He twists a leather bracelet on his wrist. Like everything else he wears, it's black.
"Who are you mourning?" I ask. Damon pauses in the act of playing with the bracelet. The skin around his eyes tightens a notch. "Sorry, that's none of my business. You don't have to tell me. I shouldn't have asked."
"My mother."
"I'm sorry."
His eyes drift over the trees in the distance. "She died of a stroke. She had her first one four years ago and it left half her body paralyzed. She had her second one last month and died." His eyes are bright and shiny. I think he's withholding tears, which bewilders me. Not because he feels pain, that's natural. I just didn't expect him to express it in front of me.
"And you came here to live with your dad."
His posture changes in the fraction of a second. "Yeah," he says through gritted teeth. Something tells me he knows how to deal with anger better than with pain. "First time I saw him was at Mom's funeral."
"What?"
He balls his palms to fists. "He knocked up Mom when she was sixteen, and then took off. Mom never heard from him again. Still can't believe he had the nerve to show up at her funeral."
"The bright side to this is that you didn't get sent to a group home. You're not eighteen yet. Do you have any other family?"
"Grandparents. My mother's parents, but I never met them. They didn't want anything to do with Mom after she had me."
"Oh." Really, oh; that's terrible. I make a mental note not to complain about my parents anymore. They might not be the most affectionate people, but they would never turn their back on me or James.
"You were right this morning," he says.
"About what?"
"That I'm frustrated and lash out at people."
"Does that make you feel better?"
"Not really. But this," he gestures with his fingers between the two of us, "does. You're easy to talk to." His pulls his gaze to me, and an involuntary sigh escapes my lips. There's something devastating about the intensity of his green eyes. It muddles my thoughts. "You put something in that burger?"
"A truth potion?" My voice is strangely high-pitched.
"You know if you ever tell anyone about this conversation, I will vehemently deny it?"
I grin. "Ah, you're careful not to ruin your bad boy image. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. But I warn you, if you behave like an asshole again, I’ll have no problem calling you out on it in front of people."
"Is this a threat?" He leans forward, and I'm suddenly too preoccupied with his lips to come up with an answer.
"You bet it is," I finally stammer.
"Fair enough. Someone should call me out."
"People do. Principal Charleston did this morning."
"Yeah...Older people do all the time. But if you call me out, I must be doing something wrong."
"Interesting yardstick you're using to measure how much of an asshole you are."
He studies me, stretching out lazily. "What brought this on?"
"What do you mean?"
"Yesterday, it seemed like you’d be happy if I disappeared."
I hesitate. "Do you know our fathers work together?"