Page 169 of Nyx

"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?"

I consider the question longer than I need to because my honest answer came to mind immediately. "No."

"I want you to come to me, to talk to me, to search for me in a room of people," he says, and it sounds more like a confession that he's been struggling with than anything else.

"Did your mom get out?" I ask because focusing on what he just said can't lead us anywhere good.

He shakes his head. "No, the violence continued. It was even worse when there was alcohol involved."

"Your dad?"

"Yeah," he says, his eyes once again dipping down to the plate of eggs in front of him. "But my mom drank a lot as well. They were volatile together."

"Did he hit you?"

"Not at first. I tried to stop him from hurting my mom when I was about ten or eleven. I thought I was big enough to put an end to it at that point. He proved otherwise."

"I'm so sorry you went through that," I tell him.

"I see some of myself in that little girl, Daisy," he says. "Only she has the opportunity for more help than anyone ever offered me."

"She does," I quickly agree.