Max waits, patient, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my thigh.
“I grew up in upstate New York. Small town. Tree-lined streets, library within walking distance, that kind of thing. My parents were... dependable. Predictable. We weren’t wealthy, but everything was tidy. Stable.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
“It wasn’t,” I admit. “Just… safe. My mom was a schoolteacher. My dad worked at a local insurance company. Every Thursday was meatloaf night. Every summer we vacationed at the same lake. They’re good people. Kind people. But not exactly… expressive.”
Max hums softly. “You mean emotionally?”
I nod. “They weren’t cold, but feelings weren’t something we… explored much. If I had a bad day, I was told to read a book, take a bath, sleep on it. We didn’t really talk through things. Especially not messy ones.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, but he doesn’t press. Just says, “And now?”
I hesitate. “We still talk. Holidays. Birthdays. I call once a week—like clockwork. They love me, in their own quiet way. But I think I confuse them.”
Max tilts his head. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want what they wanted. I moved to the city. I went to grad school. I didn’t marry the boy next door. I’m still not married. I don’t own a house. I think they’re… baffled by me.”
He studies me with something warm and fierce in his eyes. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”
I try to laugh it off, but emotion catches somewhere behind my ribs. “It’s just hard sometimes, you know? To feel like your life doesn’t quite fit the mold they envisioned for you.”
Max’s hand slides up to cradle my cheek. “You’re not meant to fit into anyone else’s mold, Nora. You’re meant to rewrite the damn blueprint.”
Something in me unlocks at that. The weight of old expectations, childhood silences—it lifts, just a little.
I lean into him, let his steady heartbeat replace the questions in my head. He presses a kiss to my hair.
“I like your messy, mold-breaking life,” he murmurs. “And I really like being part of it.”
I smile into his chest, one hand resting over his heart.
26
MAX
Dinner at Mom’s
The scent hits me first—garlic, rosemary, something tomato-based bubbling low and slow on the stove. It smells like home. Like my childhood. Like the one woman who never let me drift too far from myself, no matter how far I ran.
I glance sideways at Nora as we climb the stairs. She’s wearing a soft navy dress and flats, her curls tucked behind one ear, eyes wide with something between excitement and terror.
“You okay?” I murmur as we reach the landing.
She gives me a tight smile. “I’m about to meet the woman who raised you. What if she hates me?”
“She’s going to love you,” I say without hesitation. “Honestly, I’m more worried about her liking you too much. She’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints about grandbabies for years.”
Nora lets out a nervous laugh, cheeks flushing. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m being honest,” I grin, and knock.
The door swings open before my knuckles even touch the wood again.
And there she is—my mom. Petite, fierce-eyed, and wearing the same apron she’s had since I was ten. Her dark hair is streaked with more silver now, but she still has the same fire in her.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, pulling me into a hug that momentarily compresses my lungs. “You look skinny.”
