I didn’t quite manage to hide the wince when her fingers accidentally came in contact with my latest bruise. The Waltons drank. There was wine at the dinner table, and I saw Mr. and Mrs. Walton sometimes enjoying cocktails on the front porch. But I never saw either of them drunk.
That was the difference between Mr. Walton and my father. Self-control.
Maybe that was what he was trying to teach me on the chessboard.
“Football injury?” Mr. Walton asked, looking at my arm.
“Yeah,” I said, tugging the sleeve of my shirt down to cover the bruise. The lie stuck in my throat.
Mrs. Walton crooked her finger at me and pointed up. I hid my smile. I liked being needed even if it was just for my height. I found her favorite long-stemmed wineglass with flowers etched on it on the top shelf and handed it to her. She wiggled it in her husband’s direction, asking a silent question. Mr. Walton gave her a geeky thumbs-up, and I pulled a second glass off the shelf.
“Lucian, I don’t like you playing that game,” she lectured, taking the second glass and heading to the counter. She put the glasses down, rummaged through one of the bags, and produced a bottle of wine. “There are too many ways to get hurt. And yes, young bodies heal faster, but you don’t know what that kind of damage can add up to later in life.”
“The boy is starting quarterback in his senior year, love,” Mr. Walton pointed out. “He’s not quitting the team and taking up knitting.”
“Nobody said knitting,” she said. “What about softball? Sloane hardly ever gets hurt. Where is our daughter, by the way?”
I’d been wondering the same thing for the last two hours but had refused to ask.
“On a date with the Bluth boy,” Mr. Walton said with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle.
I stiffened. This was news to me. We’d talked about it. Not at school because we never talked at school. It was some unspoken rule between the two of us. She probably thought I was an asshole. The popular quarterback who thought he was too good to be seen talking to the sophomore bookworm.
“I forget. Do we like him or not?” Mrs. Walton asked, inserting the corkscrew.
Jonah Bluth was a punk-ass junior defensive tackle who’d made the mistake of running his mouth in the locker room about Sloane Walton’s tits that he was going to get his hands on. I’d waited until we’d gotten out on the practice field before I hit him hard enough to knock some sense into him. Unfortunately for him, that sense didn’t tell him to stay down, and Nash had been the one to pry us apart.
I’d told Sloane in no uncertain terms to dump Jonah’s ass. She’d demanded to know why. For some reason, she felt like she had the right to know everything about everything. It was infuriating and endearing at the same time.
I told her he was an asshole and that she deserved better. Both truths.
She said she’d think about it, which apparently meant she was going to do what she damn well pleased no matter what.
“I think we’re withholding judgment to see if our daughter likes him,” Mr. Walton said. Then he beckoned to me. “Come on, Lucian. I’ll tell you about the Scandinavian defense while we cart in the groceries.”
“I’m making your second favorite for dinner tonight, Lucian. Frozen ravioli with store-bought sauce,” Mrs. Walton called after us.
I didn’t recognize the warm feeling in my chest, but I liked it.
The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. My arms and shoulders sang from the half dozen bruises I’d have to hide. My jaw ached from his fist. And for once, the knuckles of my right hand were bruised and split.
The blow had surprised us both.
Worse.
He was getting worse.
And so was I.
“Your father didn’t mean it,” Mom said in her whisper of a voice. She always whispered. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”
We were sitting side by side on the worn linoleum of the kitchen floor in the middle of the mess like we were two pieces of trash waiting to be scooped up and disposed of.
“That’s no fucking excuse, Mom. Mr. Walton next door—”
She flinched. That was what had started it this time when Dad came home stinking of booze.
It was always something. Dinner was cold. I’d parked my fourth-hand car wrong. A tone of voice wasn’t respectful enough. Tonight, it had been the chess book Simon Walton had given me.
“You think you’re better than me?” Dad had growled. “You think that fucking pussy next door is better than me? You think you can read a fucking book and forget where you came from?”