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“Corwin.” He says, softly, in the same voice he used in bed this morning. It makes my throat feel tight, which is great. The last thing I need right now is to start crying.
“Come on,” I tell him, “let’s go back inside, get some food.”
I move toward the door and he lets me, though he doesn’t let go of my arm. Instead, he slides his hand down until he can link his fingers with mine. I’m a little embarrassed by this, thinking about how clammy my palms were a few minutes ago. I let go as soon as we get inside, pulling away from him; he sends me hurt look and I have to swallow around the lump in my throat.
“What are you hungry for?” I ask, but Nigel places a hand on my shoulder before I can walk around him and enter the kitchen.
“No, you sit. I’ll make breakfast.” I open my mouth to protest but he tightens his grip, and shakes his head. “You don’t look good, Corwin, you’re pale as shit.”
I want to tell him I’m fine again, because Iam. He’s scowling though, and would probably fight me on it; I don’t want to argue, not with him, so I acquiesce and take a seat at the island. He fills a glass from the sink before I can ask, and pushes it toward me before he picks up where I left off, cracking eggs into the skillet waiting on the stove.
The atmosphere is tense, and even though I know it’s because of me, I’m also not willing to diffuse it by telling him the truth. I can’t tell him about when my dad hit me when I was ten, or how after that it became a semi-regular occurrence. I can’t tell him the truth about how I broke my arm, or how my mom seems to be hell-bent on helping every disadvantaged family except her own. No, these are secrets that will stay with me until somebody pries them from my cold, dead hands.
Nigel only looks at me with affection—I don’t think I could stand it if I ever saw pity in those warm, brown eyes.
I watch as he turns the heat up too high on the stove, and a shell falls into the pan when he cracks another egg. The line of his shoulders is tense, and I don’t have to see his face to know he’s frustrated with me. He’s also stubborn, so unless I give him a better story thanI worked out on an empty stomach, he’s not going to let it go. Time to trot out the same version of the truth I gave Lawson, all those years ago.
I clear my throat and Nigel turns around, peering over his shoulder at me. “You okay?” He asks.
“Yeah.” He turns back around, dumping an alarming amount of salt into the skillet. “My dad called.”
“Your dad calling makes you look like a fucking influenza patient?”
He’s turned back around, leaned against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. It seems incredible that just this morning I was touching that bare chest, perfectly content with the world.
“Well, no, not exactly. He took me by surprise, reaching out to me like that. We don’t talk.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Because he’s an asshole and a terrible father. I’ve gotten a lot in life because of who my dad is, and I’m grateful for that, but he’s…well, I don’t particularly like him and I prefer not to speak to him if I can help it.”
“What did he say to you?” He sounds angry, though I don’t think it’s directed at me.
“Oh, the usual. Just wanted to talk about everything I do wrong.”
“That’s bullshit, you’re the strongest forward on our line. What could he possibly have to complain about?”
“It’s okay.”
“No, Corwin, it’s not. Whatever he said to you made you physicallyill. Don’t answer next time he calls.” He’s uncrossed his arms, and is now aggressively scraping the eggs onto plates. “Actually, better yet, letmeanswer the phone.”
He pushes a plate in front of me. “Thank you.” The eggs are burnt and crunchy where they shouldn’t be; I dig in, planning on eating every bite.
He watches me eat, tapping his own fork against his plate. I’m almost finished by the time he takes his first bite, and grimaces. “This is disgusting.” He tells me.
I pop my last bite in my mouth. “It really is. I think you covered our sodium allotment for the week, too.”
His lips twitch in a half smile, but he points a stern finger at me. “Don’t try to distract me. I don’t think you’re as fine as you’re telling me you are. Talk to me.”
This last is added in a soft, plaintive tone; a request, not an order. “You know that event Lawson, Bernard, Volstrom, and I are doing for charity?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess my parents made a donation to the foundation, so they’ll be coming as guests.”
“Shit. Can you get out of it?” He’s frowning again.
“No. It’ll be fine though, really, it will. I haven’t seen them in years, and the event will be busy so I’ll barely have to interact with them.”
