Max rounds the corner. “What’s getting old?”
“Nothing!” I say a little too loud, throwing a warning look at my mother who isclearlyenjoying this.
My mother ignores me and keeps unloading jars. “So, I didn’t catch your name.”
Max offers her hand without a second thought. “Maxine Palmer. But you can call me Max.”
My mom takes her hand and grins. “And how long have you been sleeping with my son?”
“Mom!”
“Just a few hours, ma’am,” Max replies smoothly, and I swear to God I’m going to drown myself in my own pool.
There are two of them.
My mom acts like Max’s answer didn’t just kill what’s left of my manhood and goes back to organizing bottles. “I spoke with Elliott today.”
Her tone is casual, but my spine straightens like she fired a gunshot.
“Good for you,” I say. “Hope he chokes on his own saliva in his sleep.”
“Eli!” she gasps, appalled. “He may not be perfect, but he’s still your brother.”
The lifelong refrain. He’s still your brother.
What heisn’tis remorseful.
My mother has always downplayed Elliott’s betrayal, acting like it was just a silly fight between siblings—a minor disagreement over something dumb, not a huge breakdown of trust and family ties. If he'd only fallen for Vanessa, it wouldn't be such a massive problem. But he actually chose to stick with her, even after knowing what she did. Mom thinks it's unfair that I keep my distance from them. I don’t care. I don't trust Vanessa, and if he decides to side with someone I can't trust, well, that makes him untrustworthy in my book too.
My mother hasn't once backed me up or held him accountable. Her only move has been to stay neutral, flash a sweet smile, and hope we “sort it out,” like we're little kids arguing over the last juice box.
It hasn’t worked.
Itwon’twork.
Because Elliott didn’t just cross a line—hebuilta fault line between our family, stacked it with dynamite, and then smiled while it exploded.
Max is watching me. She sees it.
The tightness in my jaw. The way my hands clench the edge of the counter like I’m holding myself in place. And I can feel her seeing through me, like she’s reading the footnotes in a book no one else bothers to open. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t crack a joke. Doesn’t offer empty comfort.
She justlingers.
Never have I been more grateful for my mother to change the subject and ask how Max and I met than I am right now.
“Your son rescued me on the side of the road,” Max offers.
“He is always so helpful,” my mom says, smiling.
“He even offered to put me up in a hotel,” Max continues, “but the hospitality industry here seems to have something against space monkeys named Elon Musk.”
My mom frowns. “Excuse me?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Nothing, Mom. Max is staying here for the week to help us with some work at RootHaus.”
My mother’s gaze flicks between us. Once. Twice. She lingers there longer than necessary. It’s as if she’s watching a puzzle rearrange itself in real time.
“Work, huh?” she says slowly.
