Play Rough (Black Rose Kisses #2) - Eva Ashwood Page 0,3
do about the Black Roses to really dwell on it. Usually, Dad and I will make her favorite meal and eat it together, toasting to her memory, but not this year. There’s a throb of pain in my chest when I remember that now I don’t have any parents at all, and I close my eyes, trying not to spiral down that rabbit hole. I can’t let Rory see me falling apart, and there’s no point to it anyway.
A look of sympathy passes over Rory’s face when I open my eyes to look at him again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he means it. He crosses the last bit of space between him and my bed and sits down. “I know how shitty that feels.”
I frown, surprised. “You do?”
He nods. “Yeah. My parents died in a fire when I was pretty young. Our house burned down in the middle of the night.”
“Oh. Shit. I… I didn’t know that.” I blink at him, shocked by his words. I had no idea he had so much tragedy in his past.
Something compels me to move from the spot where I froze coming out of the bathroom, and I cross over to sink down on the bed next to him, still wrapped in my towel.
“Were you in the house too?” I ask. “When it happened?”
“Nah, I was sleeping over at a friend’s place for the night. Got woken up in the middle of the night by the police calling my friend’s parents, telling them what happened. They didn’t tell me until the next morning because it was already over by the time they called. I guess they wanted me to have that one night of sleep before my whole life got turned upside down. It was a long-ass time ago, but—” He shrugs. “I still miss them. I get how that kind of loss fucks you up.”
It surprises me to hear that he’s gone through a tragedy like that. He’s usually so chill and happy, and I never would have guessed there was pain like that under it all. I don’t want to have anything in common with any of these guys, especially now, but it’s clear from the look on Rory’s face that he understands the feeling of being alone and missing your parents after losing them.
My mom’s death is less fresh, but it’s still not exactly easy to think about her, even now. Especially with the pain of Dad being gone right on top of it. But I can’t talk about him—not to Rory, not to anyone—so I do the next best thing.
“My mom was… amazing from what I can remember.”
“Were you young when she died?” Rory asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Sometimes I worry I’m going to forget what she looked like, so I keep all the pictures we have of her. Just so she’s never really gone, you know? I remember her being happy all the time. She would sing in the house while she did dishes or ran the vacuum, and she was a terrible cook.” I laugh, thinking about that. “She could make spaghetti and meatballs, and that was about it. But whenever I came out of my room and smelled that sauce and garlic bread, I knew it was going to be a good night.”
Spaghetti night was sacred in our house. Dad came home early, and he’d come into the kitchen and take the top off the simmering pot of sauce and do a big inhale, putting on a fake Italian accent while he complimented the bouquet. Mom would laugh and bat him away from the stove, and then sneak me a meatball on a fork, steaming hot and dripping with the sweet and savory red sauce.
“She sounds really great,” Rory says, smiling at me.
“She was, yeah. We didn’t have a lot,” I tell him, feeling compelled to keep talking for some reason. “It was a shitty neighborhood and everyone was struggling. But she made the best of it. She kept things light and fun no matter what was going on outside the house. And she was tough, too. There’s a story people always liked to tell about her, about a time when some asshole came up to our house and tried to take my bike where it was parked in the driveway. My mom saw him from the window, and she marched right outside with a spatula and told him to back the fuck off. I guess he was so surprised that he just ran away.”