Losing Control by Jen Frederick

sham.”
    He stares at me for a moment, and the look on his face is fierce. Some unfamiliar expression lurks behind his eyes, but it passes before I can decipher it and his normal, humorous “life’s my personal game” facade takes its place.
    “I like how quick you are.”
    “That's a non-answer. Fine, you don't want to engage in normal conversation like a human being, then I'll eat.” I reapply myself to the food.
    “I don’t like that you live here,” he says over his noodle dish. He wields his utensils firmly and confidently, as he does everything else.
    “Thanks, but this is all we can afford,” I respond tartly. Being criticized about my financial decisions when I'm doing the absolute best I can makes me irritable.
    “What about Malcolm?”
    “We have a complicated relationship.”
    His gaze sharpens. “Tell me about it.”
    Oh, what the hell. It’s not like it’s a big bad secret. I take another bite of my food. “His mom hates us because her husband, Malcolm’s dad, had an affair with my mom. But she didn’t know he was married!” I defend my mother. “So Malcolm’s dad moved in with my mom and they spent four years together, half of which apparently Mitch Hedder spent finding a new woman.”
    “Sounds like a real winner.”
    “My mom was lonely,” I say defensively.
    “No judgment from me,” he says holding up his hands. “Like I said earlier, your mother is lovely. Why don't we eat? I didn't order all this food only to ruin the meal with nosy questions.” His smile is a bit lopsided. “I'm intensely curious about you.”
    The statement embarrasses me, so I hide my face in my food. Despite our lunch I'm actually so hungry I want to eat it all and not save any of it for tomorrow, but I force myself to stop. And it’s like my cessation of eating signals an end to the meal. I’m a little sorry as we begin to wrap up the leftovers and then stick them in the refrigerator. The detritus of our meal is all gone but for the glasses of wine. Mine is low until Ian reaches over and empties out the bottle.
    I can hardly believe I’ve helped him drink a whole bottle. Fatigue sets in and I stumble when I rise from the table. Ian is by my side, instantly leading me over to the sofa. He settles into the corner and draws me down right next to him and—maybe because I’m full of food and feeling sleepy from the long day and the wine—I lean into him, curling my legs up on the sofa cushion.
    “We're a lot alike, you know,” he says. His arm is around me, and his hand is threading through my hair. It’s relaxing and arousing at the same time which seems impossible, but it’s Ian so I guess everything is possible. He could find gravity in space.
    “How so?”
    “Your mother’s illness has turned you into the care provider.” I make a sound to protest, but he shushes me. “It doesn’t mean she loves you less or she isn’t a wonderful mother; it means that you’re taking on a responsibility sooner than you expected.” He takes a large swallow of his wine, and I’m mesmerized by how the light catches on the silver links of the band encasing his strong wrist and by the muscles of his forearm, which flex as he lifts and then lowers his glass. “But you’re a lot braver than I think I would be in your situation. My mother was sick, and I didn’t realize it. If I had taken better care of her . . .” his voice trails off and then picks back up. “She died, so I understand your grief.”
    I place my hand on his heart and my head finds a nesting place in the hollow of his shoulder. His heart beats soundly and regularly. It’s strong and I feel in this place, within the circle of his arms, no harm could come to me.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “When did she die?”
    “Years ago,” he says, and there’s only acceptance in his voice and not the grief he spoke of earlier. “I’m a strong believer in what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
    “I hope so.” The thought of my mother not