Page 35 of Flame
“Her eyes.” He scoffs, his upper lip curling from his teeth. I worry I’ve insulted him, until he brushes his finger along the ridge of his cheekbone as if memorizing the shape. “I have those,” he admits, letting his hand fall. “But that’s it. Nothing else. I don’t even want to be like her.”
He sounds too cold. Too bitter.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because she gave it all up for a worthless motherfucker. Everything.” He turns away, his hands forming fists. “She sold her soul to a son of a bitch for nothing in return. Nothing but pain and bullshit. What good came of that—”
“She had you.” I don’t know what makes me say it, but he flinches. Gradually, the fire leaves his eyes, and he’s ice in an instant.
“I think she’d be proud of you,” I add clumsily. “I know she would.”
Slowly… Very slowly, he sets his food aside and approaches me. Each step is deliberate, giving me all the time in the world to evade his reach.
I don’t, and his arms go around me, his mouth finding my shoulder. I can feel his heartbeat racing, his breaths heavy and labored. Very gently, his fingers slip into my hair, and the soft, hesitant motions goad me into voicing a confession of my own.
“My mother didn’t want me.” It sounds so dramatic to say and yet so emotionless at the same time. After twenty-one years, I’ve made peace with it. The admission doesn’t hurt anymore, as natural to utter as my own name. “My dad really wanted a boy, and Branden was her ticket to guaranteed alimony if they divorced. I wasn’t part of her plan. I barely even have memories of her, to be honest. She didn’t teach me how to cook, and she certainly didn’t teach me how to write. She just…existed. Until one day she never came back.”
He stiffens, and it strikes me that he may suspect the next part of the story before I even say it.
“She was angry after what happened with Bran. Humiliated. I…” I suck in a breath, self-conscious of the admission on the tip of my tongue. “I envy you. I wish I had your memories. I wish I had something of her to cherish. Something to love—”
“No.” Abruptly, he pulls away. “No, you don’t.”
He heads for the door, and his posture alone warns me from following. His shoulders are tense, his steps stiff.
When he leaves, slamming the door behind him, I don’t know what to feel. Something tells me that his anger isn’t directed toward me—that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.
