That hits.
Hard.
Right under the ribs Ray broke twenty-something years ago.
I turn to face her. “I was the only man in the house some nights.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You were the boy in the house. The adults failed you.”
My jaw locks.
Those words should not matter. They do. They land somewhere deep, somewhere I thought I had paved over with motorcycle oil, club loyalty, and enough violence to scare most memories quiet.
The adults failed you.
Not you failed. Not you missed. Not you were too small to swing right.
The adults failed you.
I look at her, and she looks back with tears in her eyes like she would fight a dead man and a scared mother and time itself if it gave that boy a different night.
Don’t look at me like that, Amelia. Like I’m not ruined in all the places I know I am. Like some part of me can still be handled without gloves.
I push away from the sink. “That’s enough.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Good.
Bad.
I don’t know anymore.
“No, it isn’t,” she says.
My eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“Why? Because you told me something true and now you want to scare me back a few feet?”
I laugh once, low and mean because she has me nailed to the wall. “You got bold after one dance and some experimental cornbread.”
“I got tired.”
That stops me.
Her voice drops. “I got tired of men bleeding in front of me and calling it strength.”
The kitchen feels too small.
She is too close now, though she has barely moved. Or maybe I’m the one who stepped closer without noticing. There are only a few feet between us. The stove light paints her skingold. Her hair falls over one shoulder. She has changed out of the green top into an old T-shirt she found in her bag, soft and thin from wear. No bra, if I’m guessing right.
I’m definitely guessing right.
My eyes know it. My blood knows it. I force my gaze back to her face. She notices. Her breath changes.
Not fear.
Not exactly.