Page 52 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

I steal one of Dash’s fries because his are closer.

He pushes the plate slightly toward me.

I take another because he noticed.

“My mother used to make oatmeal every morning for six months after she read some article about brain health,” I say, dipping the fry into the edge of my soup. “I told her I liked it because she looked pleased every time I finished the bowl.”

Dash’s brows lift. “Did you like it?”

“No. I hated it. I started hiding brown sugar in my sleeve before breakfast.”

His coffee pauses halfway to his mouth. “In your sleeve?”

“I was nine. My methods lacked sophistication.”

He takes the drink and sets the mug down. “Did she find out?”

“Eventually. The laundry made a compelling case against me.”

His laugh is quiet enough that it doesn’t carry past the booth, but it stays in his face afterward. I look at my soup because watching him laugh feels more intimate than it should.

“What about you?” I ask, tracing the edge of the bowl with my spoon. “Were you an oatmeal child?”

“I was a cereal child until I was eleven.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I hated milk.” Dash lifts his coffee again. “My brother told me that meant I didn’t know how to eat breakfast correctly, so I spent an entire year eating dry cereal out of a bowl with a spoon to prove I had principles.”

I look at him over my water glass. “Did you?”

“I had stubbornness. At eleven, it felt similar.”

The mention of his brother sits between us more naturally than I expect. He has referred to family so rarely that even knowing the basics still feels like being handed something private.

“That explains the breakfast judgment.”

“It explains several injuries.” Dash tears a small piece from the corner of his burger bun and sets it aside. “I broke my arm when I was nine because he told me I wouldn’t jump from the shed roof.”

I stop with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “You jumped from a roof.”

“It was a low roof.”

“You broke your arm.”

“The landing was poorly planned.”

I set the spoon down and try to picture it: Dash smaller, younger, reckless enough to climb onto a shed because an older brother dared him. It doesn’t match the man across from me until it does, until I think of the quiet stubbornness in him, the way he walks me to my car every night without announcing what it costs.

“What happened after?” I ask.

“My father yelled. My mother cried. My brother tried to convince everyone I slipped.” Dash looks down at his plate, moving one fry aside with his thumb. “He stayed in my room that night because he thought I’d wake up scared from the pain.”

The image comes easily, two boys in a dark room, one in a cast and the other pretending not to be worried. Dash’s voice doesn’t change much, but something in it softens enough that I hear the distance around the memory.

“Are you close now?” I ask.

Dash’s hand stills beside the plate.