“I don't know what the fuck I'm doing,” I said finally. “I raised him. Tried to do right by him after his mother died. And somewhere along the way, he started hating me and I still don't know why.”
“Maybe it's not about you.”
“It's always about me. I'm the one who's still here.”
“Exactly.” Mara leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You're still here, Declan. You stayed. You didn't leave when it got hard.You didn't bail when he made your life hell. You just stayed. And maybe that's what he can't forgive.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Grief doesn't make sense. Neither does guilt.” She reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “He's coming home. That means something. Even if neither of you knows what yet.”
I wanted to believe her. Wanted to think Troy coming home meant more than just convenience or obligation.
But I'd been disappointed too many times to let hope take root.
I woke up the next morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. Ribs were worse than I'd expected, bruised deep enough that breathing hurt. My left knee was stiff. My hands were swollen. The usual aftermath of a fight, magnified by age and accumulated damage.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, letting my body catalog all the places it hurt before I tried to move. The house was quiet around me. Too quiet. Just the sound of my breathing and the old radiator ticking as it warmed up.
Troy was arriving today.
The thought sat in my chest heavier than any body shot.
I forced myself up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood slowly. Pain flared hot and immediate. I breathed through it, waiting for the worst to pass, then started moving. Shower. Coffee. Routine. The things that kept me functional when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
The bathroom mirror showed the damage. Bruise blooming across my ribs, dark purple and ugly. Cut above my left eyebrow from an elbow I hadn't fully blocked. Knuckles scraped rawdespite the wraps and gloves. I looked like what I was: a man past his prime still climbing into the ring because he didn't know what else to do with himself.
The shower helped. Hot water loosening muscles that had seized up overnight. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting heat work through the ache, thinking about the last time Troy had been home.
We'd fought. I couldn't even remember what about now, just that he'd left angry and I'd let him go without trying to stop him. Told myself it was what he needed. Space. Distance. Time away from the house and the memories and the man who reminded him of everything he'd lost.
But the truth was simpler and harder than that. I'd let him go because watching him leave hurt less than watching him stay while hating me.
I got out of the shower, dried off, and dressed in clothes that didn't press against the bruises. Jeans. Black t-shirt. Boots. The uniform of a man who'd stopped caring about looking put together years ago.
The kitchen was cleaner than it had been in weeks. I'd spent yesterday evening scrubbing counters and mopping floors, trying to make the place look like someone actually lived here instead of just survived in it.
Coffee helped. I made it strong, drank it black, stood at the counter watching the street through the window. Chicago in December looked gray and cold, snow threatening but not quite falling yet.
The knock at the door startled me out of thoughts that had no business being thought.
I knew who it was before I opened it. Mara, holding two cups of coffee and wearing an expression that said she was here to meddle whether I wanted her to or not.
“You look like shit,” she said cheerfully, pushing past me into the kitchen.
“Good morning to you too.”
“It's barely morning. It's like nine.” She set one of the coffees on the counter, popped the lid off hers, and took a long drink. “How're the ribs?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.” She reached out and poked the bruise through my shirt. I flinched. She grinned. “Thought so. You ice them?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now sit down and talk to me before you spiral into one of your brooding episodes.”
I didn't sit. Just leaned against the counter and accepted the coffee she'd brought. It was from the good place two blocks over, the one that charged too much but actually knew how to make a decent cup. “I'm not brooding.”
