Tim doesn't talk about his childhood. He doesn't make a big deal out of it, because in those parts, it's not exactly uncommon. It's not in every household, of course. But there were a handful of girlfriends and a handful of wives and a handful of kids who all supported their own bruises and scrapes. There were too many, probably. Especially back then.

People generally weren't surprised when a secret like that slipped out, but when it did, it quickly got swept under the rug. The community would rally together and start a fund raiser for the bus driver with cancer, but the mom of two kids with frequently reoccurring black eyes? Not so much.

Like any other family, the abuse in the Gutterson household went widely unspoken of. Tim didn't talk about it then, and he doesn't talk about it now.

Even as Matt is meeting him halfway, giving them common ground to stand on, Tim still feels trapped. Tense and on-edge and ready to run. He wants to ask why it even matters. Why Matt cares when they're not even dating, and this is only temporary anyway. But dismissing it also means dismissing Matt's so-called clumsiness. And he doesn't want to drop that, either.

"He hit my mom," he says, and it's low and quiet, his jaw tight. "A lot. She always said she was clumsy, too."