“How old were you?”
“Two.”
I frown as I process the information. “What happened?”
“My aunt was seventeen…” His voice trails off. “She killed herself before the baby was born.”
My mouth falls open. Dear God.
“How old was your mother?”
“Twenty-two with three children under three.”
I roll over to face him. He stares at me, his eyes cold.
“And you have always hated him?”
“Just the opposite. I loved him once,” he says sadly.
My heart drops.
“Every sports game, every school concert, I would look for him.”
I lie down on his chest as I listen, I hate this story.
“For years I would lie in bed every night crying, and I’d pray to God that I could be smarter so that Dad would come back and love me.”
My eyes fill with tears as I imagine him being so small and crying himself to sleep. “Spence,” I whisper.
“When I was twelve, my mother met my stepfather, and for the first time in my life I had a man around who was actually interested in me. Then, as I got older and I understood the dynamics of what Dad had actually done, I got angry and started to hate him for being who he was. What kind of man sleeps with his pregnant wife’s sister? My aunty was only seventeen when he started sleeping with her.” He shakes his head in disgust. “What kind of man walks away from his own children?”
He drops his head back to the edge of the bath, lost with a faraway look in his eyes as if he’s transgressed to that time. “Masters, Seb, and I found out where Dad lived when we were fourteen. We went to his house and broke in when he wasn’t home, and we smashed up everything he owned.”
“Did that make you feel any better?”
“No.” He clenches his jaw tight. “I hate that I’m like him.”
I frown instantly. “What? You’re not like him, Spencer.”
His sad eyes find mine. “Yeah, I am. All my life, all I’ve ever heard is how much I’m like my father.”
“Only in the way you look,” I huff. “Spence, if you were like your dad you would have taken my virginity without a single thought for my wellbeing.”
He runs his fingers through my hair as he looks at me.
“Spencer, is this why you’ve never let yourself get close to anyone?”
He blinks in surprise.
“You’re so scared that you’re like your father, the thought of hurting someone horrifies you and you’d rather be alone.”
He clenches his jaw, and I know that’s exactly how he feels.
I crawl up over him. “Baby,” I whisper. “You’re nothing like your father.”
His eyes search mine. “How do you know?”
I smile. “I just know. If you were like him, you’d be on your fourth wife by now and have six kids to six different women.”