That wasn’t atotalstretch of the truth.
He’s quiet as he watches me flip the shrimp, as if those honey-colored eyes can see right through my lies.
I keep the conversation going so he doesn’t have time to question me. “Have you ever owned a dog?”
He nods. “She died a week after my mom. She was old, but she wasn’t sick or anything. I think she missed my mom too much.”
Without thinking, I reach out and clasp his hand. “I’m so sorry you lost your mom. It really sucks.”
He blinks down at our contact, and his jaw flexes. “After she died, Leo went off the deep end. He’d always been reckless, but his drug use became less recreational, and more of a necessity. I left my apartment and moved back home to be with my dad. He was in pretty bad shape. I tried to get a handle on my brother, but…” He shrugs. “I’m still afraid we’ll lose him, and my father won’t be able to take it.”
“Addiction is a tricky thing. You can only do so much.”
His eyes flick to mine. “Leo said he feels like you get him.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “I think I do.”
“Why is that?”
“When you have darkness inside you, it helps you recognize darkness in others.”
His thumb strokes my hand, an idle motion I’m not sure he realizes he’s doing. “Why do you have darkness in you?”
“I think we’re all born with it. It’s like the alcoholic gene that only comes out if you’re in the right kind of environment.”
His eyebrows press together. “What kind of environment were you in?”
I’m saying too much… or he has too many questions. Either way, I need to steer him away from this conversation.
I pull back my hand and let out a nervous laugh. “Okay, officer. That’s enough interrogation for one night. I think the shrimp are done.”
“I don’t mean to pry. I’m just… trying to get to know you.”
“Why?” The question comes out before I have time to stop it.
Why? Why are you here? Why are you wasting your time helping me?
His eyes bounce between mine like he’s searching for the answer, and the truth smacks me in the face. He doesn’t reallywantto get to know me. He just feels bad for me. That’s what this is. Pity. He’s a helper, and he wants to help anyone who seems like they need it. And I guess I look pathetic enough to need it.
I swallow down my embarrassment. “Look, I appreciate your help with the meal. You can go now.”
His head jerks back. “You want me to leave?”
“I’m just saying, you wanted to help and now you’re done. You don’t have to stay. I’m good.”
He shuts the burner and turns to face me. “What just happened? We were talking, and now you’re telling me to get out. Did I say something to offend you?”
I press my thumb against the scar on my wrist and dig my nail into the raised skin. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I can just Google a recipe when I’m hungry.”
He shakes his head and grabs the pan handle. He scoops the shrimp out of the pan and pours them over the rice. He sets the pan back down on the stove, and I wait for him to leave, to make his way into the hallway and go back to his house. But he opens each cabinet door until he finds the plates and pulls out two. He brushes past me and sets them on the table. Then he carries the bowl of shrimp and rice to the table and sets it down between the two plates.
“Come on.” He pulls out a chair. “Let’s eat.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Stop telling me what I don’t have to do,” he cuts me off. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. Now sit.”
Warmth pools in the pit of my stomach and spreads out into the rest of my body. “Okay, Mr. Bossy Pants.”