Without hesitation, it was Pops’ death. The funeral. His own rage at having been left alone and the way his parents hadn’t known what to do with his grief and alternatively disciplined and distanced themselves from him.
“The scoops I couldn’t get. The leads that went to other reporters at other papers and networks, or fell apart for lack of evidence.”
“Not buying it. Too general. You think I can’t take hearing that losing your Pops was the worst thing that ever happened to you?” She narrowed her eyes to a ferocious parody squint. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“I think this experiment is evil.” And the woman had a bead on him he found uncomfortable, which was why he didn’t want to do this in the first place. Self-examination outside Barney’s church was designed to make him twitch. “I’m not talking to you about grief.”
“Why not?”
Because that was something he kept locked up tight. It was an old scar, long healed and flexible enough he didn’t need to consider it as he moved through the world. Talking about it would only needlessly irritate it.
“Scaredy cat.”
“Taunting me won’t get you what you want.” Unless she wanted to take this up close and very personal, and then it might unwrap her.
“How do you know what I want?”
It couldn’t be the same thing he did and didn’t want. Complication. Step it back. “Can I get you anything else?”
“You can answer the question and I can be the kind of friend who doesn’t judge.”
“You don’t want to be my friend, Honeywell.”
“My name is Derelie, and there’s only one thing I want more than being your friend tonight.”
It was a trap to ask what that might be. He let the silence between them grow. He knew how to use it to force others to show their hands.
She stood abruptly, startling Martha, who was sprawled on the floor like a rug needing a good vacuuming. “There you go, that’s intimidating, that thing you do where you don’t talk. It’s not friendly. I should go.”
“I felt abandoned.” She went quiet. “On the day of the funeral I stole a car. All I was good for was crashing into a fence. I think I wanted to die too.”
She returned to her seat at the table. “Were you hurt?”
“Bruised, scratched up, a touch of concussion.”
“It’s your pattern.”
“I’m not following.”
“You said it earlier. You put yourself into a position where you’re going to get hurt to deal with the world.”
First instinct was to protest, but she’d turned his own words against him. Astonishing. Second instinct, default question. “What’s your most terrible memory?”
“You’re just going to skip right over that revelation.”
“That’s what I was planning, yes.”
“All right then. My most terrible memory is the night my dad had a heart attack. We didn’t know if he’d make it. I’ve never been so frightened or so relieved. He has a pacemaker now and nothing stops him. I’m sorry about your Pops.” She looked away to Martha, who was snoozing. “I don’t want to ask you the next question.”
“It must be a doozy. Hit me. I use pain to deal with the world.”
“How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?”
Ah. Like ripping off tape and taking the top layer of skin with it. He hated this. He hated feeling that he owed her his answer and the shock of vulnerability that came with it.
“We didn’t touch in my family. We weren’t the average definition of loving. We didn’t spend time together. Work, the hospital was the priority for my parents, prestige and money too. But I had everything I needed. I had a home and food and an enviable education. I didn’t turn to a life of crime. I don’t drink to excess or do drugs, other than over-the-counter painkillers. I came out of it fine. My childhood wasn’t traditionally happy, but it wasn’t tragic either and it’s a long time ago.”
“I would die without touch.” She stopped, her face flushed. “We were always hugged and kissed and squashed and sat on laps and pushed around and chased, tickled till we wet ourselves, brushed and scrubbed and smoothed. That’s my whole childhood.” She put her hand over his where it lay on the table. “It makes me so sad you didn’t have that.”