Breaking The Ice [bxb]

Chapter Seven [Liam]

My mom fluffs out my pillows for the umpteenth time.

It's entirely unnecessary, but I let her do it. I know the gesture is more for her sake than for mine. When she's done, I smile at her and lean back into the wall of pillows she build against my headboard.

"Are you comfortable, cariño?" She asks me, sitting on my bed to face me.

"I'm fine, mom."

"Do you need anything? Something to eat? To drink? A blanket?"

I chuckle lightly, but it makes my side hurt. Turns out, no ribs or fingers were broken, but I am severely bruised. The doctors actually looked kind of impressed with the amount of bruising on my body, as they rushed me to the ER last night. I felt like a star.

"I said I'm fine," I repeat evenly. "Really."

Just between us, I wouldn't exactly define myself as 'fine', in the traditional sense. But mine, as most mothers, has a way to exaggerate her children's state. If I tell her I'm 'fine', she'll hear 'not great'; if I tell her I'm in constant numbing pain, she'll hear I'm practically lying on my death bed, possibly beyond salvation.

"I'll make you a grilled cheese, how's that?" She reaches out to run her fingers through my short hair. "And some tea. You like chamomile, right?"

"It's fine, mom. I'm not really hungry now," I tell her.

"Are you sure?" She asks, cradling my face and brushing her thumb over my cheek. It hurts, but I do my best not to flinch too much. Maybe she'll take the slight wince as the typical teenage response to expressive motherly affection.

"Positive," I say.

She sighs, eyebrows pinched together in concern. "Call out if you need anything, okay? Anything at all."

"I will," I promise.

"Want me to stay here with you for a while?" She asks, retrieving her hand but holding off on standing up.

"I'll be fine. Thanks."

She nods, getting up. Her eyes linger on me all the way to the door. She meets my dad on the way out. They exchange a look, which I can't decipher completely, but I might have an idea of what's to follow.

My dad steps in once my mom's gone, standing in the middle of my room, halfway between my bed and the door. He looks at me in silence, crossing his arms over the chest of his white dress shirt, which is loosely tucked into his dark pants, unbuttoned at the top, with the sleeves rolled up. He's also not wearing a tie. The most casual look one will ever see from Warren Astor.

"Here to give me the dressing down of my life?"

"Something like that," he answers.

I'm a little surprised at his straightforwardness. And the tone too. He sounds half-determined, half-frustrated, half-defeated. That's a lot of halves, I'm aware of that — I am not that bad at math — but his is a very full and complex tone. All halves are warranted and audible.

Also, I knew this was coming eventually. I had just hoped my dad would wait at least until I no longer look like I've been kicked into my grave, then dug out and thrown back into the world of the living for a final act.

"What you did last night was irresponsible," my dad says.

"I know," I reply.

"And impulsive," he adds.

"I know."

"And reckless."

"I know."

"You were irresponsible, impulsive, and reckless," he concludes sternly.