“No.”
I liked that he did not insist pain had made me stronger.
Pain had made me careful.
Work, friendship, and Noah had made me stronger.
“My mother died when I was in college,” I continued. “My father remarried. We exchange cards at Christmas. Nothing more.”
“Brothers?”
“One sister. Older. We speak twice a year.”
“Do I know her?”
“You met once.”
“Did I like her?”
“You said she had the warmth of a parking meter.”
Noah choked on his drink.
I reached for the napkin.
He waved me off, laughing carefully.
“That sounds cruel.”
“She spent dinner asking whether the yard was a real business.”
“Then I stand by it.”
“I thought you might.”
He took my hand across the space between our chairs.
The gesture came easily now.
“Did we talk about family a lot?”
“Sometimes.”
“My parents don’t accept me either.”
“I know.”
“I remember that.”
His voice tightened.
“Not the worst years. Just enough.”
“You don’t have to discuss it tonight.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his thumb over my knuckle.
