like watching the rain,” I confess. “I love the sound it makes. It’s soothing.”
“You like the rain?” he echoes.
I nod.
“I was waiting for the lightning,” he tells me, closing his notebook. A loose sheet of paper floats to the floor. I pick it up and hand it back to him. “Are you stuck again?”
He doesn’t talk to me about his writing, and I know better than to ask, but I feel that I can ask him anything. I feel we’ve reached a point where we can do that. I don’t sit down. There’s only one couch, and I’m wary of keeping my distance.
“I’m stuck, but I’ll figure it out.” He puts his work to the side. “Sit down.”
“Are you sure?”
“I could do with some company tonight.” His admission surprises me, but, like him, I’m glad for the company. I sit down, a small distance away from him and hold onto my cup as if it’s my small protective shield.
“I woke up because of the thunder,” I tell him.
He turns to face me. “I couldn’t sleep because of the thunder.”
“Too noisy?”
“Too many bad memories.”
“Bad memories? Did you get caught out in it once?” I take a sip of my hot chocolate. He exhales slowly and looks away from me. For the longest moment, he says nothing. “I didn’t get caught in it.”
I hold my cup with both hands, waiting for him to embellish his story, but I get silence instead. I can see that he wants to talk, but this man who surprisingly has a gift for writing, doesn’t seem to have the same when it comes to talking. I’m going to have to pull it out of him, word by word. “Then what was it?” I ask softly.
“I hate it.”
“The rain?”
“The lightning.”
“I’ve never cared for lightning much,” I say. “It’s just a flash and then it’s gone before you really see it, but the rain.” I stare out of his windows. He has two large bay windows and the rain falls, like crystal beads, illuminated by the lamps in the garden. “I just love the sound of the rain more, but thunder scares me. It makes me jump.”
“Lightning makes me jolt,” he says.
“I can see why. It’s unexpected.”
“It’s the fear of what it reveals.”
“Reveals?” I turn towards him slightly. “What does lightning reveal?”
He presses his lips together, and I know his moods and mannerisms so well that I sense his reluctance to tell me more. But I want to know more. This might be my only chance. “What does it reveal, Ward?” My voice is almost a whisper.
He coughs, and stares at the fire. “My step dad used to lock me in the attic when I was a boy.”
I hold my breath at the thought of such cruelty. “He used to lock you in there?”
“For a day or two, as punishment.”
I almost choke. “For what?”
“Because I didn’t like him and he knew it. He was mean. Had an evil sadistic streak in him.”
“How old were you?”
“Six, almost seven.”
“Oh, Ward. I’m so sorry.” I wish he would look at me. I’m almost tempted to lay my hand against his face and make him turn to me. But I resist.
“He used to lock me in the attic when I was naughty.”
“Were you a naughty boy?” I can’t imagine Ward being naughty, and then I remember the way he teased and aroused me with the pen. There are many facets to this man.
“When I didn’t call him ‘dad’, or say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ or doing what he asked me to do. I wasn’t used to him, and I didn’t like him coming between us. I didn’t like him. It had always been me and my mom. It had just been the two of us until then. And my grandparents. My dad left before I was born. I never knew him.”
I blink in shock.
“Then he came along, but we didn’t need him.”
“How awful for you,” I murmur, and realize that I have never heard Ward speak so much in one sitting, before.
“She left me with my grandparents and went away for a weekend. Then came back with him. Said they got married.
This sudden insight into Ward’s life shocks me. It must have hurt, to suddenly have to deal with a new addition to the family. I sit quietly, and I no longer feel like drinking any more of my hot chocolate.
“What did your mom do when he did this?”
“She disappointed me.” He takes a breath in, pauses for a moment before answering. His