Marco
I woke to my phone ringing on the nightstand.
For a second, I was disoriented—the weight of an arm across my chest, warmth against my back, the unfamiliarity of sharing my bed. Then memory flooded back. Étienne. The previous night. Everything.
My phone kept ringing. I reached for it, still half asleep, and saw Mama’s name on the screen.
Shit.
I glanced over my shoulder at Étienne. Still asleep, his face peaceful, one arm draped over me like he had every right to be there.
Which he did. But my mother wouldn’t believe that.
I answered, keeping my voice low. “Hey, Mama.”
“Marco! Why do you never answer your phone?”
Because I’ve been avoiding your calls.
“Sorry. It’s been busy.” I tried to shift without waking Étienne, but his arm tightened around me reflexively. “What’s up?”
“What’s up is that you sound weird. Are you still asleep? It’s almost nine.”
“Yeah, I was sleeping. Late night.”
“Doing what? You’re supposed to be resting your foot.”
“I am resting. I just—” Étienne shifted beside me, still asleep, and made a small sound. Not loud, but audible.
Mama paused. “What was that?”
My heart stopped. “What was what?”
“That noise. Is someone there with you?”
“No. Just… TV. I fell asleep with the TV on.”
“It didn’t sound like the TV.”
“Well, it was.” I carefully extracted myself from Étienne’s arm and slid out of bed, limping toward the bathroom. I closed the door quietly and leaned against it on one foot. “What did you need, Mama?”
“I don’t need anything. I want to check on my son.” Her voice softened slightly. “How are you feeling? Really?”
“I’m fine. The foot’s healing. I’m getting around more.”
“Are you doing physical therapy?”
“Every day. I have a trainer coming to the house to supervise. And I’m working out, so I can get back on the ice as soon as I’m cleared.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.” She paused. “But I still think I should come visit. Even just for a few days. I could cook for you, make sure you’re eating properly?—”
“Mama, I’m eating fine?—”
“Takeout and frozen dinners aren’t eating fine, Marco.”
“I’m not living on takeout.”
“Because the last time I visited, your refrigerator had beer and mustard in it. That’s not cooking.”
