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Whatever this is, it’s ripping him open.
“Please, Bama,” I whisper, reaching out to touch his hand. His skin is warm, almost burning. “Trust me.”
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, everything else fades away.
The noise, the people, the chaos—it’s just us.
He looks like he’s about to shatter, and it breaks my heart.
“Okay,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper. “But promise me something first.”
“Anything,” I breathe, leaning closer.
“That you won’t, you won’t look at me differently. You’ll know I’m still the same man who would move mountains for you.” he pleads, eyes desperate.
“I won’t,” I assure him, squeezing his hand. “Just tell me.”
He closes his eyes, takes another deep breath, and begins to speak.
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
For a heartbeat, I think he might clam up again, but then he lifts his head and meets my eyes.
“My father,” he starts, words coming out slow and jagged, “he slit his wrists. That’s how he died.”
The room spins for a moment, the weight of his confession crashing over me like a wave.
I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, trying to process what he’s just said.
It’s not what I expected, not by a long shot.
“Slit his wrists?” I echo, voice barely audible. “But . . . why?”
Bama’s face hardens, a mask of old pain and simmering anger. “He was a bastard. A drunk, a cheat . . . he made our lives hell.”
I furrow my brows, feeling the confusion and doubt swirl inside me.
There’s something in his eyes that doesn’t sit right with what he just said.
The tension between us is thick, almost suffocating. I need the truth.
“Tell me the truth, Bama,” I insist, my voice steadier than I feel. I reach out, placing my hand on his. His skin is warm, rough from years of hard living. “Please.”
His eyes flicker to mine, searching, pleading.
He takes a deep breath, the kind that seems to draw strength and resolve from somewhere deep within.
“Jordyn,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. He looks up, locking his gaze with mine, ocean blue depths pulling me in. “Don’t look at me differently. Please.”
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around his hand. “I’m not going to.” I promise, even though the words feel like they’re hanging in the air, waiting to see if they’ll hold. “But I need the truth, Bama.”
His eyes flicker with something I can’t quite name—fear? Shame?
He looks away for a moment, staring at the floor of the clubhouse.
The silence stretches thin, taut like a wire about to snap.
“All right,” he says finally, voice rough as gravel. “You want the truth? Here it is.”
