Page 37 of Morsel

“Like what?” Oscar asks.

“So cold. So calculating.”

“I’m not being either of those things,” he says, but he is.

“Is it because you’re wealthy?”

Oscar stares at me for a moment. His food is waiting on the coffee table, but he’s sitting next to me. I could reach out and place my hand on his knee, but I don’t.

“When my parents got divorced, my dad got custody of me and my brothers,” he says.

“Oh.”

“It was very, very hard to be the child of such a pompous asshole.”

“I believe it,” I whisper. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”

“Harder than it should have been,” he says.

Because he had an evil stepmother who hated him. I’ve heard stories. As far as I know, Oscar’s dad went through a couple of wives and many, many girlfriends.

“Being a teenager in that position must have been hard.”

“It was,” he says. “I just wanted my parents to be together.”

“I’m sorry you went through that.”

He holds a hand up.

“You don’t have to be,” he says.

“I still am.”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry. It’s not your fault.”

I stare at him.

“Oscar, have you ever had a friend?”

“What?”

“Have you ever had a friend?” I repeat my question.

“I’ve had a friend.”

“You’re acting like you haven’t. Friends try to comfort each other when they go through something hard. I’m not saying ‘sorry’ to be annoying or callous or fake. I’m saying it because I actually feel sorry for you.”

“Oh,” he says.

“My family broke up, too,” I say.

He’s quiet, and then Oscar speaks, too.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“So you know what it’s like.”

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