The pasta is really good, cheesy, hearty, and perfectly seasoned, but every bite feels heavy. The weight in my chest keeps growing, shame and embarrassment and guilt chewing me up from the inside until it’s hard to swallow.
Underneath it all, the old familiar anger at my mom starts bubbling up again, then spirals the way it always does: What did I do wrong? Why did she leave when I was only fourteen? I finished high school without her there. But at least that kept me somewhat grounded. Slade signed every field trip form, paid every fee, dropped me off outside the school gates every single morning without complaint. And no matter how much he cared, I never really saw it. I was too busy wondering why my mom didn’t want me. I behaved back then. I did well in school. I had a future. And the whole time I never realised… my mom might have left, but I wasn’t alone. Slade stuck by me. He saw something in me worth keeping around. And after I finished high school, all I did was disappoint him… over and over.
A few stupid tears slip free and drop into the pasta. I blink them away fast and keep eating anyway, because Slade made it and I don’t want to disappoint him any more than I already have.
When I’ve only managed half the pasta and most of the garlic bread, the emotions get too thick. I can’t finish. This time I don’t just scrape it into the bin like I usually would. I wrap the bowl carefully in tin foil and slide it into the fridge so I can warm it up tomorrow. I do the same with the big baking dish once it’s cooled a little, then quietly wipe down the counters so Slade won’t have to. I even wash the small bowls he used to grate cheese and mix the herbs, setting them on the drying rack without a sound.
After that, I slip upstairs, close my bedroom door softly behind me, and crawl into bed. I pull the covers over my head, wrapping myself in a tight, shame-filled cocoon. The tears come easier now, quiet and hot against the pillow.
Tomorrow I’m going to look for jobs. Maybe check out community college too. I don’t know if I can fix everything, but I want to try. For once, I really want to try.
Chapter Four
Slade
The old leather of my armchair creaks as I settle deeper into it, feet propped up on the ottoman, the remote forgotten on the side table. It’s just gone five on Monday, and the house has that late-afternoon quiet that usually feels peaceful.
I had a new client roll into the garage this morning with a 1973 Mercedes Benz 280 that his late dad left him. The car had been sitting untouched in a garage for decades, which is both a blessing and a curse. The shell is mostly solid, just some surface rust we can handle, but on the interior, the leather seats are cracked and worn, and the steering wheel needs replacing. Both wing mirrors are completely missing too. We’ll need genuine parts for this one if the client wants it done right, and those are getting harder to find every year. The engine is going to be the real killer… ‘new’ in this case means better than original, which means auctions, private sellers, and plenty of haggling between me, Todd, and Larry. The garage does regular maintenance to pay the bills, but restorations like this are the part that still gets my blood moving. People don’t bring cars like that to us for nothing. We’ll find what we need. I can feel it.
My laptop rests on my thighs while I scroll through listings for correct-period parts, comparing prices and condition photos. The TV is on low in the background, some rerun I’m not really watching.
The front door opens and I assume it’s just Andrew coming home from wherever he disappeared to this morning. He’s been quiet the last couple of days… ever since we…well;I can’t even let myself finish the thought. I’ve been playing it cool, acting like nothing happened, keeping things normal. What Iwasn’texpecting was him cleaning the kitchen without being asked, sitting alone at the table for dinner instead of joining me in the living room, then heading to bed early. The past two days he’s barely left his room. I wanted to check on him, but he’s nineteen… if he wanted to talk, he could’ve come to me. This morning, he just muttered that he had somewhere to go and slipped out before I could ask.
I don’t look up when he walks into the room. I’m comfortable, focused on the screen, trying to decide between two different sets of original-style wing mirrors.
A girl clears her throat. “You must be Andrew’s dad.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
Andrew chokes on nothing. “Uh…no. He’s not. This is Slade… hewasmarried to my mom.”
I finally lift my head and take in the bizarre new situation standing in my living room. A young woman with brunette hair cut in a curled bob is smiling way toowide, the expression tipping slightly into creepy territory. What really registers is the way her arm is looped possessively around Andrew’s waist. He doesn’t look affectionate in return… just tense, like he’s trying to hold still.
Andrew laughs awkwardly; eyes fixed somewhere on the floor instead of on me. “Slade, this… uh… this is Cici.”
The girl laughs brightly. “It’s Cecelia, but I hate it, so please… call me Cici.”
I nod slowly, waiting.
She beams. “I’m Andrew’s girlfriend.”
I manage a smile that feels more like disbelief than anything else.Girlfriend?“Is this… new?”
Pleasetell me this is new. Please tell me I didn’t fuck Andrew while his unknowing girlfriend was across town doing whatever girls do.
“Two months,” Andrew supplies quickly, still not meeting my eyes.
I hold back the bitter laugh that wants to escape. “Nice to meet you, Cici.”
She’s still smiling as she makes herself comfortable on the couch across the room, kicking off her shoes and pulling her phone out.
Jesus Christ. I feel like shit now, but how the hell was I supposed to know? Andrew has neveroncementioned this girl to me before. Now she suddenly exists, draped all over my living room like she belongs here.
Andrew walks over and perches on the armrest of my chair, which is already weird on its own. “What you looking at?” he asks, voice casual.
Then, with his girlfriend sittingrightacross the room, he rests his elbow on the back of the armchair and starts playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. His fingers brush lightly through the short strands, casual and intimate in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
I blink, completely thrown.What the fuck is he doing?Does he think the other night meant something deeper? Why the hell is he touching me like this?
