Page 66 of Spin The Bottle
“What exactly are we making?”
“Well, seeing as you barely had anything,” he says, glancing over at me with a pointed look. “The best I could come up with was an omelet,” he offers with a shrug.
I glance at him, unable to stop the smile that sprouts on my face when I watch him crack an egg into a bowl. How is it a few months ago I was so annoyed with this guy, under the impression that he was just a huge playboy and now he’s standing in my apartment, cooking me food? I was so wrong about him. “How did you learn how to cook?” I ask him, running the mushrooms under water.
When I turn to face him, his jaw is clenched, the muscles so tight. I frown. “I’m sorry, did I say something wro—”
“It wasn’t something I wanted to do,” he says, staring down at the bowl in front of him. “It was something I had to do.”
“What do you mean?”
He squeezes his eyes shut, opening them up a few seconds later. “My family are drug addicts, Leila.” His head turns to look at me, the dread in his face so apparent. “I come from a dirty, small trailer in Texas, smaller than your bedroom. I didn’t come from a family like yours with a dad to teach me how to cook. My dad fucked off before I was even born.” He turns back away from me, looking down at the bowl. “My mom is an addict, and my brothers are following mother dearest’s footsteps.”
He drops the bowl and turns his whole body to look at me, crossing his arms before he blows out a breath. “I’ve never touched drugs,” he explains. “I saw what it was doing to my family. Didn’t want any part of it. That’s why I don’t drink either.”
I want to say something, anything, but I just stare at him as his jaw clenches and he looks to the side. “But I got into their stash when I was young.” My hands squeeze the board, my other gripping the knife. I can’t take my eyes off him. I can’t look away from the pain in his eyes, the way his throat bobs as he gulps. I can feel the words burning his throat before he even says them.
“I was passed out for a good hour before any of them found me.” I want to throw my arms around him, to take all the pain away but I stay rooted in place as he keeps looking at me, staring so intensely. “I was admitted to the hospital. I woke up delirious, attached to all these machines. I was a kid,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t know what was happening or what I did.”
He shakes his head. “And when I got home,” he says, looking to the side again, his fists ball up beside him. “When I got home, my mom beat the shit out of me for costing her medical bills.”
His eyes open, glancing at me. “I had to learn how to cook because if I hadn’t, I would’ve died.” This is the longest I haven’t spoken. I can’t say anything though. He doesn’t need me to say anything. He needs me to listen. “I burnt my hand right here,” he lifts his hand to my face, pointing at the scar on his palm, “making toast when I was nine.”
I look back into his eyes when he drops his hand. “I found the bread in a dumpster behind a store. It was past the expiration date, but unopened and still looked fine.” He shrugs. “I hadn’t eaten in days and we had no food at home, so I took it and attempted to make myself some toast on the stove, because we didn’t even have a toaster. My mother was passed out on the couch, high out of her mind and didn’t even notice. Eventually I got better. I learnt a lot in home EC and made it work.”
He glances at me, but I don’t say anything. He lets out a sigh, turning back and cracking another egg. “I’m sorry for spilling all of that on you. I haven’t told anyone that before.”
I turn back, too, grabbing a mushroom and cutting it into chunks. “Did you want to tell me?” It’s the first words I’ve spoken since he’s told me. I still don’t know what to say. He’s a completely different person than I originally thought. I thought he was privileged, and that he was given everything he ever wanted. That’s the furthest thing from the truth.
The knife scrapes the board, filling up the silence in the room. “I wouldn’t have told you otherwise,” he says after a few minutes.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“For what, gorgeous?”
The nickname makes my stomach flutter, but I shake it away when I turn my head to look up at him. “For thinking you were an asshole.”
He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head like the moments before never even happened. “That’s just your lack of judgment. My shitty upbringing has nothing to do with it.”
I smile at him, watching him whisk the eggs. “Where are your brothers now?”
He lets out a breath, eyeing me. “Cameron is in jail,” he tells me. “For robbing a quick-mart. And Brandon and Mom…” he trails off with a shrug. “They’re back home, spending the money I send them on drugs.”
My eyebrows lift. “You send them money?”
His jaw clenches as he looks down at the bowl. “We didn’t have anything growing up,” he says. “As soon as I came here and got a job, I thought I’d help them, thinking it would go towards food or bills, but it didn’t. And now they just want more and more.”
“What happens if you stop?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Aiden works hard for his money, the thought of him having to give it away makes me so sad for him.
He blows out a breath. “It wasn’t just my mom who liked to lift her hand at me. My brothers beat the shit out of me growing up, for anything and everything. Sometimes it was because they were high, other times, because it was fun for them, I guess,” he admits. “I know I shouldn’t be scared of them, but I still am.”
My hands shake, thinking of the little boy who had to go through that, who just wanted to eat. Who had to learn how to cook, burns and all, to make sure he survived. I gulp, and at the same time, a blinding pain hits.
“Ow,” I shout, dropping the knife and stepping back from the counter. “Shit.” I grab my finger, pressing down on the blood drizzling out of the slash.
