Page 81 of Love Not Qualified

He pushed a plate with warm pancakes toward me, but I placed my elbows on the table and looked him in the eye.

“This is where he met my mother,” he said, then sucked in a breath. “And this is also where I started drinking,” Mr. Graves murmured, an absent nod moving his head. His jaw twitched and if I thought his father was a closed-off subject, his mother and alcohol topped that.

Suddenly, I was curious about more. Was his mother still in his life? Was she alive? Did he regret that he started drinking? Did he really have a drinking problem?

I inhaled deeply, focused on his locked jaw. He didn’t look at me, but instead glanced outside and offered me his profile as his fingers intertwined in front of him. The fact that he was ashamed and still told me sends a strange shiver down my spine.

“Alcohol turns you into someone you’re not,” I said, getting his attention. His eyes moved all over my face. “I don’t really remember how my father was before drinking—because he drank my entire life—but Mom told me he had big dreams,including having children and marrying her.” I barely pulled up a smile as my eyes swelled with tears and I placed a hand on top of his. “I saw what alcohol did to my father. How it killed him slowly, how it erased his whole self even before that. My father’s dreams died when he started drinking.”

After a while, for Nash and I, sleeping stories weren’t enough, so my mother started to tell us how her life with our father was when she met him. Maybe we liked to hear them because we had hoped a part of that person was still in him, but with each day that passed, he only showed us he was unrecoverable.

Mr. Graves might not have been in that state just yet, but that didn’t mean he was far away.

“I haven’t had a single drop in three days,” he confessed, caressing the bridge of my palm with his thumb. “These days away from the city are good for me. I don’t feel like drinking, not at all. I hope I can keep this feeling when we get back.”

I nodded. He was busy now and in the company of his friends, it was normal not to feel the urge he might feel when he was alone.

“When you get home and you want to drink, you can call me,” I suggested without thinking.

His eyes rounded in surprise, but it happened so quickly that I wasn’t sure I caught it. His eyebrows lowered and then he pointed at my plate. “It will get cold.”

I took my hand away with one last squeeze, then grabbed the knife and sliced a small bite. Truth was, I didn’t even know why I accepted to come to eat when I knew how this was going to go. Maybe because my stomach grumbled from the hunger or maybe because I hadn’t eaten pancakes in a year. Whatever the reason was, I realized now it was stupid of me to do so.

We weren’t around his friends anymore, nor in his car where I could dash out if he’d pry too much. I was standing right in front of him with no chance of escape.

With a shaky hold, I brought the fork to my mouth and almost moaned at the heavenly taste. I loved the taste of food, it was the chewing that made my stomach twist. I gulped the bite in one go and dropped the fork with a clink when I sensed the food rising back in my throat, a hand covering my mouth.

“You okay?” Mr. Graves asked, his brows furrowing.

I gave him a smile. “Mhm.”

His shoulders dropped and my heart skipped a beat at the look on his face. He wasn’t buying my shit anymore.

“Haelyn.” His tone warned.

“Yes?” I dropped my hand down, letting the food slide down to my stomach.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice sounded as if he was begging and his eyes softened on me.

I took a deep breath, glancing around the room.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

When he suggested coming here, I should’ve said I was full and didn’t need anything else to eat, but I was so surprised I didn’t have time to think. The fact that we were alone in a situation like this was entirely my fault.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I lied, but the way his head tilted to the side told me he didn’t believe me even if I paid him. My shoulders dropped in defeat and I glanced down at my shoes. “Can we not have this conversation? This day has been beautiful so far.”

“And I have no intention of ruining it, but if you tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can help,” he offered, but I still didn’t dare to look at him.

How could he help? Shove food down my throat until I stopped feeling like vomiting?

There’s no escape, that I was sure of. But then, he offered me a part of himself when he talked about his father, couldn’t I make a sacrifice and give him a part of me as well?

I swallowed, a sigh falling past my lips. “Nothing is wrong,” I repeated, “I just don’t have a good relationship with food.” As soon as I let the words out, air whooshed out of my lungs.

There it was. I said it.

But when I looked at his face and saw his deepened brows and pointed stare, I knew he was going to push for more.

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