“Languange,” I cut in. We don’t curse in front of our mother.
He corrects himself. “How messed up I had to be to even think that way. And after I found out who she was, man, I can’t lie…I was already too far gone for the woman. She speaks French, Lee!”
“I’m…I’m not sure how to even respond to any of this,” I confess. “But I do appreciate you acknowledging what you did and being honest about where your head was.”
Our mother pulls us both in, thin arms wrapping around us as if she’s been holding this moment in her chest for years. Hoping for it.
“Look, El,” I say. “I’m not going to say what’s been broken has been fixed. I won’t even say I’m willing to accept what’s going on with you and Vanessa. What I will say,” I pause, stopping to look at my mother before continuing. “Is I appreciate you being man enough to say anything. And for reading that nasty shit to mom, because Lord knows I could never be the one.”
He smiles. My mom beams. And I exhale.
We stand there like that, awkward, for a few moments. And for the first time in a long time, we’re standing on the same side of the room. The same side of the fence.
Together.
I don’t know what will happen from here. I don’t know where our relationship will go, but I see an opportunity to mend.
Though I don't have much faith in his and Vanessa's relationship—and I truly pity that big-headed ass baby—I genuinely wish him the best.
I lean down to kiss my mother on the forehead and one thought breaks through the weight of the moment.
I fucking miss Max.
Hey, Mama
Eli
The drive home is weighed down by the events of Sunday evening. My truck is quiet and my body is finally starting to relax after spending the day holding my breath. I left the hospital reluctantly, grateful beyond words that Drake and Lara insisted I stay put while they handled the pitch. Family came first, they said. No debate. No guilt layered into it.
They held me down. And they did an amazing job. I had nothing to worry about.
When I step into the house, more silence greets me immediately. This silence is different. It feels vacant.
My house still smells like her. Faint traces of the body oils she started wearing here clinging stubbornly to the air like they refuse to leave, even if she has. I didn’t expect the ache. Didn’t plan for how much I’d miss her presence, the way she filled rooms without trying.
Guilt presses in thinking about how I got short with her when everything happened with my mom. I shut down instead of letting her in. Not because I didn’t want her there, but becauseI didn’t know how to need her that much. I didn’t know how to burden her with something so raw and I hate myself for it. I hate that the feeling of being discarded is what she left with.
I shower, letting the heat batter my shoulders, hoping it might scrub the last week out of me. The hospital. The fear. The pitch. Her. It’s like I’m trying to wash myself back to normal. Back the version of me that existed before Max walked into my life and rearranged everything. Me.
This is what I’ve always done. When things get messy, I rinse them off. Compartmentalize. Reset. Go back to the man who knows how to function without wanting more than he can keep. So why does it feel impossible now? Why does the quiet taunt me even under the water, pressing in instead of fading?
When I finally step out, towel slung low around my waist, the bathroom is thick with steam and unanswered thoughts. My phone lights up on the counter, waiting for me.
Drake:We’re at the Peppermint Elephant. Come meet us out for a celebratory drink.
Me:Not in the mood. Tomorrow?
The phone rings immediately and I roll my eyes.
“What,” I say, irritation threaded through my voice, even though I know Drake is just doing what Drake does best. He wears me down until I cave.
“Bro!” he shouts over the noise. Laughter. Music. Glasses clinking. “We killed the pitch. Secured the second-largest investment of the entire summit. You won’t have to worry about funding your projects for the next ten years. You’re coming out.”
I huff, but it comes out closer to a pout than a protest. “Fine. One drink.”
“Famous last words,” he says, laughing.
I hang up, shaking my head, a reluctant smile forming on my mouth. Persistent bastard.
