I tilted my head. “Where is your dad from? Well, I guess I mean his heritage.”
I, too, had a few in there: Mexican, Puerto Rican, and a myriad of others that made me tick quite a few checks on the European spectrum in addition. I sort of knew the breakdown since I did one of those cheek swab things about a year ago. I didn’t do much with it after that, since I started getting notifications about distant family members wanting to connect with me. One of them had been one of my high school teachers and that had just been friggin’ weird.
Ramses hadn’t said anything after my question, adjusting himself in his seat. He angled his neck back and forth before popping his fingers and I wondered if I said something.
“He’s Syrian.” Gruff, rigid before he took another sip of coffee. He put his cup out. “You? You said at dinner those tamales were your mom’s recipe so…”
“Mexican. She is and some Puerto Rican. Dad is Caucasian. A bunch of stuff there. Though the breakdown is a little unclear.”
He seemed to stop listening to me at this point and that so didn’t seem like him.
I tilted my head. “Ramses?”
“Yep?” He jerked his attention in my direction, and I laughed.
“You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Another stiff drink of his coffee. He pulled it down. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” I spun my half empty water bottle on the table, catching it with my fingers. “So how about some truth? What? You don’t talk with your dad?”
I knew his parents were divorced from Evie. Not much more than that, though. I didn’t know if he lived in town or whatever. I assumed he did since their family’s businesses were here.
“I do not.” He said this with a smile, but it was false and didn’t reach his brown eyes at all. “Not in over four years, and as far as I’m concerned, not long enough time has passed.”
Ouch, and definitely, not like him. “Ram—”
“He’s in prison, Brielle,” he said, and my eyes twitched wide. He frowned. “You didn’t know that? Mom didn’t tell you… that?”
She hadn’t, just that she was divorced. I shook my head.
“Damn.” A shake to his head before he looked at me. He lifted his hand from his cup. “Sorry.”
“No. I didn’t know.”
“Even still, I shouldn’t have bit your head off.” He drew fingers down his face, and I finally noticed how tired he looked. He had a darkness under his eyes I definitely hadn’t noticed in my office.
I guess I hadn’t been looking for it.
I’d been too busy trying to shove him out of my life once again. I eased forward. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” His laugh was dry before he gazed down at me. “But I guess that’s why I probably should have been at Coping with Change tonight.”
And here I thought it was whatever his issue was at Brown.
Or maybe they were one and the same.
Wow.
I’d pegged this guy completely wrong, thinking all his issues had to do with his friend, feelings for her. Maybe those were there, but there were clearly other things going on too.
His throat worked. “I told you I have an attitude problem.”
“But you don’t.” He was just hurting, clearly hurting.
I started to reach for his hand across the table, but I hesitated.
Don’t do that. Don’t comfort him, console him.
It was so easy to want to, indulge in his pain if only so I didn’t have to feel mine. We really were the ultimate distraction for each other.
I slid my hands into my lap. “I’m sorry you’re going through things.”
He tipped up a large shoulder. “Poor little rich boy, right?” he stated off a chuckle. “Tale as old as time. The world is my oyster, and I still manage to find shit.”
“I think you’re simplifying things.”
“I don’t.” His lips turned down. “It’s reality, but I guess it’s a good thing that at least I’m aware of it.”
I guess.
I played with my bottle again. “So that had to do with your issue at Brown?”
“Mom seems to think so, yeah.” He nodded. “She may be right. I hold a lot of resentment for my dad. He did some bad things. Hurt our family pretty bad.”
I wanted him to talk to me about it, share with me but it wasn’t my place. I cuffed my arms. “And here I just had a divorce.”
Now, I was simplifying things, readily aware of that.
As if calling me on the carpet, Ramses shot daggers at me. At least, they felt like daggers. He gave me a look that said nothing but “Yeah, try again” and I laughed.
I opened my hands. “It maybe was more complicated than that.”
Ramses landed his big fists on the table, eyeing me, and I knew I had to give him more than that. I did, but…
I worked my jaw. “I can only say so much, but things got intense.” Physical. I forced out a breath. “He put hands on me.”
I think it was the first time I’d said it out loud. Though I wasn’t allowed to technically say it out loud. I’d signed a long paper that said I couldn’t. Not that my husband had beaten me within an inch of my life or anything. But he had hurt me, enough to put bruises on me, and made it so I couldn’t show my face in public for weeks. My ex-husband was a pretty powerful man, popular in his sphere, even post-retirement, and that couldn’t get out.
And here I simplified things again.
The beating had been the end result of something else and actually only happened once but was enough to make me see things were done. That we couldn’t heal, and it was actually easier to talk about than prior traumas.
In fact, a lot easier.
Ramses’s expression shifted at that point, a darkness hitting his eyes I’d never seen before. His fingers worked on the table, and I wondered if he’d actually flip it over.
And he hadn’t said anything.
Not a word.
But that didn’t mean none of them flashed across his eyes, that there were so many things he wanted to say but just didn’t know how to say them. He simply kept them to himself.
“Coping with Change and Emotional Stressors,” he growled, saying the full title of the class. That was one of the reasons I’d decided on it.
I’d had a lot of emotional stress.
Ramses dragged his fingers down his face, his mouth pinched tight and his brow furrowed. “How long ago was this?”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“How long ago?” It was like he needed to know, like it did matter. “Brielle?”
“Not long.” I wished it had been longer. “I moved for a fresh start. He’s a public figure, and technically, I’m not supposed to talk about this. I signed an NDA.”
“An NDA?” His laughter was thick and throaty before he forced down more coffee. “How much of a fucking coward could this guy be? What’s his name?”
“I told you. I’m not supposed to talk about it. This is a breech, me even talking about it now.”
Why the fuck had I talked about it?
Goddamn it.
I started to get up, but he grabbed my wrist. I shook it off. “No, Ramses. I have to go.”