When I was little, everything hurt. The scratchy fabric, and the tags, and the way it felt when the pants didn’t sit right or straight on my waist. She didn’t understand that even today, those things would drive me to absolute and utter distraction.
I didn’t like being that way. I didn’t enjoy feeling like I was about to fall into a complete and total sobbing meltdown because I couldn’t stop thinking about the way my sock was crooked in my shoe. There were days I would have given anything to be like everyone else. To feel a seam or a loose thread and know it was there but just not give a shit.
Quinn noticed though. He smiled politely, but under the table, he held my hand and traced my palm with his thumb using the perfect amount of pressure that kept me calm.
And now he wrapped himself around me and led me to the bedroom, where he stripped me to my boxers and put me in bed, handing me my crochet bag. I assumed he was going to ravage me—and I did want that—but he could also tell I needed a few moments.
And I never loved him more for seeing it when I couldn’t say it.
“What are you making?”
I stared down at my lap. “An egg.”
“For anyone in particular?”
I leaned over and kissed him. “You, if you want it.”
“If your mom or dad, or your brother?—”
“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “No, they’re…they take them if I give stuff to them, but they don’t keep them.”
He sighed and laid his head against my hip as he watched my fingers move in rhythmic circles, hooking the yarn through each single stitch. “I know it hurts you sometimes, the way they are. And I feel like a bastard for being envious of that.”
I glanced down at him. “The hurt?”
“The parents. The family.” His voice was small. “I don’t wish my parents were around. They didn’t really want to spend time with me, and I think if they were still alive, it would be the same. But there were a lot of nights I wished I had family who loved me so much I got sick and tired of them.”
I set my hook and yarn down. “Quinn?—”
“Sorry. No. Keep going. I’m just rambling.”
I stuffed my project back into the bag and tossed it to the end of the bed. It was easy to nestle under the covers after that. To curl into his side and hold his hands between our bodies. “You’re not rambling. I know the difference.”
He closed his eyes. “Sometimes I feel very small and unimportant. Then your parents come around and—I mean, your dad obviously knows who I was from when I was playing. I’m not just some random guy to him, but he made me feel like I was.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What?” His eyes flew open. “Baby, no. That’s a good thing. He made me feel like I was just some guy off the street who fell in love with his son. Like I was a pointless, everyday stranger who was being welcomed into his family because I was myself. Not because I played well or got famous for being injured.”
Ah. I understood what he was saying then. “If it belongs to me, it belongs to you. That includes family. My brothers are going to love you. Not as much as I do, but enough, I think.”
“Any love will be enough.” He was quiet for a short beat, then touched my chin. “Your mom…”
I raised my brows.
“I think she might understand you more than she lets on.”
I started to shake my head, but there was something in his tone that told me maybe, in this case, I was wrong. I’d been clinging to a fear that she’d never get me—that what she was told by doctors and therapists would shape the way she saw me for the rest of my life.
And changing my own perception was hard, but I could do it. I loved her enough to hope that things would get better.
“How do you know?” I whispered.
He smiled. “Just…something she said to me about when you were little. About the ducks.”
I knew all about the ducks. My first words, and her second favorite story to tell. But I didn’t understand how that meant she got me.
Quinn stroked my cheek. “She told me that was the moment she knew you were listening the entire time.”
