I glance at the bedroom door, which is indeed wide open.
“I bottomed once,” he continues, “when I was nineteen. I didn’t like it. I’m telling you all this because I don’t want you to take it personally. And because it’s not my shame. It’s his.”
I look into his warm brown eyes, strong and steady, softly echoing his past trauma. A wave of compassion sweeps over me as I imagine that boy, Roddy Night, fighting off his creep of a stepbrother. Then I’m angry. Enraged.
“Where does he live?” I ask. “In case I want to talk to him.”
“Far from here,” says Mr. Night with a smile. “I get it. Thank you.” He stands up and gathers his clothes again. I watch him for a few moments. He shared a painful part of his past just so I wouldn’t feel insulted by his refusal to bottom. He showed more vulnerabilit
