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I arch an eyebrow.
His dimple makes an appearance. “Originally, Kells. Northern Ireland.”
“What brought you to the States?”
He shakes his head. “My turn. Where are you from?”
My shoulders deflate. He asks this like he already knows the answer. “Hollows, Mississippi.”
“That’s not a real place.”
“It’s as real as it gets,” I counter.
“Farming community?” he presses. “Or is it known for something…other.”
I dig my elbows into my thighs, grounding myself. “Tell me about the scars, Grayson.”
My question does what I want. His focus shifts from my past to his. “Which ones?”
On reflex, I glance at his arms.
His fingers trail over his inked forearm. He watches me, the way I follow his movement. “Some were a gift, and some were a punishment. My stepdad had a particular way of distinguishing both.”
This is the first time he’s made me aware of a stepparent. “Your stepfather was abusive, then.”
An amused smile lights his face. “You don’t like following your own rules.”
“Touché. Ask away.”
He bites down on his bottom lip as he thinks. My breathing becomes measured, too loud, too revealing. “The pain in your back. Tell me what happened.”
I flick my bangs from my forehead with a sharp head shake. Then I present the practiced answer I crafted years ago. “I was in a car wreck when I was a teen. Fractured my back in several places. My lumbar suffered the most damage. I never fully recovered.”
Disappointment creases his eyes. “That’s not all.”
“That’s all, Grayson. That’s all there is.”
“Why do you cover up the tattoo on your hand? Tell me about it. Why you got it in the first—?”
“You’re out of line,” I interrupt. “My turn.”
“No. You didn’t give me an honest answer before. I want to know this.”
I suck in a quick breath. My agitation growing. “I got it when I was young—”
“Around the time of your accident?”
I hesitate. “Yes. And like any teen, I did so compulsively. I conceal it now out of professionalism.”
“Why not just get it removed, then?”
My heart beats erratically, the pulse at my temples firing a sharp web of pain through my head. I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know why,” I say, having no other answer to offer him.
This seems to sate his curiosity for now. He doesn’t press.
“Are all your scars from your stepfather?” I ask. “What about your mother?”
“No. Not all of them.”
