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I’d pegged this guy completely wrong, thinking all his issues had to do with his friend, feelings for her. Maybe those were there, but there were clearly other things going on too.
His throat worked. “I told you I have an attitude problem.”
“But you don’t.” He was just hurting, clearly hurting.
I started to reach for his hand across the table, but I hesitated.
Don’t do that. Don’t comfort him, console him.
It was so easy to want to, indulge in his pain if only so I didn’t have to feel mine. We really were the ultimate distraction for each other.
I slid my hands into my lap. “I’m sorry you’re going through things.”
He tipped up a large shoulder. “Poor little rich boy, right?” he stated off a chuckle. “Tale as old as time. The world is my oyster, and I still manage to find shit.”
“I think you’re simplifying things.”
“I don’t.” His lips turned down. “It’s reality, but I guess it’s a good thing that at least I’m aware of it.”
I guess.
I played with my bottle again. “So that had to do with your issue at Brown?”
“Mom seems to think so, yeah.” He nodded. “She may be right. I hold a lot of resentment for my dad. He did some bad things. Hurt our family pretty bad.”
I wanted him to talk to me about it, share with me but it wasn’t my place. I cuffed my arms. “And here I just had a divorce.”
Now, I was simplifying things, readily aware of that.
As if calling me on the carpet, Ramses shot daggers at me. At least, they felt like daggers. He gave me a look that said nothing but “Yeah, try again” and I laughed.
I opened my hands. “It maybe was more complicated than that.”
Ramses landed his big fists on the table, eyeing me, and I knew I had to give him more than that. I did, but…
I worked my jaw. “I can only say so much, but things got intense.” Physical. I forced out a breath. “He put hands on me.”
I think it was the first time I’d said it out loud. Though I wasn’t allowed to technically say it out loud. I’d signed a long paper that said I couldn’t. Not that my husband had beaten me within an inch of my life or anything. But he had hurt me, enough to put bruises on me, and made it so I couldn’t show my face in public for weeks. My ex-husband was a pretty powerful man, popular in his sphere, even post-retirement, and that couldn’t get out.
And here I simplified things again.
The beating had been the end result of something else and actually only happened once but was enough to make me see things were done. That we couldn’t heal, and it was actually easier to talk about than prior traumas.
In fact, a lot easier.
Ramses’s expression shifted at that point, a darkness hitting his eyes I’d never seen before. His fingers worked on the table, and I wondered if he’d actually flip it over.
And he hadn’t said anything.
Not a word.
But that didn’t mean none of them flashed across his eyes, that there were so many things he wanted to say but just didn’t know how to say them. He simply kept them to himself.
> “Coping with Change and Emotional Stressors,” he growled, saying the full title of the class. That was one of the reasons I’d decided on it.
I’d had a lot of emotional stress.
Ramses dragged his fingers down his face, his mouth pinched tight and his brow furrowed. “How long ago was this?”
