Page 49 of The Boyfriend List
Not hideous? Is that the best I have to comfort him with? I’ve seen way too much of him to say any part of him is anything close to hideous. More like gloriously sculpted and handcrafted by God to be my kryptonite.
He shakes his head. "That's what Troy said to me too, the other day."
"See, we're both right. Troy is my favourite of your siblings already."
"He said that when I told him I didn't want kids. He didn't understand why."
I've never asked him why. "I can try to understand."
London gives me a small, sad smile. "I don't want kids because I'm terrified I'll ruin their childhoods like our parents did to us, with their constant arguing, manipulation, and passive-aggressive behaviour. Everything in my house just felt like a fight waiting to happen. Every word was fuel for yet another conflict. You were either on my mom's side or my dad's side, and it feels like all my siblings took my dad's side."
He's never given me this glimpse into his family. When I went over to his house for Thanksgiving that one year, they were all on their best behaviour. Though there were some awkward moments and snarky comments, I figured they were typical of any big family.
"I'm sorry," I say, reaching over to give him a side-hug. To my surprise, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a full embrace.
My face rests in the crook of his neck and shoulder. One of his arms wraps around my waist while the other lands on my upper back. I breathe in his scent of cedar and eucalyptus, hearing his shuddering breaths like he's trying not to cry.
"Don't be sorry, Ria. It's not your fault," he murmurs.
I take a deep breath. “Maybe if you found the right person, you’d want to have kids with them. They might change your mind.”
“I don’t know if that person exists.” He sighs, and my heart splinters. Because I’m right here, and he still doesn’t see me as anything more than afriend. "I shouldn't have told you that anyways. I didn't bring you here so I could complain about my home life. We had a lot more than most people do."
"But it sounds like you didn't have love," I whisper.
He stiffens, seeming to realize that we're holding each other. As if he had done it instinctively, unconsciously. London's arms drop from me and he takes a step back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"My parents loved us as best as they knew how," he says simply. "We never wanted for anything, whether it was extracurriculars or the latest toys or video games."
"You can't just throw money at your children and expect them to be happy if you're fighting all the time," I say. I can't imagine my parents treating me and Paulo that way. I can't imagine anyone in my family treating their children that way, even if we are all relatively well-off since most of my family is comprised of doctors or other medical professionals.
"I was happy," he says. "Iamhappy. Happy enough."
"Everything you just told me suggests otherwise," I say, folding my arms across my chest. Cold air replaces his touch.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm sorry I burdened you with my problems." He opens his pantry and measures out rice into the rice cooker. "You have enough going on in your life."
It sounds like a dismissal. Yes, my life has its own issues, but what's going on with his family sounds draining. "That’s why I want to hear about your life. I need the distraction."
"Let me cook dinner for you," he says abruptly, rinsing the rice. The intensity burning in London's dark eyes sends a shiver down my spine. "I’m done talking about my family. Just let me—let me do something nice foryou, okay?"
"Why?" I murmur.
"Because I…" He takes a deep breath and shuts off the faucet. "I want to do something nice for my friend, who's going through a hard time, and I want to feel like something in my life is going right. Our friendship is all I have that isn’t a wreck at the moment, Ria."
London sounds exasperated. Guilt gnaws at me for pushing him to this point.
"I'm sorry. I really do appreciate you, London," I say. I get up and cross the kitchen, hugging him before letting go again. He doesn't hug me back since his hands are wet with rice water.
We settle into easier, safer conversation topics. He finishes washing the rice and puts it in the rice cooker; I help him by slicing the bitter melon in half and scooping out the seeds. He marinates the beef for half an hour in soy sauce, oyster sauce, sugar, cornstarch, and water and a few cloves of minced garlic. I'm surprised he doesn't use the jar of minced garlic from the grocery store. Then again, he probably doesn't cook enough to need one.
"Do you miss your family in the Philippines?" London asks me when we're situated on the couch, waiting for the beef to marinate and the rice to cook.
We flip through a few shows, unsure of what to watch. Sometimes I watch mind-numbing reality shows, but my favourite are historical dramas. London prefers the actual history channel and shows about aliens. So when we watch TV together, he tells me all the historical inaccuracies inOutlanderand I shush him. Or I try to stay awake during an episode ofVikings.
"All the time," I say. "We talk on the phone, but it's not the same as actually seeing each other, you know? I miss my little cousin, Eddie, a lot, especially."
"How old is he?"
