“She did her best to protect my younger sister, Mila.”
As far as he knew, no one in the family had heard from Mila for over a decade. Not even his mother. Last he’d heard, his sister was somewhere on the west coast, working in finance.
When Rose set down her mug, it clattered against the marble table. “But you didn’t need your mother’s protection. Because you were a boy.”
Enough. This recitation of his past didn’t hurt him, not anymore. But he was pretty certain she was about to grind a molar to dust.
She might bat him away, but…
He reached across the table and covered those twisting fingers with his palm. “Rose. It’s okay.”
Her gaze whipped to his, so full of anguish and rage his stomach twisted. “It’s not. It’s not okay. Not even a little bit.”
“It wasn’t.” One by one, he disentangled her fingers before she broke something. “But it is now. I haven’t seen my father or brother in over twenty years. I have an amazing daughter. I have a job I love. And if I need her again, I have a great therapist on call. Everything is fine.”
Rose made an odd sort of grunting sound, clearly unappeased, and he fought the sudden urge to laugh.
All that passion and compassion, all for him. Or at least, for the boy he’d once been.
And she was the villain in this story? Like hell. Black or no black, she was no evil queen. Much as she might like to pretend otherwise.
Muscle by muscle, her hands relaxed under his. “How long have you been divorced?”
“A couple of years.” He’d filed the papers after finding Sabrina’s damning texts, but the process took a while. “She got engaged a few months ago and moved to Marysburg. I didn’t want Bea to have to choose between us for her senior year, so I followed.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.
He could have sworn she was about to ask for more details, and he would have shared some. Although, in all honesty, that particular wound was much rawer than his childhood terrors, not to mention much more relevant to his brief but fraught history with Rose.
If his quest to breach her walls progressed much further, she’d need to know. But he didn’t think they’d reached that waypoint yet.
To his relief, she unzipped her purse instead of inquiring further.
“Need to leave a tip,” she muttered. “There’s a five somewhere in here.”
He reached into the sweatpants pocket for his wallet. “I’ve got it.”
She pinned him with a gimlet stare. “I thought you weren’t beholden to traditional rituals of manhood.”
“Apparently, therapy didn’t fix everything.” He adopted a helpless expression. “Blame our nation’s mental health infrastructure.”
Her snort drew the amused gaze of the barista. “Smartass.”
“I’m hurt you would say that.” He plucked out a few bills. “Very hurt.”
Her squinty-eyed scrutiny narrowed even further. “If I put my own money on this table, are you going to find some way to slip it into my purse later?”
His mouth dropped open in genuine astonishment. How had she known?
“That’s what I thought.” She rezipped her purse. “Fine. I’ll let you provide for the little lady tonight. Next time is mine.”
Next time? She wanted a next time?
Why hadn’t he risked hypothermia in an overly-chlorinated tank before now?
They walked to the parking lot in a comfortable silence.
When they reached her driver’s side door, she turned to face him. “For now, I’d just keep an eye on Sam and tell them you’re always available if they want to talk. Next time I see them, I’ll try to chat and form some sort of connection too.” Her lips curved in a wry smile. “I don’t think being a grumpy teenager who stays late at school merits much more intervention at this point, although I understand why you’re worried.”
