“I don’t have a lot. But we can have sandwiches, if that’s okay?”
“That sounds amazing.” We work around each other in the kitchen, me making our lunch, and him finishing with the dishwasher and the pots and pans. It’s silent but peaceful, and I can’t help but love having him here next to me. It feels good to be making food for more than one person and sharing my home with someone. I’ve missed this.
“Oh, um,” I say, as I see him putting the bowls in the top rack. “Those go in the bottom.”
He eyes me. “Do they?” There’s a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
I flush. I know I can be quite particular about how the dishwasher is loaded. Hell, I can be quite particular about a lot of things. I’ve come to accept it after this long as one of my wonderful quirks, but I know it can be irritating for other people.
The smirk turns into a grin. “Well, I wouldn’t want them to get confused.” He grabs the bowls and moves them to the bottom rack. He winks at me when he’s finished and I feel my cheeks heat. What is happening to me?
After washing and drying his hands, he joins me at the table where I’ve placed out turkey and cheese sandwiches. He’s dressed in his old clothes again, baggy jeans and the T-shirt and hoodie I got him last week.
“Shit, I forgot to ask if you were allergic to anything,” I say. He just smiles.
“I’m a big boy, gramps. If I was allergic to something I’d tell you.” He takes a bite and says through a mouthful of food, “The only thing I’m allergic to is shitty people.”
My face heats and my stomach tightens. I suddenly don’t feel so hungry anymore. Sure, I’m helping him out now, but if he knew about my past, what would he say? Fuck, he’d hate me. And he’d have every right to. I fucking hate myself.
“You okay?” he says, taking another large bite out of his sandwich. I give him a smile that I’m hoping doesn’t appear as forced as it feels.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I begin to eat and decide the best way to get rid of this feeling is to distract myself again. I’ve been working on forgiving myself, but I think it’s a lost cause. Even the therapy Rachel and I did together and individually didn’t make me feel loads better about what happened. We failed our son. The one person we were supposed to be there for and love unconditionally, and we lost everything as a result. Him, each other. How can I possibly forgive myself for that?
I clear my throat as I swallow a bite of sandwich, then take a sip of water. “How long have you been on your own?” I ask him.
There’s a pause, but then he says, “Eight months.”
“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say.
“It’s okay.” He fidgets with the string on his hoodie. “It’s better this way.”
I gape at him. “You can’t mean that. Selling yourself, doing drugs, stealing and getting beat up, starving half to death, that’s better than life with your parents? Did you even graduate high school?”
His jaw clenches and my face heats. I can tell when I’ve overstepped, and this is one of those times.
“Look, I didn’t—” I start, but he drops his sandwich and scoots out of his chair.
“Where are you going?” I ask as he walks past me.
“To get my things.” He storms down the hallway and I growl before standing and going after him.
“Stop,” I say, as he enters the spare room and reaches for his bag. But he doesn’t stop. He picks it up and swings it over his shoulder before heading back to where I stand, blocking the doorway.
“Move.” He stares me in the face, defiance in his green eyes.
“No.”
He juts his chin out and glares harder. “I thought you were different, but you are the same as everyone else. The same as my parents. Just a judgmental prick. I’ve had enough shame and guilt from them and I don’t need it from you too, so get the fuck out of my way.”
“No,” I repeat, my gaze hard. He tries to push past me but I just move my arm and block him again. He’s pinned against the wall now and he’s scowling at me. Fuck, this boy is infuriating. What is it about him that makes me want to gnaw my own arm off and at the same time grab him and hold him close, feel him melt against me? How can I have only known him for a little over a day and yet have the most intense desire to kiss him?
I swallow. It would be better if he left. Better for me, for sure, because I need to get these messed up thoughts out of my head before they destroy me. But I can’t let him go. Along with the need to be with him, to be close to him, is an equally intense desire to protect him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my gaze never leaving his. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said those things. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. I shouldn’t have judged you. I’ve had enough life experience to know that parents aren’t always right. And if you left you must have had a good reason. I’m sorry that you were in that position, because you never should have been. You should never have felt like you were safer alone or on the streets than you were at home. Please don’t go.”
His gaze softens. I reach up without really thinking and brush a strand of hair away from his forehead. God, his hair is soft. My cock twitches when I hear his breath hitch and I step back.
He shakes his head. “Deal is over, I did what we agreed on, and you have done enough for me. It’s time I left anyway.” He straightens and hikes his backpack up on his shoulder again, but to my surprise he doesn’t race out of the door.
