“That’s sweet.”
His lips press together in a thin line. “The bond I had with my grandfather was different from the one I shared with my father. And I think that frustrated my father. He was never artsy and that was all I wanted to do as a kid. It was like he didn’t know how to connect with me in a way that didn’t involve throwing a ball around.” His eyes seem distant like he’s picturing his life at another time. “I don’t remember my parents arguing much, but when they did, it was usually about me.” He winces. “Dad would get angry because he didn’t know how to bond with me, so Mom would cry. It got particularly worse once my mom got sick. I think she was worried my father and I would never be close, and she wouldn’t be there to help us.”
My entire chest aches at the look on Rowan’s face. “Cancer, right?”
His throat bobs as he nods.
“I’m sorry.” I grab his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.
He clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “That was the start of my rocky relationship with my father. Eventually, I gave up on drawing and moved on to more appropriate activities that were expected of me.”
I want to beg him to tell me all the stories because I’m desperate to learn more about the man sitting across from me. Rowan’s probably spent years with pent-up emotions. The way he speaks of his mother, laced with pain breaking through his emotionless facade, has my heart cracking.
“What made you want to stop?”
“It’s…complex.”
I think he might hold back, but he continues. “He might have not intentionally told me to stop, but he made sure to take the joy out of it. Whenever I had an exhibition, he wouldn’t show up, so I had to watch all the other kids’ parents celebrate while I stood there by myself. It got to the point that I refused to participate anymore, despite my grandfather trying. Then there was a time that he found all the old cards I drew for my mom while she was in the hospital—” His voice shakes. “He ruined them because he felt like it. They were some of the last memories I had of her, and they were gone after a drunken rampage.”
“Drunken rampage?”
A vein in his jaw ticks. “Forget I said anything about that.”
But I can’t. I want to go back in time and protect Rowan.
“It’s okay if you can’t talk about it.” I reach out and place my palm on his clenched fist.
“I owe you after everything.” He releases it, giving me room to interlace our fingers.
I give his hand another squeeze before pulling away. “I’m not going to use an apology as a way to pull information out of you. It’s your choice to share your past.”
He looks at me. As if his eyes are gauging my soul, assessing me for deception. “You mean that?”
“Of course. But will you tell me what made you want to start drawing again? If that’s okay.”
He nods. “Because your drawings were terrible, and I had this burning desire to help you.”
“You started drawing again because of me?”
“Yes,” he mumbles under his breath.
I smile and nod. “Oh, wow. Why?”
“You almost cried during your first presentation.”
“And?” This is the same man who told me he had no fucks to give. His wanting to help me without even really knowing me…it makes no sense.
“In the beginning, I only wanted to help you because I thought it was beneficial for me. You have the kind of talent I was looking for to renovate the park and make sure—” He blinks twice, catching himself mid-sentence.