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He laughed and wiped his chin with a napkin. “Did I get it?”

I nodded, doing a little happy dance in my head. He liked it.

Jack asked about my grandmother. He started with simple, easy to answer questions about the culinary delight, as he called it, in front of us.

It wouldn’t hurt to open up a little, as long as I didn’t reveal too much about my parents, or talk about the abuse and Sullivan. I wasn’t ready to share information about them yet. He was already protective and a little over-bearing, trying to take care of me all the time. And I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me, or give him an excuse to be even more protective. Or worse, a reason to run away from me.

“My grandmother would babysit me when my parents were at work, or when they were drunk.” He already knew they were alcoholics and drug addicts. “Sometimes I’d stay as long as a week or two and she’d let me help her make dinner. She taught me how to cook and to sew.” My best memories were of the times I spent with my grandmother. I’d felt safe and loved when I was with her. I would have lived with her full time if I could have.

Jack didn’t say anything as I told him about my grandmother. I can only imagine how odd it must sound to someone with a close-knit family to hear I wanted to live with my grandmother instead of my parents. It surprised me he didn’t ask about it. Not that I’d tell him. I’d been hiding my past for a long time and was quite good at it.

“Your grandmother sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She was. I miss her. Things were so much better when she was alive. She pro- she took care of me.”

“Did things get worse with your parents after she died?”

I looked at my half-eaten dinner and hunched my shoulders. I really didn’t want to talk about them.

“Meg, please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Close yourself off,” Jack answered.

“I’m sorry.” I said to my plate, not daring to meet his eyes. He was upset, and I couldn’t handle his disappointment.

“Don’t apologize. I want to learn more about you, but you push me away anytime I try.”

“I’m sorry.” I said, then meet Jack’s eyes. “It’s just, I don’t like talking about my parents.” I couldn’t hold eye contact with him.

“I’ve noticed.” Jack gave me a warm smile. “I’m here to listen, if you ever want to talk. Okay? No judgement. I promise.” He didn’t push me for more answers, but I knew he’d ask again, eventually.

When I didn’t answer, Jack reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “Meg?”

I looked back up, expecting to see pity or irritation. I saw a compassion instead.

I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded and said, “Okay. Thank you.”

We finished our meal in relative silence. I appreciated his willingness to listen, I really did. But I wasn’t ready to share, and I was worried he’d eventually start demanding answers. I knew he’d be upset if I didn’t share, but I also knew he’d walk away if I did. My childhood was a shit show, and my teen years were even worse. Could a guy like Jack want to be with a girl as broken as me?

Maybe it was normal for him to ask so many questions. Just because the few guys I’d dated in the past hadn’t wanted to know more about me doesn’t mean it’s wrong for Jack to ask.I want to know more about him. Of course, I rarely asked because Jack was an open book and would answer any, and all, of my questions. But then he’d expect me to answer his. Which was only fair.

Jack helped me clear the dishes and offered to help me wash them. I told him I’d wash them later. I got him another beer and water for myself.

Before we watched the movie, Jack asked if we could talk. My breath caught in my throat.Is he going to break up with me? Are we-

Jack interrupted my thoughts. “I want to make sure we’re on the same page.” He swallowed hard. “About us.”

I clutched my water. “Okay.” I didn’t have enough time for the negative thoughts to form before Jack started.

“I like you, and I’d like to keep seeing you.”

I looked up at him with my mouth hanging open, then quickly closed it. I thought for sure he was going to break up with me, and was relieved he didn’t.

“We can go as slow as you’d like.” He reached over and pried one of my hands off my glass. “But I need you to talk to me. I don’t want to guess what you want from me.”

“I’d like that too.” I whispered as I squeezed his hand. “You’re sure you don’t mind taking it slow?”

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