throat, the noise harsh. “The difference is that she was an adult, while you were a child. Her child.”
