Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I pull out the cinnamon, uncap it and take a sniff. When I can’t help but smile, he notices. “Does cinnamon make you happy?”
“In a way, yes. It brings back good memories.” The milk is just starting to bubble, so I turn off the heat and move the pot over to a cold burner. When I turn to him, brows lifted, he opens a cabinet to reveal glasses and mugs. I pulled down two and pour an equal amount of milk into both.
“My mom used to make this for me when I was little,” I explain, shaking a couple of dashes of cinnamon on top of both mugs before stirring a little. Then I slide one of the mugs his way before taking a sip for myself. Again, I smile as countless happy, peaceful memories come rushing back. It’s almost enough to make me want to cry when I think of how normal my life used to be before I made the one terrible, game-changing decision that landed me here.
“When you couldn’t sleep?” he asks, and I have the pleasure of watching him pick up his mug and sniff like he didn’t just watch me prepare the damn thing from beginning to end. What, does he think I slipped poison in there? I take another sip, hiding my grin while he takes an experimental sip of his own.
“That’s pretty good,” he admits like he’s surprised.
“It always did the trick. I don’t know if the milk itself had anything to do with it or the ritual. But I never had a hard time falling asleep after we shared some warm milk in the kitchen, just the two of us.”
“That sounds pretty nice.” He says it like it comes as a surprise. I can only imagine somebody like him looking down on so-called normal people and their normal lives. Maybe it does surprise him that there’s something to be said for those of us who lived quiet, average lives.
I have to take a chance, both because he’s being quiet and thoughtful and because I’m insanely curious about this man. “What about you?” I venture.
He frowns. “What about me?”
“Did your mom ever do stuff like that for you when you were little? To help you sleep, or when you were sick?”
He stares down into the mug, and I think I asked the wrong question. It’s so tough to figure out how much is too much with him. But he doesn’t lash out at me or shut me down the way I expect him to. “I wasn’t raised by my mother. My grandfather raised me.”
The back of my neck tingles, but I have to ignore it to focus on him. Maybe I’ll finally get some answers to all the questions bouncing around in my head. “I see.”
“No, you don’t,” he tells me with a smirk. “My mother… died when I was really young. Or rather, she was killed.”
I can’t breathe for a second; it hits me so hard. Not just the revelation, but the way he reveals it in a flat, almost lifeless voice. I wonder how hard he’s had to work to suppress his feelings about her death that he’s able to just rattle it off like he’s totally unconnected from the words he’s saying.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. And I am, extremely so. But I don’t want him getting upset and thinking I’m going overboard to kiss up to him. I wish everything I did or said didn’t feel like a chess move I have to plan out in advance. It’s maddening.
He shrugs a little, taking another sip of the milk. “And my grandfather… He’s not the kind of guy who would sit up with me late at night and make me warm milk to help me sleep.” His lips twitch like the very idea is too funny to even consider.
“Was he good to you, at least?”
“Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not some poor little orphan. I made out just fine. But it’s times like this…” He stares down at the milk, frowning. “I remember there are things I missed out on.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
He shakes his head a little. “Honestly, no. I was very little when she died.”
“I really am sorry.” No wonder he is how he is. Hard, brittle, brutal. The man whose phone calls make him so angry is the man who raised him. From what I’ve witnessed so far, it couldn’t have been a very cheerful upbringing. I doubt there was very much fun for him as a kid. And he probably never felt like he could be a little kid—be a man, boys don’t cry, that kind of thing.
Right now, I don’t see the man in front of me. I’m not even paying attention to his body, not very much anyway—it’s kind of hard to ignore completely. But what I see more than anything is a little boy who never knew his mom, who was raised by a man who to this day rides him incessantly. What must that have been like? Did he ever get a hug? I want to hug him now.