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So this is his fortress.
Of solitude. Of peace.
Where he goes to be by himself.
Where he goes to be away from his family.
His broken family.
Because it is that, isn’t it?
While I always knew that our stories are similar – no parents and only siblings to rely on – I never thought of his family as broken before.
Probably because they all look so in sync with each other with Conrad being the authority and the rest of them following his rules and order. They always look so united and together. In fact, sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between them. Not because of their looks but the way they carry themselves. Their demeanor, their aura, their dominating presence.
But maybe that’s the problem, isn’t it?
That they’re so similar to each other.
They’re all confident and authoritative. Protective and super masculine.
They’re used to getting what they want.
Except maybe when they’re with each other.
And since he’s the youngest, I can see why he’d get the brunt of all that.
Which makes me think of something else. And before I can process it fully, I blurt out, “Is that why you’re taking a break from soccer? Because of your brothers.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him this.
Or at least not so abruptly as I did.
His features become tight and sharp, closed off.
He picks up the tumbler with jutting out knuckles, drains the last of his drink, and stands up as if on wooden legs and clips, “You done?”
I know he’s referring to my empty plate, but it could also be in the context of this conversation, my probing. Before I can answer him though, he picks up my plate, stacks it on top of his and strides over to the sink. While I sit there with my mind whirling.
That’s the reason, isn’t it?
His brothers.
Even though he hasn’t said anything, his silence is answer enough.
That’s why he’s taking a break from something he loves. Because of Conrad and his rules. Because all his brothers — older than him — are once again in the same place, probably binding him in rules and caging him with orders. As soon as I work it all out in my head, I spring up from my seat and go to him.
He’s standing at the sink, rinsing the dishes, his profile still tight, and I want to lean into him. Wrap my arms around him and just… hold him.
Hold the little boy he used to be.
The man that he’s become.
One that puts his family above all else.
But I know he’ll reject it, my sympathy, my tenderness. This fierce rush of feelings that even I know I shouldn’t feel but I don’t care. And since I have to do something, say something — it’s imperative that I do — I go with this:
“I love it.”
He doesn’t respond.
In fact, it looks as if he hasn’t even heard. As if he’s unaware of my presence at his side even.
I’m not going to be deterred though.
“The cabin,” I tell him. “I loved it as soon as I saw it.”
Again no response from him but I keep going.
“And I love all the things that you put in here.”
At this, finally I get a reaction.
A clench of his jaw.
I know it’s not a lot, but it is something, isn’t it?
“I also loved the food,” I say, almost fiercely as if I want him to understand the depth of my feelings, the things I’m not able to say. “Thank you for cooking. You didn’t have to though. I could —”
At last, he looks at me.
He pierces me with his angry gaze, halting my words mid-speech. “What is this?”
“What?”
Turning toward me completely, he growls, “Is this pity?”
“What, no. I —”
Apparently he’s not happy with simply growling and snapping at me. Because with his next words, he advances on me as well. “Are you fucking pitying me?”
I have no choice but to step back, accommodate his muscular bulk and his mounting anger as I shake my head. “No. Ledger, I’m not —”
“Because let me tell you,” he cuts me off, forcing me backward with every step that he takes. “I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like anyone pitying me. Least of all you. So —”
I stop him then.
At least his words.
By putting a hand on his mouth.
God, it’s so soft and plush and instead of my hand, I want to put my mouth on his.
But I stop myself, and looking into his dark and narrowed eyes, I say, “I’m not pitying you. I’ve never pitied you. Not even before. The reason you made me feel safe was because of this. It was because of how you’ve always cared for your family. For your sister. The reason I wanted to build a life with you was because of this. Because…” His warm, cinnamon-y breath wafts over my palm and I have to swallow. “I-I wanted that for myself. I… My brother has always been the one to protect me and I mean, he had to, right? He’s family. And as grateful as I’ve always been to him, I guess I just wanted someone to protect me not because they have to but because they want to, and…”
