Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
The clock on the bedside table reads that it's just after one in the morning, but the restlessness inside me refuses to settle.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, I shove my feet into my sandals and stand.
Thinking a glass of water will help, I leave the room, only to turn the corner into the kitchen and see Nyx standing at the stove.
"Sorry," I say for interrupting him. "Didn't think anyone else would be up."
He doesn't seem startled, and it doesn't surprise me. The man seems aware of his surroundings at all times.
"You apologize a lot," he says with his back still to me, and it feels like a jab, as if he's annoyed with me.
But then he pulls the pan off the burner, setting it aside before turning around to face me fully.
I fight the urge to apologize for apologizing too much, but I clamp my mouth closed, not wanting to annoy him further.
"I understand the reasoning behind it," he continues. "But you don't have to be sorry for taking up space. Your presence here isn't an inconvenience for anyone. You don't have to earn safety. It isn't conditional here. Nothing is."
"Okay," I whisper, my eyes burning with the reminder that some people value other people just because of their mere existence and not because they can help them in any way.
"I'd slit the throat of any man who tried to compromise that," he adds, a look in his eyes that makes me believe he isn't exaggerating.
"A gourmet meal at one in the morning," I say, needing to lighten the mood a little.
"Scrambled eggs," he says as he turns to the cabinet and pulls out two plates.
Without asking, he splits the eggs between them and carries them to the table.
He pulls out a fork from the utensil holder in the center of the table, places it on one plate, then grabs another and takes a seat.
He points to the plate. "If you're hungry."
I hesitate only for a second before pulling out the chair and taking a seat.
"The apologizing-"
"It's one of the hardest things to let go of," he interrupts. "Believe me. I know from personal experience."
I watch him as he stabs his eggs, a trace of aggression in the action.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't seem like a man who apologizes very often."
His fork slows to a stop several inches from his mouth as he turns his full attention to me.
"I learned at a very young age that apologizing doesn't make things better."
"I know," I tell him, well aware that it doesn't.
"I figured if it didn't help, then it was a waste of energy."
He looks down at the eggs on his fork as if there's a greater significance to the simple meal than I know about.
"My mother didn't cook very often," he says, lowering his fork full of eggs back to his plate, but his eyes stayed locked on it. "My very first memory of her was walking into the kitchen and seeing her at the stove. I held on to that for the longest time. Thinking I was so special for someone to make me food."
"It's a labor of love," I agree.
"If only the memory stopped there," he mutters.
I remain quiet, thinking that it isn't my place to ask questions about what else that memory holds for him. I don't want to seem nosy or intrusive, but I really want to know.
Silence swirls around us, but it isn't the calm and easy silence that filled the air the other night at the pool. There's an edge to it, an unease that makes my senses heighten.
"When she realized I was in the kitchen, she turned to face me. The bruises on her face were so many colors. Blues and purples from the night before, and sickening greens and yellows from the nights before that."
My work in the domestic violence field has helped me control my response to such horrific accounts of trauma, but it doesn't make my heart ache for what he endured any less.
"Oh, Nyx," I whisper, wanting to reach and place my hand on his arm in comfort, but unsure if that's what he would want or not. "Is it okay to ask questions?"
His eyes are slow to look up, but I can feel the pain he's feeling just by looking at him.
"Of course," he whispers, his voice more fragile than I've ever heard before. "Ask me anything."
"How old were you in this first memory?"
"Four? Maybe five?"
"Your dad?"
He dips his head.
"He was a mean drunk," he adds.
"Graham was, too."
"I figured that out when you didn't look impressed with the beer in my hand earlier."
"I need to control my face better," I tell him. "You don't have to stop what you're doing because I have some sort of history with it."
"Would you have approached me if I still had a beer in my hand?"