She flushed scarlet. “You haven’t seen every inch of me.”
“Yet,” he said, the word escaping without his permission and hanging between them, heavy and, he realized in that moment, stating the inevitable.
“No,” she said, turning away from him and continuing down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“No?”
“You and I both know it would be a very bad idea.”
“Why is that, Paige?” he asked. “What harm could come from a bit of fun?” There was so much wrong with that sentence. He knew exactly what harm resulted from sex and passion. Which was precisely why his sexual encounters were void of passion. Passion wasn’t required for release. It was perfunctory. The right contact in the right place and his partners found their pleasure, then he was free to take his. Find a moment of blinding oblivion. But it had very little to do with the woman he was with, and even less to do with feeling.
And fun was a word he wasn’t sure he put any stock in. He wasn’t sure if he ever had any.
“Quite a few bits of harm, I think,” she said, crossing to the stainless-steel refrigerator and opening the freezer, rummaging through the contents. “What ho! Chocolate ice cream!”
She pulled the carton out and held it high like a frozen trophy before setting in on the granite countertop. “Get spoons,” she said. “And bowls.”
“And the previous discussion is closed?”
“Yep.”
He complied with her order and produced bowls and spoons. He set them out and scooped them both some ice cream. He pulled up on the edge of the counter and sat, and Paige did the same on the counter across from him.
“Maybe I won’t be such a terrible mother,” she said, eating a spoonful of ice cream.
“You won’t be. But what has led you to the conclusion?”
“I used my stern voice and got you to change the subject and dish my ice cream,” she said, her grin impish. But the impishness didn’t reach her eyes. She still looked sad. Scared.
“I want to tell you something,” he said. He lied. He didn’t want to tell her what he was about to say, but it seemed important. It was all he had to offer.
She nodded and took another bite of ice cream, her eyes trained on his.
“Do you know what I remember about my mother?” he asked.
She blinked hard, her eyes glistening. She set her bowl and spoon down on the counter beside her. “No.”
“I was six when she died. But I do remember her. How good it felt when she put her hand on my forehead before I fell asleep. The way her voice sounded, soothing, kind. The way she sang to me.” He cleared his throat. “It’s not about getting everything right. It’s about those things, those small things. That’s all that matters. You do that for Ana. You may make mistakes, but you’ll be the constant, comforting presence in her life. That’s what matters,” he repeated.
He remembered more about his mother. Her fear. When his father would come home from work in a dark mood. Her tucking him in, locking his door with a key. So he couldn’t get out and see. So his father couldn’t get in and cause him any harm.
And he remembered her lying on the floor, too still. Too pale. The sparkle gone from her eyes forever.
He remembered lying with her on the floor and singing her a lullaby until the police came. His hand on her head, stroking her hair, like she had always done for him.
Stella, Stellina. Star, little star.
He left that part out. If only he could leave it out of his mind. If only he could scrub the memory away. Hold on to the good, leave out the bad. But it wasn’t possible.
The good always came with bad. Always.
A tear slipped down Paige’s cheek. “She must have been wonderful.”
“She was,” he said.
“I have failed at so many things,” she said. “And I don’t know why. I don’t know why things are harder for me. I tried to do well in school…I just couldn’t. And my parents…I think they tried to be supportive of me, but I don’t think they really believed that I was trying. My brother and sister, they were extraordinary, and they worked for it. But I had to work for ordinary. I had to bust my butt just to be average. And that meant no college for me. In their minds…I suppose I was a failure. I mean, I had my art but art doesn’t translate to much, not to them.”