Alex has told me a lot about his grandfather. How much he respects him, how close they are. Apparently, the man arrived from Russia a few days ago for their annual family gathering that will be happening this weekend. The kind of gathering where every relative shows up in tailored suits and old money whispers through the halls like perfume.
I’m not even attending that event, but still, his grandfather asked to meet me. He invited me, through Alex, for dinner at the mansion.
And somehow, that feels even more terrifying than whatever it is my mother wants to talk about right now.
Because no matter how far I’ve come, how deeply I’ve fallen for Alex, or how much he makes me feel safe… there’s still a part of me that feels like I don’t belong in his world.
The train slows to a stop, snapping me out of my thoughts. I blink, the weight in my chest still there, heavy and coiled, butI draw in a steady breath, stand, and step off onto the platform, already tired of the almost two-hour train ride.
The air out here smells different. More like dust and dry leaves. Faintly metallic, like rust. I keep my head down and begin the ten-minute walk from the station to the trailer park.
And as I approach the driveway to my mother’s trailer, I catch sight of a figure to the left, in the narrow yard of another trailer a few spots away. She’s hanging up clothes—one hand holding a faded t-shirt, the other reaching for a clothespin—and when she turns around, I freeze a little.
Tyler’s mom.
Her eyes widen as they land on me. I don’t think I’ve seen her in years. She looks older now, more worn down, but her face lights up in surprise.
“Oh my God, Lucas,” she says, voice breathy, the cloth forgotten in her hand.
I give her a small, awkward wave. My smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. It feels strange seeing her again. Tyler had cut ties with her completely after we moved out of this town.
“You look so good,” she says, already stepping toward me like she might pull me into a hug.
But before she can get any closer, the door to my mother’s trailer creaks open and then swings hard. She barrels down the metal steps, then grabs my wrist, making my body jolt by the suddenness of it and also because I don’t remember when she last touched me.
“Don’t talk to that stupid woman,” she snaps under her breath, her voice low but sharp like glass. Her grip tightens as she yanks me towards the door.
I glance back briefly, catching the flicker of something in Tyler’s mom’s face—surprise? Hurt? I don’t know. Maybe both.
“Oh, fuck off, Kathryn,” I hear Tyler’s mother snap, her raw voice sharp and full of bite.
My mother doesn’t respond. She just keeps tugging me inside like nothing was said, like this moment wasn’t already suffocating. The trailer door slams shut behind us, and I flinch at the familiar sound.
Inside, the air is warm and strangely still. I let out a shaky breath, barely aware that I’d been holding it. Then I glance down at her hand, still wrapped around my wrist.
My jaw tightens.
I yank my wrist away forcefully, making her fingers slip from me, and I see it—just for a split second—that flicker of hurt in her eyes. I pretend not to care. I raise my chin, giving her the cold and unflinching look I’ve mastered over the years. The same one I used to give her when I was fifteen and too tired to cry anymore.
I sign, sharp and deliberate, “Why am I here?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, her shoulders soften, and she gestures toward the couch with a quiet, “Can you at least sit?”
I glance over—and pause.
The couch. It’s… clean.
For as long as I can remember, that couch was always covered in junk. Beer cans, cigarette butts, stained blankets, wrappers, overflowing ashtrays. But now? There’s a yellow cloth draped neatly over the cushions, and two matching throw pillows rest on either side like someone cared enough to place them there intentionally.
I blink, then slowly let my gaze wander.
The floor isn’t sticky.
The sink isn’t filled with crusted dishes.
There’s no smell of smoke in the air, no trace of stale beer clinging to the walls. The counters are wiped. The clutter is gone. Even the old blinds look like someone tried to clean them; everywhere is spotless.
And it hits me. Not just the surprise, but the confusion. The ache.
