Page 38 of From the Ashes
“What did you think about?”
“Oh, um,” she shakes her head, blushing even more, “just how I like being around you.” She lifts her long brown eyelashes to meet my gaze, and I sense that she’s not telling me the whole picture, but I don’t have any right to know about what’s going on in her mind, so I drop it. I thought about her in many ways this week, and not all of my thoughts were as pure as taking coffee together, but I shouldn't bring that up. I want to bond with her, not scare her away. Looking down at the plate she gave me, I cut the pancake and grab a bit. The vanilla flavor sends me back to Sunday mornings with my mom and sisters.
“You okay?” she asks, her eyelashes hooded as if she’s walking on eggshells.
She’ll never have to do this with me. I’m an open book. And I never want to see a woman walk on eggshells around me, especially not if it’smywoman. I’ve seen my mother do this all her life, scared of my father’s reaction. I clutch the fork harder at the memory.He may have taken them from me, but I ended him when I had the chance, and that was the best decision of my life.
“They’re great, thanks,” I tell her, “reminds me of my family,” I confess.
“I figured.” She smiles tenderly. Putting the fork down, I stare at her and her perfect lips and kind eyes, “Emma, the younger one, was always trying to make a hat with her pancakes, which would make Beth and me laugh so hard she’d often fall from her chair,” I tell her, shaking my head and remembering how Beth would sometimes even cry from how much laughter she was having. Emma used to be a little performer; I’m sure she would have ended up on a stage if she had had the chance.Should I keep talking about them? Isn’t it going to trigger me?
“There was this thing, my mom used to play the same old sixties songs when she was baking each Sunday morning, and Emma would call thempancake songs. And now, each time I hear one of them on the radio, I think about that, about thosepancake songs and how I wished that time could have lasted longer.” I don’t want to make her pity me with my story, but even if I never talk about my past apart from my sessions with Dr. Parks, I want to share this with her. Not everything in me is trash. I got some memories that I'll cherish even when I’m ten feet underground.
“That must have been great,” she says, smiling at me tenderly, not wincing, not pouting, just genuinely smiling at me. She’s listening, she’s not pitying me. “What about your father?” she asks, and I notice her hands tightening around the cup. It’s normal she’s got questions about him after the stuff I told her. My brothers know my story, but it’s not something I bring up easily. I take in the morning light shining through the window, illuminating her hair, and I remember that I’m here with her. In this small kitchen, there are drawings on the fridge and mismatched mugs. A small cartoon sticker stuck onto one of her drawers catches my eye, reminding me that I'm here now, and that’s all that matters. The past can stay where it belongs—behind.
“He wasn’t around much.”
“I see.”
“And when he was, he’d just hurt my mom, so I like to think he wasn’t a part of the picture,” I explain. “He’s dead now anyway.”
“Oh,” she gasps lightly. Could I tell her how he died? Won’t that make her run for the hills? Isn’t it too soon for the whole I-killed-my-father talk? I’ve always been honest with her, and I don’t want this to change, but evenIknow that this isn’t normal small talk.
“I want to tell you more but it could scare you or make you think things about me that aren’t true, so I don’t know if I can tell you.” She takes a sip of her coffee, then glances out the window, taking a deep breath before shaking her head.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. We all have our secret garden. I’m not going to pull the glasses out of your nose.”
“How ‘bout,” I rub my chin, looking away at the opposite window overlooking the street, “you tell me where your boundaries are and I’ll see if it fits in them?”Boundaries are keys, Carter, always remember that,says Dr. Parks.
“I don’t know, I guess you already know where they are. I’m okay with most things, but my tolerance stops at hurting women and children. That I’ll never ever accept.” She swallows, her gaze intense, her brown eyes meeting mine with a quiet strength.
“I’d never hurt a woman or a child. I’d rather die slowly covered in acid,” I deadpan.
“Oh.”
“Sorry, it's just a bad way to die.”
“How do you…know that?” She swallows.
I sigh, my heart pounding in my chest, begging me to stop talking.She’ll push you away. She won’t accept you.
“Do you know what an MC club is?” I tilt my head to the side.
“I think so… You’ve got businesses, right?” She fidgets, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug.
I nod. “There’s another side too.”
“I know. I’ve seen it on the news a few times.” Her voice falters.
Right, she’s not completely new to it.
“So you know most of what we do isn’t legal?”
“I know,” she murmurs.
“And it doesn’t bother you?” I arch a brow because it should. She’s not from the underworld; she should think that this isn’t morally acceptable. That’s the logical thing to do.
“I…I’ve learned to live with a different version of what was actually acceptable.” She sighs and her voice breaks, making mychest tighten as if daggers were pointing at it. I roll my shoulders to make the feeling go away.
