Page 52 of Save Me

I’m not kidding.

“When were you in Rome?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested. That’s the thing about Dae. He never comes across as asking questions simply out of obligation but because he genuinely wants to know.

“With my family. Back when we traveled around the world for a year. I went back to Italy on a trip for my college graduation,” I tell him. “Oh, we also went to South Korea.”

He visibly stiffens. Slowly, his eyes rise to meet mine. I pause chewing. An odd look crosses his face.

“Really?” he asks. His tone is off. Detached.

It leads me to believe he has bad memories of living in the country where he grew up. But he’s mentioned his experience in the military a few times without this same expression.

“What prompted the trip with your family?” he inquires.

The change in his tone is so different I briefly wonder if I made it all up.

“My mom,” I say, my heartstrings tugging slightly. I clear my throat and wipe my mouth with my napkin before speaking. “She was sick. Cancer,” I explain.

Concern etches a line on his forehead.

“She’s been in remission for almost twelve years now,” I say with a smile. “She’d been in remission for a year. Then she told my dad she wanted more time with all of us. Kyle and I were going into our last year of high school, and she wanted more family time before we graduated and went off to college.

“I remember thinking it was a joke when they first told us about it on Christmas morning.” I laugh fondly at the memory.

“You didn’t want to go?”

“I did,” I say immediately. “My parents were scared. My mom was nervous that we would freak out because we would miss our friends or regret not starting our senior years in the school we attended since the age of six.”

I shake my head. “Nothing could’ve been further from the truth,” I assert. “By then, I’d already spent time thinking about my mom’s mortality.” I give a slight shrug.

“That’s a heavy burden to carry at sixteen,” he says.

“And my brothers and sister were even younger. Stasi was only seven.” My heart sinks at the possibility of my baby sister losing our mother so young.

The fear of that time is a memory that never goes away. When my mom was sick, there were a lot of nights I stayed up in my bed tossing and turning, wondering if she would be okay. I rarely cry, but I cried into my pillow so no one would see.

Dae reaches across the table and intertwines his fingers into my free hand. His touch reminds me that we’re in the present. The here and now. My mom is okay. She’s healthy, well-loved, and taken care of.

“You were young, too,” he says, his voice so compassionate. “You should’ve been shielded from that pain.” He squeezes my hand, the feeling making my knees slightly weak. Like he would slay all of my demons if I asked him to.

As his gaze meets mine, though, I see something. Compassion, yes. But not only that. It’s not sympathy, either.

Empathy.

As if he knows exactly what it’s like.

Without thinking, I run my thumb up and down the length of his hand.

“You know what it’s like, too,” I say softly. I don’t form it as a question. It’s recognition more than inquiry.

The nod he gives me is slow, reluctant.

“My mother was sick for five years before she died,” he admits. “She had a heart condition and eventually died of heart failure.”

He presses his lips before snorting in disgust.

I wonder what that gesture is about, but I don’t want to bombard him with questions. Even though I yearn to know more.

“I think she was just tired, though,” he continues. “Life wasn’t easy for her. She gave up.” There’s a heaviness in his voice.

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