Then I smiled at the sight of my mom, because for those two hours, she wasn’t worn down by life; she was just my mom again. And that made it worth every penny.
It was perfect, which should have been my first sign that everything was about to go to hell. Hours later, I was walking up the driveway when my phone rang. Maddison.
I answered, already smiling. “Hey.”
“Who is she?” Her voice was sharp, no hello, no softness.
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb, Nathan. The flowers. The movie. I had two different people text me tonight. You want to explain who the blonde was?”
My stomach dropped. Gossip. Of course. Sometimes I hated small towns.
“Maddi, it’s not?—”
“Oh, my God.” Her voice cracked like she was laughing, but not in a way that felt good. “I can’t believe I actually thought you were different.”
“Wait, just listen.”
“No.” Her tone cut like glass. “I don’t need to hear your excuses. If you’re going to make me look like an idiot, at least own it.”
“Maddison!”
The line went dead. She’d hung up.
I stared at my phone, heart hammering, words unsaid burning the back of my throat. I should call her back, I should say a lot of things, but the one thing I couldn’t bring myself to do was beg for her to listen, to not jump to conclusions when, at this point, she should know better, right? Trust me more.
Did she know me at all? Was that all bullshit? I went from being defensive over what I was doing to disappointed.
I’d rather be pissed.
Instead, I was hurt, hurt that I’d never lied about who I was, but that the minute she had a reason to doubt me, she believed everyone else instead of me.
A knock echoed through the house.
For a second, I thought it was her. Maddison. Coming to apologize, or to yell, or to make me pay for something I didn’teven do. My heart was still raw from the fight, my head pounding with everything I wanted to say but didn’t.
When I opened the door, it wasn’t Maddison.
It was Bishop.
He stood there under the porch light, hoodie half-zipped, face unreadable.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, rubbing a hand over my eyes. “Now’s not the best time. What’s up?”
He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I muttered. “It’s been a night…”
Mid-sentence, something caught my eye: his hand.
Wrapped in fresh gauze, the edges stained faintly red.
My voice softened. “What happened to your hand?”
Bishop looked down, flexed his fingers, and for the first time, wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Come in,” I said quietly.
