Foreman relaxed further when it seemed that Amber had worked off her issues on the bumper cars instead of on him. Maybe this ride had been a good idea after all. His anticipation grew as she came towards him instead of ignoring him and walking away. They were back on the same wavelength, or nearly. It would be easier between them, now, the moment of tension forgotten.
He shot an annoyed glance at the attendant shooing them away from the ride, but Amber's hand sliding into his made up for it. Her fingers were warmer now, from the exertion and excitement of the ride, and Foreman squeezed her hand as they headed for the exit. Amber stomped past the attendant, impatient with being ordered around, and that made Foreman grin, too--seeing her get pissy over something as simple as being asked to clear the bumper car rink. It was funny, endearing, to see her get pouty over not being able to take as long as she liked. Queen of the Universe. He was about to give her a gentle, teasing jab about it, say something about how she didn't even need a costume to pull that off, smiling as he pulled her around to face him.
But she turned on him first, before he could. It felt like an ambush--he'd left that crap back on the bench before the ride, he'd thought it was over. The wall Amber had rammed down with her bumper car slammed back into place. Foreman drew himself up straighter, despite the ache in his lower back from all the crashes. Everything felt like it was building up to an explosion, like he was the one about to explode. Amber wasn't going to force his life story out, sure, but she'd damn well show how disappointed she was that he wasn't sharing. She'd get upset about it, pretend nothing was wrong and then get in his face about it later. Accuse him of being distant. That's how it would start--that's how it always started. Just because he wasn't interested in reliving the painful crap in his life. Foreman knew how it would end, too: she'd start saying they never really talked, she didn't really know him, no matter how much he did share. There would always be that area that was all the more inviting because Foreman had asked her to keep out. Why was that so hard to understand? No matter how quietly, how reasonably he explained it, eventually the women he dated decided that his privacy wasn't really worth it. They wanted to know, or else they left.
That's how it had always ended. Foreman could feel the cold words damming up his throat, bottlenecked before he could say them. He could just shut Amber down before she got started. Tell her in no uncertain terms that he didn't want to talk about it. End this.
End it. That's what it would do. Foreman pressed his lips together and looked at the ground for a second, before meeting Amber's eyes again. Their hands were still clasped, but she'd pull away soon. He was sure of it. Christ, he didn't want that. He didn't want to end it. But he didn't know why it was so fucking hard to trust her; why he couldn't just say it. Lips pressed together, he let out a sigh. Maybe it was as simple as blurting it out. If Amber took it wrong, or badly--
If he thought that, then he'd never say anything.
"I was thinking about my brother." Foreman realized that he didn't even know if he'd ever told Amber his name. "Marcus. He's three years younger than me." He stopped there, hesitating, wanting to look away. This was so stupid and obvious, and it didn't explain anything. Why a stupid Hallowe'en fair had even made him think about Marcus in the first place. Why he'd gotten so fucking tied up in knots about it. Now that he'd started, he had to say something. "I told you I got arrested for breaking and entering when I was a kid. Well, he--he did that too. And it got worse. And now he's in prison." The more he talked, the tenser he got, until it felt like his shoulders had turned to stone, preventing him from even moving. He wanted to challenge Amber, dare her to say the wrong thing. He didn't even know what that would be, but he could already feel his anger building up, anticipating that, somehow, she'd shoot him down, prove that he'd been wrong to trust her. "And I don't like talking about him."
no subject
He shot an annoyed glance at the attendant shooing them away from the ride, but Amber's hand sliding into his made up for it. Her fingers were warmer now, from the exertion and excitement of the ride, and Foreman squeezed her hand as they headed for the exit. Amber stomped past the attendant, impatient with being ordered around, and that made Foreman grin, too--seeing her get pissy over something as simple as being asked to clear the bumper car rink. It was funny, endearing, to see her get pouty over not being able to take as long as she liked. Queen of the Universe. He was about to give her a gentle, teasing jab about it, say something about how she didn't even need a costume to pull that off, smiling as he pulled her around to face him.
But she turned on him first, before he could. It felt like an ambush--he'd left that crap back on the bench before the ride, he'd thought it was over. The wall Amber had rammed down with her bumper car slammed back into place. Foreman drew himself up straighter, despite the ache in his lower back from all the crashes. Everything felt like it was building up to an explosion, like he was the one about to explode. Amber wasn't going to force his life story out, sure, but she'd damn well show how disappointed she was that he wasn't sharing. She'd get upset about it, pretend nothing was wrong and then get in his face about it later. Accuse him of being distant. That's how it would start--that's how it always started. Just because he wasn't interested in reliving the painful crap in his life. Foreman knew how it would end, too: she'd start saying they never really talked, she didn't really know him, no matter how much he did share. There would always be that area that was all the more inviting because Foreman had asked her to keep out. Why was that so hard to understand? No matter how quietly, how reasonably he explained it, eventually the women he dated decided that his privacy wasn't really worth it. They wanted to know, or else they left.
That's how it had always ended. Foreman could feel the cold words damming up his throat, bottlenecked before he could say them. He could just shut Amber down before she got started. Tell her in no uncertain terms that he didn't want to talk about it. End this.
End it. That's what it would do. Foreman pressed his lips together and looked at the ground for a second, before meeting Amber's eyes again. Their hands were still clasped, but she'd pull away soon. He was sure of it. Christ, he didn't want that. He didn't want to end it. But he didn't know why it was so fucking hard to trust her; why he couldn't just say it. Lips pressed together, he let out a sigh. Maybe it was as simple as blurting it out. If Amber took it wrong, or badly--
If he thought that, then he'd never say anything.
"I was thinking about my brother." Foreman realized that he didn't even know if he'd ever told Amber his name. "Marcus. He's three years younger than me." He stopped there, hesitating, wanting to look away. This was so stupid and obvious, and it didn't explain anything. Why a stupid Hallowe'en fair had even made him think about Marcus in the first place. Why he'd gotten so fucking tied up in knots about it. Now that he'd started, he had to say something. "I told you I got arrested for breaking and entering when I was a kid. Well, he--he did that too. And it got worse. And now he's in prison." The more he talked, the tenser he got, until it felt like his shoulders had turned to stone, preventing him from even moving. He wanted to challenge Amber, dare her to say the wrong thing. He didn't even know what that would be, but he could already feel his anger building up, anticipating that, somehow, she'd shoot him down, prove that he'd been wrong to trust her. "And I don't like talking about him."