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I lean forward on the counter, my palms planted between us. “Well, that's a goddamn shame,” I say in complete seriousness.
We finish our protein shakes in silence as I stand across from her, sipping away with nothing but the fridge motor rumbling between us. She taps her delicate fingers on the counter. Our eyes connect before we both look away. My grin creeps back across my face. Her eyes flutter back up at me just as I look back at her again. We both try to hold back our smiles.
“What?” she asks, her smile cracking first.
I grin back, shaking my head. “Nothing”
Before I know it, we’re both attempting to hold back our laughter. I don't even know what we're laughing at, to be honest, and I don't think she does either. We're acting like a pair of dorky teenagers who don't know how to act around the opposite sex.Are we flirting?
“So, was that your boyfriend on the phone?” I blurt out, needing sudden clarification.
Idiot.
Her eyebrows raise at the question she was definitely not expecting.
“No,” she says warily.
“Mom? Dad?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
I don't know why, but I need to know who she said she loved. I want to know who matters to this girl. I want to know if she's still involved with whoever sent a fist to her face. This strange feeling of protectiveness is still beneath my skin, making me itch for retaliation against whoever thought it right to lay hands on her.
Her brows lower and her eyes fix on me.
“No, my parents died when I was almost fourteen.”
Small talk with women is not my forte.
“Shit. I'm...so sorry—”
“Don't,” she interrupts. “I'm better off. What about you?”
Better off? Without parents? What the fuck has she been through?
“What about me?” I ask, totally hung up on the fact that she just told me her parents died so blunt and void of emotion.
“Your parents?”
I swallow. “Uh, just my mom. My dad is an abusive drunk who's in and out of jail. Haven't seen him since I was probably twelve and I'm, what...28 now? So, sixteen years?”
Her mouth parts and those amber eyes hone in on me, looking somber.
“This conversation sucks, huh?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Yeah,” she says softly.
“Childhood traumas.” I shake my head. “At least we have that in common, right?” I say, grabbing her empty glass and putting it in the sink with mine.
“I guess so.” She smiles lightly. “I would never have guessed that about you. You're so incredibly put together and successful. I wouldn't have ever known.”
“Wasn’t always easy. Are you also an only child like me, too? Left to deal with the trauma alone? Or were you lucky enough to have brothers or sisters to lean on?” I ask with a grin as I wash, placing the cups upside down on a dry towel. “Because I’ll be honest, it'd be nice to have someone to share the emotional load with.”
Her spine straightens and the mood in the room shifts.
“We should probably just cancel the small talk for today,” she says, dismissing the conversation entirely.
I stare at her, trying to understand. I mean, I get it. We’re discussing our traumatic pasts. Not the most exciting. But at least we were discussing something. She acts as if a simple conversation with me is crossing the patient/therapist line. As if getting to know each other has always been off the table to her.
She slaps her hands on the table and stands. “Let's get to work so you can do the photo ops with the team before the game tonight.”
