Foreman's chest tightened like a weight was crushing down on his lungs after he'd spoken. His throat hurt as if the words had been barbed, scraping their way out, closing his windpipe after they passed. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have fucking talked about it. What did it fucking matter? How much he hated Marcus for not getting better, not making something of himself, not taking the fucking chances that Dad had been able to offer him the way Foreman himself had? Not be able to get free? Marcus resented the hell out of all of them for even daring to try to help him, so why the fuck should Foreman care about him at all? Marcus didn't want it and he didn't deserve it. Every time he served his sentence he went right back to the same corners, the same patterns. Foreman didn't care--relentlessly, he'd worked on not caring--and now, Amber's quiet reaction, her hand gripping his a little more firmly, it made all that effort pointless. Because it hurt. It hurt so damn much and it wasn't fair.
He tried to swallow and realized he couldn't. They were standing out in the middle of a fucking circus, with kids still screeching and running all around them, with the flashing lights blaring in their eyes and the tinned loudspeaker music seeming to rise in decibels with every passing minute, and Foreman was talking about his loser brother, telling Amber about his family like he was a sap guest on Oprah.
But Amber was still there. She hadn't brushed it off like it was fucking nothing. Like she had a story that could top it, or like Foreman was an idiot for being bothered. It helped, as much as it could, easing off the steel bands around his chest. It was just that Foreman didn't know what to do next, what to say. He'd told her something and now it felt like it would be impossible to dam it all up again, get his footing back and steady.
Foreman closed his eyes for a long moment. "I want to get out of here." What he wanted--what he would have wanted, before breaking down like a moron--was to go home, alone, lock the world out and throw himself into something that would take every ounce of his concentration. Leaving with Amber, being with her, was already a compromise, but she hadn't pulled away, and Foreman couldn't make himself do it first.
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He tried to swallow and realized he couldn't. They were standing out in the middle of a fucking circus, with kids still screeching and running all around them, with the flashing lights blaring in their eyes and the tinned loudspeaker music seeming to rise in decibels with every passing minute, and Foreman was talking about his loser brother, telling Amber about his family like he was a sap guest on Oprah.
But Amber was still there. She hadn't brushed it off like it was fucking nothing. Like she had a story that could top it, or like Foreman was an idiot for being bothered. It helped, as much as it could, easing off the steel bands around his chest. It was just that Foreman didn't know what to do next, what to say. He'd told her something and now it felt like it would be impossible to dam it all up again, get his footing back and steady.
Foreman closed his eyes for a long moment. "I want to get out of here." What he wanted--what he would have wanted, before breaking down like a moron--was to go home, alone, lock the world out and throw himself into something that would take every ounce of his concentration. Leaving with Amber, being with her, was already a compromise, but she hadn't pulled away, and Foreman couldn't make himself do it first.