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“It always did the trick. I don’t know if the milk itself had anything to do with it or the ritual. But I never had a hard time falling asleep after we shared some warm milk in the kitchen, just the two of us.”
“That sounds pretty nice.” He says it like it comes as a surprise. I can only imagine somebody like him looking down on so-called normal people and their normal lives. Maybe it does surprise him that there’s something to be said for those of us who lived quiet, average lives.
I have to take a chance, both because he’s being quiet and thoughtful and because I’m insanely curious about this man. “What about you?” I venture.
He frowns. “What about me?”
“Did your mom ever do stuff like that for you when you were little? To help you sleep, or when you were sick?”
He stares down into the mug, and I think I asked the wrong question. It’s so tough to figure out how much is too much with him. But he doesn’t lash out at me or shut me down the way I expect him to. “I wasn’t raised by my mother. My grandfather raised me.”
The back of my neck tingles, but I have to ignore it to focus on him. Maybe I’ll finally get some answers to all the questions bouncing around in my head. “I see.”
“No, you don’t,” he tells me with a smirk. “My mother… died when I was really young. Or rather, she was killed.”
I can’t breathe for a second; it hits me so hard. Not just the revelation, but the way he reveals it in a flat, almost lifeless voice. I wonder how hard he’s had to work to suppress his feelings about her death that he’s able to just rattle it off like he’s totally unconnected from the words he’s saying.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. And I am, extremely so. But I don’t want him getting upset and thinking I’m going overboard to kiss up to him. I wish everything I did or said didn’t feel like a chess move I have to plan out in advance. It’s maddening.
He shrugs a little, taking another sip of the milk. “And my grandfather… He’s not the kind of guy who would sit up with me late at night and make me warm milk to help me sleep.” His lips twitch like the very idea is too funny to even consider.
“Was he good to you, at least?”
“Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not some poor little orphan. I made out just fine. But it’s times like this…” He stares down at the milk, frowning. “I remember there are things I missed out on.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
He shakes his head a little. “Honestly, no. I was very little when she died.”
“I really am sorry.” No wonder he is how he is. Hard, brittle, brutal. The man whose phone calls make him so angry is the man who raised him. From what I’ve witnessed so far, it couldn’t have been a very cheerful upbringing. I doubt there was very much fun for him as a kid. And he probably never felt like he could be a little kid—be a man, boys don’t cry, that kind of thing.
Right now, I don’t see the man in front of me. I’m not even paying attention to his body, not very much anyway—it’s kind of hard to ignore completely. But what I see more than anything is a little boy who never knew his mom, who was raised by a man who to this day rides him incessantly. What must that have been like? Did he ever get a hug? I want to hug him now.
It’s dangerous letting myself think of him this way. I know it. I have to be careful, right?
He offers the briefest of apologetic smiles. “You didn’t ask for my life story.”
“But I’m here. And I’m not doing anything else, am I?”
He laughs a little at this, nodding before draining the rest of his milk. “That’s true. But still. I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I understand.” And I really do. I’m not just saying that to get closer to him or whatever. If there was ever an example of what happens to a person when they’re not allowed to feel things, it’s the man standing in front of me. Now I understand a little better those tiny glimpses of kindness that pop up now and then and how he quickly suppresses them or suddenly swings in the opposite direction and acts brutal and cruel. Maybe he was raised to think it was weak to feel things, to be kind. But his nature is another story. It wants to get out.
What am I doing? Humanizing him? Identifying with him? I might as well hand over my entire life at this point. I’m making it easy for him to dominate me, making up excuses in my head.
He leaves his mug in the sink, and I do the same, feeling a little awkward now. I don’t know if he feels the same way or if he just wants to put an end to this, but he clears his throat. “Come on. I need to get some sleep.”
I guess that’s his way of saying I have to get back to bed, too. I am tired, though. Whether it’s psychosomatic or not, the milk has relaxed me. I feel myself unwinding, my eyelids drooping a little as I climb the stairs.
He waits until I’m in bed, standing in the doorway. “Good night.” It feels funny hearing that when it’ll be morning pretty soon, but I murmur the same thing before resting my head on the pillow.
And when he closes the door, there is no clicking sound this time. He didn’t lock it.
20
ENZO
“So help me God, don’t make me regret this.” I unlock the passenger side door but hold her against the car before she can get in. “I mean that. Do not make me regret doing this.”
