Page 49 of All Mine

“From?”

I gave him the side-eye. “Don’t act like you don’t know what that means, Mr. Nomad. Where’d you grow up?”

“I know what you mean. The question surprised me, that’s all. You’ve never asked me anything personal. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Just trying to figure you out.” I stabbed a chunk of chicken.

“Good luck there. I’m from Pikeville, Kentucky. You’ve never heard of it.”

“No, you’re not.”

He jabbed his fork into the carton of food. “Am so. Why would you doubt that?”

“You’re from a small Appalachian town? You strike me as a city boy.”

“I left when I was seventeen.”

“Why?”

“College. And there was nothing for me there.” He stared at the ceiling. “My dad had been a coal miner. He died when I was seven. My mom had to take a job as a cashier at the Piggly Wiggly and work odd jobs to barely make ends meet. We constantly moved from one small dumpy apartment to the next.”

A sense of heaviness pressed on my chest, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

“It was a long time ago,” he said, and flashed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And it all made me the hard-worker I am today.”

“Even so, it’s still okay to grieve.”

“Not that I remember all that much about him. What I remember most is my mom rationing out food to try to make it until she got paid.”

“Your mom?”

He chewed the fried rice and stayed silent for so long it seemed he wouldn’t talk about it. “That one I’ll never get over,” he whispered. “It was right after I turned sixteen.”

“No one ever gets over a loss of that magnitude.” I reached over and squeezed his bicep. He had a much rougher childhood than I ever imagined.

“I had to get on with my life and make something of myself. That was the best way to honor her.”

“Sure, but is it the only way?”

He leaned back on the sofa cushion. “It’s the only way that I know how.”

“I’m sure she would have wanted you to be happy, not necessarily rich.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive. I am happy and rich.”

My stomach protested, but I shoveled in another bite of the salty-sweet noodles.

“I am,” he insisted, “What more could I need? I’m living the best life in the world.”

“I wasn’t arguing with you.”

“There was censure in your chewing.”

I snorted. “I was not arguing with you by chewing.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.” The corners of his eyes crinkled under the grin.

“Oh my god. You actually like arguing with me?” I sat my empty plate on the coffee table.

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